Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (11 page)

“Has she paid the tickets?” I asked Harley.

“Not sure. Another department handles that.”

“Have you?” I asked her.

“What business is it of yours?”

I took that as a
no
. “If you’re hauled off to jail again, Lucille, don’t expect me to bail you out. I have no money left to waste on this shit.”

“I don’t have to listen to any of you,” she said. “I know my rights.” With that she stormed down the hall, Mephisto trailing behind her. A moment later the house shook as she slammed her bedroom door. A moment after that, the lock clicked into place.

I sighed. Every time I removed and confiscated a lock from that bedroom door, the damn woman went out and bought herself another.

“Oh dear,” said Mama. “Now I’ll never get into my bedroom, and I so wanted to change out of these clothes and lie down for a spell. It’s been such a difficult day.” She directed this to Harley.

Mama had history with the older officer. Seamus O’Keefe, her last husband, was hardly cold before Mama had started flirting with Harley three months ago, but Harley didn’t take the bait. Looked like he wasn’t buying into her damsel in distress act this time, either. Good thing. I really didn’t want my next stepfather young enough to be my older brother. Mama on the prowl was bad enough, but Mama as a cougar? I shuddered at the thought.

“Now what?” I asked both men.

“We’ll keep a closer eye on her,” said Fogarty. “Try to catch her in the act if she is the culprit.”

“If you ask me, she’s stepped up her game,” added Harley. “She must be jotting down license plate numbers of cars that don’t stop for her. Then if she sees one of the vehicles parked in the area at some point, she keys it. We’ve had a few other complaints about damaged vehicles but no witnesses to describe the perp. Could all be your mother-in-law’s doing.”

“She’s never resorted to vandalism before to make a point, but I wasn’t kidding when I said I won’t bail her out.”

“Maybe that’s what it will take to get her to stop,” said Zack.

“Somehow, I doubt it,” I said. “More likely, she’ll file harassment charges against the police department.” Punishing me, as well as every other Westfield resident, because our taxes would surely skyrocket to pay for the town to defend its officers.

“Have you considered having her tested?” asked Fogarty as he and Harley prepared to leave. “She’s crazy, you know.”

“Only like a fox,” I said. “She knows exactly what she’s doing.”

The moment I closed the door behind Harley and Fogarty, Mama, Alex, and Nick all started talking at once.

“Anastasia, how am I going to get into my room?”

“What’s for dinner?”

“I’m hungry.”

I turned to the one person who remained silent. “You wouldn’t happen to have an axe, would you?”

“Why? You thinking of pulling a Lizzie Borden?” asked Zack.

“Tempting though it may be, I was only going to use it to chop down a door.”

Mama gasped. “You can’t do that! I need my privacy.”

“You can’t have it both ways, Mama, and I don’t know what else to do at this point.”

“I do,” said Zack. “We take the door off its hinges the next time she comes out of the room and hang a curtain rod in its place.”

“I should have thought of that,” I said. “Maybe I would have if my brain weren’t fried.”

“Speaking of fried …” said Nick.

“I’m starving,” said Alex.

Ten

Business is business, and
the show must go on
. That’s what Naomi had said, and that’s exactly what happened. Lou’s death and a killer on the loose had only pushed back the production schedule by a few days. Taping began the last week in May.

When the day arrived for me to tape my first segment, the police still hadn’t made an arrest. If they suspected Ray, they either didn’t have enough evidence, or Ray had an alibi. I wasn’t thrilled about returning to the scene of the crime with a killer still on the loose, but what alternative did I have? I couldn’t afford to lose my job. Then again, my kids couldn’t afford to lose their mother and
sole breadwinner. My life was just one damned-if-you-do, damned-
if-you-don’t moment after another.

Late once again, thanks to a New Jersey Transit breakdown between Newark and Secaucus, I exited the elevator into the reception area in time to catch a uniformed officer restraining Vince while another cuffed him. Marlowe and Phillips stood nearby, Phillips with a carton in his arms, Marlowe holding a laptop. The rest of the staff huddled in groups of three and four, watching in silence as the drama unfolded.

Marlowe began to read Vince his rights. “You have the right to remain silent—”

“You can’t do this!” Vince screamed, his crimson face clashing with his apricot- and aqua-striped, custom-made shirt and violet silk tie.

“If you give up the right to remain silent,” continued Marlowe, “anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law.”

Vince stiffened his torso in defiance. A clump of his slicked-back Grecian Formula hair fell over his tanned-to-leather brow. “I’ll sue the NYPD and every one of you for false arrest. You’ll rue the day you treated Vince Alto like a common criminal!”

Marlowe ignored his outburst and continued in a modulated tone. “You have the right to speak with an attorney and to have the attorney present during questioning. If you so desire and cannot afford one, an attorney will be appointed for you without charge before the questioning begins.”

The uniformed officer who had cuffed Vince grabbed him by the upper arm. The second officer took hold of his other bicep. Vince glared first at one, then the other. “You losers are in for some real trouble when my attorney gets word of how you’re manhandling me.”

“Do you understand your rights as I’ve read them to you?” asked Marlowe, his voice still showing no emotion although his eyes had narrowed and the muscles around his mouth and jaw had tightened.

