by Lois Winston
“A hundred percent interest?”
“I think the going rate is something like twenty-five percent a week.”
“Nice work if you can get it.”
She turned her head toward me and raised an eyebrow.
“Don’t worry, Detective. I have no plans to whittle down my debt by becoming a loan shark.”
“Glad to hear that, Mrs. Pollack.”
“Besides, I have no start-up capital.”
“Right.” Batswin chuckled.
Earlier I’d elicited a laugh from Robbins, now a chuckle from Batswin. Maybe the dynamic detecting duo was human after all. And to think, it had only taken me nearly getting killed to bring out the hidden Humor Gene in each of them. Who knew I had such talent?
“So Ricardo had to account to higher-up hoods for the money?”
“Every penny or they’d suspect he was skimming.”
“Then bye-bye Ricardo?”
“You got it.”
“I guess that’s why he was so desperate. Even willing to kill for it.”
“Kill or be killed with that group. But people kill for a lot less. Besides, your own husband committed murder for that same fifty thousand dollars.”
I shuddered at the memory. Three innocent people dead because of Karl’s greed. “I hope no further surprises materialize. I’d like to close the Karl chapter of my life and start a whole new book. Although, that seems unrealistic, considering I’ll be paying off the debt he dumped on us for years to come.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” she said, shifting lanes to maneuver around a minivan, “while you were giving your statement at the station, we received a call from The Bronx police. Based on what you heard Ricardo admit, they raided Nardo Milano’s pawn shop. All your stuff was still there. Once they’re done using it as evidence, you can get it back.”
The way the wheels of justice squeak and piddle along, that could be anywhere from six days to six years, but we’d manage. Somehow. We’d survived far worse over the past few days.
Half an hour later, Batswin pulled up in front of my house; Robbins parked my car in the driveway. We all piled out. “Nice,” said Robbins, eyeing the two-seater silver Porsche Boxter he’d parked beside. “Yours?”
“Yeah, I only drive the rattletrap to work because of all the crime in the cornfields.”
“That’s what I thought.”
All three of us laughed. “You’re okay, Mrs. Pollack,” he said.
High compliment coming from a man who only a few days ago wanted to slip a noose around my neck. “Yeah, so are the two of you.” And I meant that. Batswin and Robbins weren’t the incompetent country rubes I’d originally dubbed them. After all, they’d saved my life.
“The car belongs to my new tenant,” I said.
I invited them in for cups of instant coffee, but they declined. “We still have reports to file,” said Batswin, “but thanks. Maybe another time.”
She and Robbins headed back to her car as I opened the front door.
“Keep it up, and I’ll report you and all your cohorts to Homeland Security,” screamed Mama. “I know what you’re planning in those secret meetings of yours. You communists are as much a threat to this country as Al Qaeda!”
“Me?” Lucille laughed derisively. “Who do you think supplied all those weapons to the Taliban? All your right-wing reactionary friends.”
Mephisto barked.
Catherine the Great yowled.
Ralph squawked, “Once more unto the breach, dear friend. Henry the Fifth. Act Three, Scene One.”
I turned to see Batswin and Robbins staring at my open front door. “Home sweet home,” I said with a shrug and a wave as I closed the door behind me.
Life goes on. Eventually, I’d get past my anger over how Karl fooled and shafted us. I’d deal with Lucille, deal with Mama, deal with the debt, deal with getting Alex and Nick into college—and how to pay for it.
And then if I had any time or energy left, I’d deal with me. Maybe even dip my big toe back in the dating pool. You never know what’s waiting around the corner.
Or above the garage.
ANASTASIA’S CRAFTS
The Bride Wore Tennies
Oh those aching tootsies! Most brides, if given the choice, would opt for a foot massage rather than the honeymoon suite at the Plaza once the reception ends. Just ask any of your married friends. But why suffer the blisters in the first place? After posing for the wedding photos, remove those torturous stilettos and slip into a pair of handmade bridal tennies to boogie the night away.
And if you want a unique gift for your bridesmaids, have tennies dyed to match their gowns. Trim with coordinating or matching colored laces and trims.
