by Lois Winston
I cleared my throat to break up the stare-off. “If you gentlemen want to continue your male bonding, go right ahead. I have work to do.”
Zack dropped Tino’s hand and kissed me good-bye. Then he turned to Tino and added, “I’m holding you responsible if anything happens to her.”
“She’s my top priority,” he told Zack. Then, as we walked toward the Trimedia entrance, Tino asked me, “Something I should know about?”
“I received two threatening notes yesterday. One was on my car when I left work, the other taped to my front door last night.”
“You think they’re from the killer?”
“I don’t know. The messages were very cryptic.” I told Tino what both notes said. I also told him about how Detective Batswin knew we’d spoken with Borz Kazbek. “And she wasn’t happy. She’s going to be even less happy when she shows up for that first note this morning, and I don’t have it.”
“What did you do with it?”
“I handed it over to the Westfield police, along with the second note.”
“I didn’t notice anyone suspicious tailing us, but I suppose Kazbek could have followed us back here yesterday, then followed you home.” Tino mulled things over as we waited for the elevator, then said. “Doesn’t make sense. Those notes sound more like blackmail threats. A killer would leave notes saying ‘Back off if you know what’s good for you.’ or ‘Keep your nose out of things.’”
“I agree.”
The elevator arrived, and we stepped inside. Tino pushed the floor button. “You have any enemies I should know about, Mrs. P.? Anyone trying to shake you down?”
“You mean aside from the Mafia loan shark and the head of one of the Five Families I helped put behind bars?”
“Not funny, Mrs. P.”
I craned my neck to look Tino straight in the eyes. “I’m not joking.”
“Holy shit! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I thought you knew.”
“How?”
“From Gruenwald.”
He shook his head. “I know about your involvement in the murder here last winter and the one at the TV studio in the spring, but he never mentioned a word about any Mafia connection.”
As we stepped out of the elevator and walked to my cubicle, I quickly filled Tino in on Ricardo and the possibility that he’d handed over the collection of Karl’s debt to one of his cronies.
“I don’t buy it,” said Tino. “The Mafia ain’t that subtle. If someone had taken over this Ricardo dude’s accounts, he’d be in your face demanding payment, not leaving you anonymous notes.”
“You know a lot about organized crime?”
“Enough.”
“You’re full of surprises, Tino.”
“So are you, Mrs. P.”
The more I thought about Tino’s theory, the more it made sense to me. Nothing in my dealings with Ricardo indicated that he or his associates would resort to leaving cryptic notes. These guys got their points across by breaking kneecaps, not hammering out their thoughts on an old typewriter.
Once we arrived at my cubicle, I gathered up the projects and props for my photo shoot and headed back downstairs to our in-house photo studio, located on the first floor around the corner from the lobby. Tino didn’t leave my side.
Since photography for most of my editorial spreads didn’t involve live models, my sessions never took very long. Today we were photographing projects for the January issue, which would hit newsstands December first and be replaced by the February issue on January first. Magazine publishing doesn’t conform to the calendar like the rest of the world. Upon completion of photography, our production staff would digitally insert the craft projects into wintry settings.
Tino stood off to the side, watching the proceedings. Because budget cuts last year had eliminated our in-house stylist, I acted as the photographer’s assistant, arranging each project with various props. He first took a series of group shots, then the step-by-steps and individual photos of each project from multiple angles. We finished in less than an hour. I gathered up the crafts and props, and Tino and I left the studio.
As we headed toward the elevator, we heard shouting coming from the direction of the lobby. We rounded the corner and found a woman who reminded me of the Wicked Witch of the West, minus the green complexion, arguing with the receptionist.
“What’s going on here?” asked Tino.
The woman turned toward us. Her eyes narrowed, the sharp planes of her face grew more pronounced, and her leathery complexion reddened as she pointed a boney index finger at me, and yelled, “That’s her, Henry!”
The man by her side spun around and rushed toward me, his arm extended. Tino stepped between us, grabbed the guy’s arm, twisted it behind his back and pinned him to the wall. Although they matched each other in height, the rail-thin man was no match for Tino’s body-builder physique.
“Take your hands off my husband!” yelled the woman. She rushed at Tino and started pounding his back with her fists and kicking at his legs. Tino ignored her and kept hold of Henry.
Seconds later Detectives Batswin and Robbins burst through the front door. “Police. Freeze!” they shouted in unison, guns drawn and trained on Tino.
Everyone froze in place.
“What the hell’s going on here?” asked Batswin.
The woman pointed her finger at me once more. Seething hatred as she forcefully uttered each word, she said. “She owes me money.”
Batswin holstered her gun and turned to me. “Care to fill me in, Mrs. Pollack?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea who she is or what she’s talking about.”
“I’m Josephine Holmes, and you owe me money for my dentist bill.” Josephine raised her leg and stamped down hard on Tino’s instep. “I said, take your hands off my husband.”
“Son of a bitch,” muttered Tino, but he continued to pin Henry against the wall.
Josephine whacked Tino with her purse and said, “I want this man arrested for assaulting my husband.”
“If anyone’s getting arrested for assault, lady, it’s you and your husband,” said Tino.