Vince curled his upper lip, spitting out his reply. “What do I look like, an imbecile?”

The detective didn’t flinch. “Do you waive and give up those rights?”

“Hell, no!”

Marlowe nodded to the two officers. “Okay, get him out of here.”

Vince dug in his heels as the officers yanked his arms. “Not until you cover my face. I’ll be damned if any paparazzi are going to get rich from snapping me in shackles.”

“There are no photographers downstairs,” I assured him.

Vince shifted his attention from Marlowe to me. His eyes narrowed into two dark slits, his crow’s feet and furrowed brow growing more pronounced. “You wouldn’t know a tabloid sleaze from a tourist.”

So much for trying to help.

Monica stepped forward from behind a group of techies and tossed Vince his navy blazer. It landed on the floor several feet shy of him. Not that he could have grabbed it anyway with his hands cuffed behind his back. One of the officers scooped up the jacket and draped it over Vince’s head. As they led him into the elevator, his muffled sneer echoed back toward us, “You’ll get yours, bitch.”

For what? Informing him he needn’t worry about having his picture splashed across every tabloid in the country? Then again, maybe he hurled the threat at Monica or Sheri. Hard to tell with a jacket covering his head. Either way, it didn’t look like any of us needed police protection with Vince on his way to the slammer.

“Okay, everyone back to work,” said Sheri with a clap of her hands and a sing-song lilt to her voice, like a preschool teacher gathering up her class after recess. “The party’s over, and we’ve got a show to produce.”

“What happened?” I asked her as the groups of gawkers broke up and shuffled off in various directions.

She fluttered a piece of paper between her fingers and smiled in a way that brought to mind a bloated, muumuu-clad Sylvester the Cat with yellow Tweedy Bird feathers sticking out of his mouth. The black and white swirling pattern of her muumuu
du jour
only helped to enhance the image. “Monica discovered an incriminating e-mail from Vince on her computer this morning,” she said. “When she showed it to me, I called the police. They arrived with a search warrant for his laptop.”

“But they hauled Vince away in handcuffs.”

She smirked. “He put up a stink. Wouldn’t hand over his computer. So they arrested him. Serves him right.”

“So he isn’t under arrest for Lou’s murder?”

“Obstructing a police investigation. So far. But I wouldn’t be surprised if he turned out to be the killer.” She handed me the paper. “Here, read for yourself. I made a copy before the police arrived. Vince hated Lou. Everyone knew that.”

From the little I had observed at the studio, Vince wasn’t alone in his feelings toward Lou. That didn’t make him a killer, though. I read the e-mail.

From: Vince Alto [[email protected]]

Sent: Tuesday, May 10 10:37 AM

To: Monica Rivers

Subject: New Format

I don’t know about you, sweetheart, but I’m not taking this lying down. No one screws with Vince Alto and gets away with it. Whatever it takes, I’m getting rid of these interlopers and regaining control of MY show.

I’m no cop, and I don’t spend my evenings glued to the TV watching police and courtroom dramas like Mama, but even I knew this e-mail didn’t amount to much in the way of evidence against Vince. “Most people dislike their bosses and bitch and moan about them,” I said. “That’s life in corporate America. I’m sure it’s the same or worse in Morning Talk Show Land.”

“People have been known to go postal over far less,” said Sheri. “You never know what will push a sane person over the edge.”

I wasn’t buying it. Vince scored pretty high on my Sleazometer, but from what I could see, he was all bluster and bravado. Besides, he wouldn’t risk ruining either his manicure or his custom-made clothing with something as messy as murder. There was something more that didn’t add up. I pointed to the e-mail. “This is dated three weeks ago. Why did Monica wait so long to show it to anyone? Why didn’t she tell the police about it when we were all interviewed?”

“She claims it first showed up in her mailbox this morning.”

“Don’t you think that’s a bit odd?”

Sheri waved a pudgy hand. “Happens all the time. We’ve been having computer problems on and off ever since Trimedia upgraded their network months ago.”

“Doesn’t Trimedia monitor your e-mails?”

She hesitated. “What do you mean?”

“At
American Woman
getting caught sending personal e-mails or playing computer games can get you fired. At Trimedia Big Brother is always lurking in cyberspace. I’m surprised Vince would risk sending an e-mail like this.”

Sheri bit back a sheepish grin and darted a glance first left, then right before asking, “Can you keep a secret?”

“As long as you’re not going to tell me you killed Lou.”

She tapped my arm and giggled. “Of course not, silly.” With a hand cupping her mouth, she spoke in a conspiratorial whisper. “One of our tech guys wrote a program to hinder Trimedia’s snooping without their knowing. They see only what we want them to see.”

“Really? How much do you think he’d want to share that program?” I knew quite a few people at
American Woman
who would gladly kick in their waxing money and put up with hairy legs for the next few months to foil Trimedia’s spy ware.

Sheri cocked her head and offered me a rueful smile. “Sorry. He hit the lottery a month ago and gave notice the next day. Last I heard, he’s island-hopping around the Caribbean in a fifty-two- foot trimaran.”