Materials:
one pair of white canvas tennis shoes; an assortment of lace appliqués; pearl, sequin and rhinestone trims; satin ribbon roses; 2-1/2 yds. 1-3/4 inch wide lace; white craft gem glue; scissors.
Directions:
Remove shoelaces from tennis shoes. Arrange appliqués and trims on front and sides of shoes as desired, with one shoe being the mirror image of the other. Glue appliqués and trims in place. Allow glue to dry thoroughly. Cut lace in half. Thread a piece of lace through eyelets of each shoe.
~*~
Birdseed Roses
Rice is out; birdseed is in when it comes to showering the bride and groom in an environmentally friendly way. Use elegant satin roses to store the showering seed, and your guests will have a beautiful memento of the day to take home with them.
Materials:
satin fabric in white or to match the wedding colors (one yard of 45” wide fabric will make 77 roses); matching sewing thread; 6” lengths of 18-gauge stem wire; green floral tape; silk rose leaves, one or more per flower; pinking shears; sewing machine
Directions:
Using the pinking shears, cut a 4” x 5” piece of satin for each rose. With right sides together, machine baste 4” sides of satin together with 1/4” seam allowance. Turn right side out. Hand gather lower edge of tube, wrapping thread ends tightly around gathers to form the base of rose. Insert stem wire through bottom, bending the end inside the rose into a loop to keep it from slipping out. Wrap the base and stem of the rose with floral tape, adding leaves as you wrap. Fill each rose with a teaspoon of birdseed. Tuck in the top edge of satin about 1-1/2” to keep the birdseed contained. A flick of the wrist will release the birdseed to shower the bride and groom.
~*~
Recycled Jeans Placemats
Stop! Before assigning those favorite but now threadbare jeans to the rag heap, carefully cut out the back pockets for these nearly no-sew, perfect-for-a-picnic placemats.
Materials:
denim fabric (1 yd. will make 6 placemats); one jeans back pocket per placemat; red bandana fabric (1-1/3 yds. will make 6 napkins); red and blue sewing thread; basic sewing supplies; fabric glue.
Directions:
Pre-shrink denim and bandana fabric. For each placemat, cut denim to 15” x 18”. Machine stitch around perimeter of denim, 1” from cut edges. Fringe all four sides of placemat to stitching. Position pocket at lower left of placemat. Glue in place around sides and bottom edges.
For each napkin, cut bandana fabric to 16” x 16”. Machine hem all four edges. Fold napkin and insert into pocket. Place silverware in pocket over napkin. (For an even quicker project, use store purchased napkins instead of bandana fabric.)
~*~
Fourth of July Clay Pot Candles
Party the night away by the light of these easy-to-make patriotic candles.
Materials:
4” diameter clay pot and matching saucer; white primer spray paint; red, white, and blue acrylic paints; satin spray varnish; paint brushes; 1” x 1” compressed craft sponge; tacky glue; pencil; scissors; 3” red pillar candle.
Directions:
(NOTE: Allow paint to dry thoroughly between steps.) Spray paint cup and saucer with primer. Paint inside and outside of saucer red. Paint inside of pot and outer
rim in red. Paint remainder of outside of pot blue. Paint white vertical stripes around pot rim.
Draw a star on compressed sponge. Cut out. Wet sponge to expand. Using white paint, sponge paint stars randomly around blue portion of pot.
Glue pot to saucer. Apply several coats of varnish. Insert candle.
~*~
Decoupaged Flag Tray
In just a few easy steps you can turn fabric scraps and an unfinished wooden tray into a red, white, and blue patriotic masterpiece.
Materials:
unfinished rectangular wooden tray (available in craft and hobby stores); white primer spray paint; blue spray paint; clear acrylic varnish; scrap of red bandana fabric large enough to cover inside of tray; scraps of blue print fabric and white fabric measuring 1/4 the size of tray; pencil; scrap of cardboard 1/4 the size of tray; scissors; decoupage medium; brush.
Directions:
(NOTE: Allow paint to dry thoroughly between steps.) Wash fabric to remove sizing. Spray paint tray with primer, then two coats of paint.