Robbins pulled Josephine away from Tino. “Release him,” he said.
Tino spun Henry around and handed him over to Detective Robbins.
“While you’re charging them with assault,” I said, “you can add harassment, stalking, and extortion.” I waved toward Henry and Josephine. “Meet my anonymous note writers.”
TWENTY-FOUR
Batswin and Robbins carted Henry and Josephine off to police headquarters. Tino and I followed them to give our statements.
Once we returned to Trimedia, I called Zack to let him know I’d solved the mystery surrounding the threatening notes and that he needn’t worry about my safety.
“The moment Josephine mentioned her dental bill, I figured everything out,” I told him. “She broke a molar trying to open a bottle of glue with her teeth and claimed I was responsible.”
“That makes no sense,” said Zack.
“She was making one of the craft projects from our magazine.”
“And the directions said to open the bottle with your teeth?”
“Of course not.”
“Then how are you responsible for her own stupidity?”
“I’m not, but these nuisance complaints happen all the time.”
“Are you really going to press charges against some misguided elderly woman?”
“I already have.”
“Seems kind of harsh, doesn’t it?”
“You won’t think so when you hear the rest of the story.” At first I had planned to file charges, then drop them. Maybe Josephine and Henry lived on a small fixed income and couldn’t afford the cost of the dental repair work. “I only wanted to scare them enough that they never tried to pull another stunt like this on anyone else.”
“What changed your mind?” asked Zack.
“Batswin searched her handy-dandy police database and discovered those two have operated as
shakedown artists for the past ten years.”
Josephine and Henry Holmes ran an extortion ring that included a medical doctor, a physical therapist, and an attorney—all willing to write bogus prescriptions and reports and file nuisance lawsuits for a cut of the take. Over the years they’d collected millions. “She probably never even broke a tooth. Most likely, the dental X-ray belonged to someone else.”
Zack laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You have to admit, it’s a rather ingenious way to fund retirement, a real Golden Fleecing.”
“If you don’t mind spending your golden years in prison.”
“But they got away with it for ten years. Who knows how long their scam might have continued if not for making the mistake of trying to shake down Anastasia Pollack?”
Now I laughed. “Hey, the Mafia tried to shake me down and failed. Do you really think I’m going to let a geriatric Bonnie and Clyde get the best of me?”
“Still, it seems odd none of their victims ever pressed charges.”
“Probably because they didn’t realize they were victims of a scam. Batswin said this type of extortion works so well because most insurance companies are willing to settle out of court rather than risk a David versus Goliath trial where the jury could turn around and award the plaintiffs far more than they asked for in the original lawsuit.”
“You were never served with papers, were you?”
“No, but it was only a matter of time after ignoring their initial letter demanding payment.” I didn’t know if Josephine and Henry had heard from the Trimedia sharks yet. Either way, they may have decided on a little one-on-one intimidation, hoping I’d cave and write a check. Little did they know, they picked on the wrong patsy this time. Had they run a credit report on me, they never would have bothered.
~*~
On the way home from work later that day Zack turned the conversation to another mystery. “Did you ever find out what Flora and Lawrence were cooking up down in your basement yesterday?”
I closed my eyes and groaned. “I forgot all about that. They were gone by the time I came home.”
After tangling with the dance-crazed commies last night, I had headed straight for Zack’s apartment, never checking out what sort of mess Mama had created in the basement. “Since she didn’t burn down the house by leaving my glue gun plugged in, maybe ignorance is bliss.”
“You’re not curious?”
“I’m too tired for curious.” Still, it did seem odd. Not only was Mama craft-challenged, she’d hired a wedding planner and decorator for her latest nuptials. “All the same, I suppose I’d better check out the state of my basement when we arrive home.”
~*~
Half an hour later Zack and I stood in the middle of the aftermath of Hurricane Flora. Every storage container of craft supplies had been pulled from the metal shelving units, rifled through, and left open on all available horizontal surfaces. Ribbons, fabric, buttons, sequins, and pompoms lay strewn across my work table. Glitter dusted the floor. An open bottle of decoupage glue with a brush now firmly cemented inside it, sat on a stool next to the table.
I slammed a container of pompoms closed and shoved it back on the shelf. “I’m thinking this qualifies as justifiable matricide. Do you think the jury will buy it?”
“If you have a good lawyer and they have mothers like Flora?” Zack shrugged. “Slam dunk.” He pointed to a bare section of the table. “What do you suppose she was making?”
The empty area of the table was rectangular in shape, roughly two-and-a-half by three-and-a-half feet. I headed across the room to where I stored sheets of foam core board. I had recently purchased a package of six sheets. Torn shrink wrap now lay on the floor beneath a shelf holding five sheets of foam core board.
Mama had some ‘splaining to do. I picked up the phone and called her, hitting the speaker button so Zack could hear our conversation.
She answered on the second ring. “Hello, dear.”
“Hi, Mama. I see you got crafty yesterday.”
“Oh, yes, dear! Lawrence had the most brilliant idea, a collage of both families for the reception, and since I knew how busy you are—”
“You decided to tackle the project yourself?”