I sighed. “Some people have all the luck.”

_____

Two hours later, Sheri hovered over us as Monica, Naomi, and I ran through a pre-taping rehearsal of Monica’s guinea pig stint with mop dolls. Although we’d rehearsed some last week, no amount of rehearsing could counter Monica’s uncooperative attitude and obvious disdain for anything that might cause her to chip a nail.

When Sheri took over the show, she nixed the live studio audience. At first I thought it a good idea, given Monica’s and Vince’s behavior. However, I’d recorded a few of the
You Heard It Here First
reruns and after watching them, had a new appreciation for Vince’s and Monica’s acting skills. For two people who hated each other’s guts in real life, those two came across on camera like BFFs. No wonder Ray thought his wife was getting it on with her co-star. A live audience might have forced Vince and Monica to cooperate more.

However, today Monica was even less cooperative than she’d been previously. I had suggested she wear a work smock, but she refused. Hence, her midnight blue Prada, a little nothing of a raw linen sheath that I’m sure cost more than my used Hyundai, was now covered with white lint.

That’s the biggest problem with mop dolls. They shed. At the height of the mop doll craze, manufacturers came up with synthetic substitutes, but no one produces those anymore. They were lousy for cleaning floors and only good for one thing—a once trendy craft that was now as popular as pet rocks.

Monica had spent the past half hour picking at the lint and paying little attention to me except to whine about the difficulty of each step I asked her to perform. Her high-pitched prattle of complaints and constant foot tapping on the stool rail sounded like she was hooked up to an intravenous drip of triple-shot espressos.

I couldn’t wait to see what happened when I handed her the glue gun.

Meanwhile, Sheri had lost all patience. With both hands she slammed her clipboard onto the counter, spilling an open container of sequins and sending up a cloud of mop lint. “Damn it,
Monica, we’re hours behind schedule. We should have wrapped
up taping this segment by now, and we haven’t even started. Pay attention. A ten-year-old could make one of these dolls.”

“Then find a ten-year-old!” Monica scooped up a handful of mop snippets and threw them at Sheri, but her aim was as off as her crafting skills. The scraps landed at Sheri’s feet. “I’m an actress, not Suzy-Fucking-Crafter.”

“I may just do that,” shouted Sheri.

Monica’s face lit up in a smug grin. “Be my guest. Fire me. I still get paid, and I won’t have to put up with any more of this shit.” She swept her arm across the counter, brushing one very sad looking, half-finished mop doll and an assortment of supplies to the floor.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” said Sheri. “Well, forget it, honey.” She bent down, scooped up the mess and plopped everything back down in front of Monica. “If I’m stuck paying you, you’re going to work for every dime of that exorbitant contract you wheedled out of Lou.”

“Maybe we should take a break,” suggested Naomi.

“No breaks,” said Sheri. “Not until we’ve wrapped this segment. We’re too far behind schedule.”

So I took a deep breath and tried for the fifth—or was it the fiftieth?—time to show Monica, a woman whose ten digits seemed to be comprised of all thumbs, how to plait a braid.

“Maybe we could have the camera cut to a finished braid after she separates the strands into three sections,” I suggested, convinced that Monica was either incapable or disinclined to master the simplest of skills. Her fidgeting fingers couldn’t even count out three equal groups of mop strands.

“No.” Sheri flailed her arms. “The whole point of these crafts is that
anyone
can do them.” She pointed a chubby index finger at Monica. “Even someone as inept as you.”

Monica stood. “I refuse to sit here and be insulted by you.”

“So quit,” said Sheri. “I only have to pay out your contract if I fire you or the show gets canceled.”

“That’s what you’re hoping, isn’t it?” Monica climbed back onto her stool, nearly tipping it in the process. Then, as she glowered at Sheri, she grabbed a handful of mop strands and sorted them into three unequal sections. “Guess again, Little Miss Napoleon.”

Sheri’s jaw dropped, but before she could respond, Vince stormed into the studio. “Heads are going to roll when I find out who planted that e-mail,” he screamed, spittle flying in Monica’s direction.

She dropped the mop strands, jumped off the stool, threw her hands onto her hips, and glared at him. “Are you accusing me of making the whole thing up?”

Vince laughed. “Hardly. Whoever tried to frame me has to know his way around computers. You can’t find the
ON
switch without help.”

“What makes you think someone tried to frame you?” asked Sheri.

Vince spun to face her, his upper lip skewed into one of his classic sneers. “Because
I
didn’t send that e-mail.”

“And the police are supposed to take your word against the evidence on Monica’s computer?” She chuckled as she shook her head. “Not likely.”

“They will when they trace back the e-mail to the perpetrator’s computer and not mine.”

“What if the sender used your computer?” I asked.

Vince’s expression grew cocky, his speech condescending. “Impossible. My computer is password protected. Besides, I keep it locked in my desk when I’m not using it.”

“Even when you go to the little boy’s room?” I asked.

“Even when I go to the little boy’s room,” he mimicked.

“That wouldn’t stop a determined hacker,” said Naomi. “Those e-mails could have been sent from your computer without the perpetrator having physical access to your computer.”