Using the tray bottom as a template, cut a piece of bandana fabric to size. Place inside tray. If necessary, trim fabric slightly until it fits within tray without puckering.
Draw star on cardboard and cut out to form template. Using template, trace around cardboard on white fabric. Cut out star. Position blue fabric in upper left corner of tray. Place star centered over blue fabric. Adjust dimensions of blue fabric and star until satisfied. Remove fabric from tray.
Brush the inside of the tray with decoupage medium. Position bandana fabric, right side up, inside tray. Brush right side of fabric with more decoupage medium. Repeat for blue fabric and star, applying decoupage medium over entire fabric surfaces each time. Allow to dry. Apply two coats of clear acrylic varnish to entire tray.
Keep reading for an excerpt from Death by Killer Mop Doll, Lois Winston’s next Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery.
Death By Killer Mop Doll
An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery, Book Two
ONE
Upstairs, the front door slammed with enough force to register a five on the Richter scale. Dust dislodged from the exposed basement rafters and drifted down like polluted snow, settling over the basket of clean laundry I’d been folding. The ensuing shouting, barking, and yowling drowned out my muttered curse of choice and yanked my attention away from the now Dalmatian-spotted white wash.
“Once more unto the breach, dear friends,” squawked Ralph, the Shakespeare-spouting African Grey parrot I’d inherited when Great-aunt Penelope Periwinkle died two years ago. “Henry the Fifth. Act Three, Scene One.” He spread his wings and took flight up the basement stairs to check out the action. I raced after him, eager to prevent World War Three from erupting in my living room.
“Muzzle that abominable creature, or I’ll have the pound haul him away,” shrieked Mama. “He’s traumatizing Catherine the Great.”
“So shove some Prozac down her throat,” said my mother-in-law Lucille. “What the hell are you doing back here? And don’t you ever bother to knock? Just barge right in like you own the place.”
“I have more right to be here than you. This is my daughter’s house, you…you pinko squatter.”
As I hurried through the kitchen, I glanced at the calendar tacked next to the telephone. Mama wasn’t due back from her Caribbean cruise for another three days. Damn it. I needed those three days to steel myself for the inevitable explosive reaction that occurred whenever Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe, my mother and the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution, locked horns with Lucille Pollack, my mother-in-law and current president of the Daughters of the October Revolution. I’d been swindled out of seventy-two hours.
By the time I entered the living room, Mama’s and Lucille’s voices had reached glass-shattering decibel range.
“Crazy communist!” yelled Mama. She stood in the middle of the room, cradling Catherine the Great, her corpulent white Persian with an attitude befitting her namesake.
Manifesto, my mother-in-law’s runt of a French bulldog, stood inches from Mama’s Ferragamos, his bark having switched to growl mode as he glared up at his nemesis. With a hiss and a yowl, Catherine the Great leaped from Mama’s arms. Showing his true cowardly colors, Mephisto, as we always called him behind his back and often to his snout, scampered to safety behind my mother-in-law’s ample girth.
Lucille barreled across the room, waving her cane at Mama. “Reactionary fascist!”
“How dare you threaten me!” Mama defended herself with a French manicured backhand that would have done Chris Evert proud. The cane flew from Lucille’s grasp and landed inches from Mephisto’s nose. Demon dog yelped and dove between Lucille’s orange polyester-clad legs.
My mother-in-law’s rage multiplied into Vesuvian proportions. Her wrinkled face deepened from a spotted scarlet to an apoplectic heliotrope. “You did that on purpose!”
Mama jutted her chin at Lucille as she rubbed the palm of her hand. “You started it.”
“And I’m stopping it.” I stepped between them, spreading my arms to prevent them from ripping each other’s lips off. “Knock it off. Both of you.”
“It’s her fault,” said Mama. She jabbed a finger at Lucille. Her hand shook with rage, her gold charm bracelet tinkling a dainty minuet totally incompatible with the situation. “And that vicious mongrel of hers. She sic’d him on us the moment we walked through the door.”
Highly unlikely. “Mephisto’s all bark and bluster, Mama. You should know that by now.”