“I knew you wouldn’t mind.”
“No, Mama, I don’t mind. What I do mind is that you didn’t bother to clean up after yourselves.”
“What are you talking about, Anastasia? Of course we cleaned up.”
“Really? It certainly doesn’t look that way to me. The basement is a mess.”
“Well, don’t look at me. That pinko probably messed things up after we left.”
“You know Lucille can’t navigate the basement stairs.”
“She probably had her minions do her dirty work for her.”
“Why?”
“To get me in trouble, of course. You know how they are, dear. And speaking of trouble, what happened to Zack’s eye?”
I glanced at the shiner that had turned from black and blue to yellow and green. “He walked into a door.”
“What am I going to do about the wedding pictures? They’ll be ruined. How can he be so clumsy?”
At least one Pollack woman bought into his flimsy excuse. “You can always have the boys walk you down the aisle the way they always do.”
“And ruin my plans? No, he’ll have to wear pancake make-up.”
Zack snorted as I hung up the phone.
“She could be telling the truth about Lucille,” I said. “I wouldn’t put anything past my mother-in-law and her zealots.” Since I hadn’t gone down the basement last night, I had no way of knowing if Mama and Lawrence had cleaned up or not. “The Daughters of the October Revolution may have created this mess today, especially since they knew Mama and Lawrence were here working yesterday.”
“Your Sherlocking skills need honing, Sweetheart. Take a look at the evidence.” He pointed to the bare spot in the middle of the table.
Duh! I smacked my forehead. If Lucille and company had tried to pull a fast one, the craft supplies would cover the entire table, leaving no delineated bare spot. “Told you I was tired.”
TWENTY-FIVE
Sleep or clean underwear? I stared down at the overflowing hamper later that night and realized as much as I would have loved to sleep in Saturday, I needed to rise early and tackle a few loads of laundry prior to leaving for the city.
By the time I heard the boys getting up at eight the next morning, folded piles of clean clothes covered my bed, and a mushroom and cheese breakfast frittata, compliments of Zack’s culinary prowess, baked in the oven.
“I’ll be home in plenty of time for the church rehearsal,” I said after giving Alex, Nick, and Zack my schedule for the day.
“That floozy’s getting married again?” asked Lucille. She shuffled into the kitchen and flopped into a chair at the table. “No accounting for some people’s taste, I suppose.”
Too bad we couldn’t find a geriatric commie with bad enough taste to sweep Lucille off her feet. Although, with my luck, he’d move in instead of moving her out.
I chose to ignore her as I started serving breakfast and continued to speak to my sons. “I need you boys showered, dressed, and ready to leave by four-thirty.”
“That’s going to be cutting things close,” said Nick. “We’ve got an away game today.”
“Where?”
“Phillipsburg,” said Alex.
I stared at my sons. “Are you serious?” Several counties and an hour’s drive separated Westfield from Phillipsburg. “Why on earth is Phillipsburg on your team schedule?”
Nick shrugged. “Beats me.”
“They better not,” said Alex.
“What if I pick you up after the game?” suggested Zack.
“Coach will have a cow,” said Nick. “We’ll miss the post-game analysis.”
“Mama will have a cow if we’re late,” I said.
Nick, a born athlete, had a shot at a football schol
arship. Only a sophomore, he’d made the varsity team this year as their starting kicker. His coach had an in with college recruiters. When scouts came in search of prospects, we needed Nick to be high on his coach’s list. My son’s future far outweighed Mama’s sixth wedding rehearsal.
“It’s not like we don’t know what to do,” said Alex. “This is Grandma’s fourth wedding in twelve years.”
“Same church, same minister,” said Nick. “I don’t even know why she has to have a rehearsal.”
“Tradition,” I said. “Plus, the minister requires a rehearsal to make sure the ceremony runs smoothly. Do your best, guys. I’ll call her later. She’ll have to understand.”
She didn’t.
“You know how important this is to me, Anastasia. I don’t see why Nick can’t miss the game. They have other players, don’t they?”
“That’s not the point, Mama.”
“The point is my grandsons are putting a football game before their grandmother’s wedding. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“It’s only the rehearsal, Mama, and I didn’t say they wouldn’t be there, just that they might be late.”
“Which will throw everything off schedule.”
“We can adjust. Call the restaurant and push back the dinner reservation by half an hour.”
“On a Saturday night? What makes you think they can do that?”
“Try, Mama.”
She sighed heavily. “I’m not happy about this, Anastasia. It’s a bad omen. You know what terrible luck I have when it comes to husbands. I want this marriage to last.”
“We’re talking scheduling conflict, not bad juju.”
“What’s the difference? Something awful will happen now. I just know it.”
“Nothing’s going to happen, Mama.” At least, I hoped not. Given Mama’s track record with husbands, the odds were already stacked against her.
~*~
Trimedia had booked the theater at Madison Square Garden for Philomena’s private memorial service, with the tribute concert taking place afterwards in the arena. I took the escalator up from Penn Station and made my way toward the theater. In the lobby I found Cloris and Jeanie queued up at the end of a snaking line for the ladies’ room.