“Manifesto!” shrieked Lucille. “How many times do I have to tell you his name is Manifesto?”
“Whatever,” Mama and I said in unison. It was an old refrain. Mephisto better suited demon dog anyway. Besides, who names a dog after a Communist treatise?
Behind me, Ralph squawked. I looked over my shoulder and found him perched on the lampshade beside one of the overstuffed easy chairs flanking the bay window. A chair occupied by a cowering stranger, his knees drawn up to his chest, his arms hugging his head. I glanced at Mama. Glanced back at the man. “Who’s he?”
“Oh dear!” Mama raced across the room, flapping her Chanel-suited arms. “Shoo, dirty bird!”
Ralph ignored her. He doesn’t intimidate easily. Mama was hardly a challenge for a parrot who had spent years successfully defending himself against Aunt Penelope’s mischievous students. “Anastasia, I told you that bird’s a reincarnation of Ivan the Terrible. Do something. He’s attacking my poor Lou.”
Her Poor Lou? Okay, at least the man had a name and someone in the room knew him. I stretched out my arm and whistled. Ralph took wing, landing in the crook of my elbow. Poor Lou peered through his fingers. Convinced the coast was clear, he lowered his hands and knees and raised his head.
“Are you all right, dear?” asked Mama, patting his salt and pepper comb-over. “I’m terribly sorry about all this. My daughter never did have the heart to turn away a stray.” She punctuated her statement with a pointed stare, first in Lucille’s direction, then at Ralph.
Lucille harrumphed.
Ralph squawked.
Mephisto bared his teeth and rumbled a growl from the depths of his belly.
Catherine the Great had lost interest in the family melodrama and dozed, stretched out on the back of the sofa.
Before Mama could explain Poor Lou’s presence, the front door burst open. Fourteen-year-old Nick and sixteen-year-old Alex bounded into the living room. “Grandma!” they both exclaimed in unison. They dropped their baseball gear and backpacks on the floor and encircled Mama in a group hug.
“Aren’t you supposed to be on a cruise?” asked Nick.
“Who’s this?” asked Alex, nodding toward Poor Lou.
Poor Lou rose. He wiped his palms on his pinstriped pants legs, cleared his throat, and straightened his skewed paisley tie. “Maybe I should be going, Flora. The driver is waiting.”
I glanced out the front wind
ow. A black limo idled at the curb.
“Yes, of course.” She walked him to the door without bothering to make introductions. Very odd behavior for my socially correct mother.
“I’ll call you tomorrow,” Poor Lou told Mama.
She raised her head, batted her eyelashes, and sighed. Poor Lou wrapped his arms around my mother and bent her backwards in a clinch that rivaled the steamiest of Harlequin romance book covers. His eyes smoldered as he met her slightly parted lips. Mama melted into his body.
I stared at my etiquette-obsessed mother, my jaw flapping down around my knees, and wondered if she had eaten any funny mushrooms on her cruise. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw my two sons gaping with equally bug-eyed expressions. Behind me, Lucille muttered her disgust. Even Ralph registered his amazement with a loud squawk.
Over Mama’s shoulder, Poor Lou stole an anxious glance toward Ralph, broke the kiss, and darted out the door.
Mama fluffed her strawberry blonde waves back into place, smoothed the wrinkles from her suit jacket, and offered us the most innocent of expressions as we continued to ogle her. “Is something wrong?”
“Wrong? Why? Just because my mother was doing the Tonsil Tango with a total stranger?”
Lucille stooped to retrieve her cane. “I suppose this means that trashy hussy is moving back into my room.”
“Your room?” asked Mama.
“Hey, it’s my room!” said Nick.
Poor Nick. He was none too happy about having to give up his bedroom to his curmudgeon of a grandmother. He didn’t mind the occasional upheaval when Mama came to visit because he knew it was temporary. Besides, the boys and Mama had a great relationship. Lucille was another story. When she moved in with us to recuperate after a hit-and-run accident and subsequent hip surgery, none of us had expected a permanent addition to the household. Then again, I had suffered from quite a few delusions back then.
