Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) by Lois Winston

truck around from the back of the counter. “Ms. Rabbstein had this sent down for you, Ms. Pollack. She said you’d be bringing in a bunch of cartons.”
    He parked the hand truck in front of me and handed back my license, along with a card. “This here’s your temporary ID until you’re issued a permanent one. I’ll keep an eye on this carton while you get the rest. I’d do it for you, but I can’t leave my post.”
    Definitely not the reception the cynic in me had expected, either from the security guard or Sheri. I glanced at his name badge. “Thank you, Hector.”
    He tipped his cap. “Not a problem, ma’am.”
    I headed back toward the parking garage, hand truck in tow. Ten minutes later I returned, panting from the effort of maneuvering the carton-laden hand truck against the tide of New York City pedestrians. I really needed to start exercising. I’d even added it to my to-do list, right under finding a cure for cancer and a solution to the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.
    Carcinomas, the Middle East, and aerobic workouts would have to wait, though. I needed to deal with Sheri. This would be our first one-on-one encounter, and I didn’t know what to expect. However, her thoughtfulness regarding the hand truck gave me hope.
    Once upstairs, I parked the hand truck in the hallway, took one last deep breath and headed for her office. Finding the door slightly ajar, I rapped a quick knock-knock before stepping inside. Sheri stood at the window, talking on the phone, her back to me. Her free hand twisted the hem of a black cardigan that covered the top half of a yellow, peach, and mint green diagonally striped muumuu.
    “Yes, we had an agreement,” she told the caller, “but you have to understand … No! How can you think that? I’ve told you. I wouldn’t—”
    I cleared my throat. “Sheri?”
    She spun around, her eyes wide, her cheeks glowing fire hydrant red. Without releasing her death grip on the sweater, she help up her index finger, then turned back to the window and dropped her voice to a whisper. “Look, Max, I have to go. Someone’s here. Can we discuss this later? Over dinner? I’m sure we can work something out.” She paused for a moment, nodding her head as she listened. “All right. Tonight. I love you, too.”
    I watched as she took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling, before she hung up the phone and turned to me. “Anastasia, I was beginning to think you’d forgotten our appointment.”
    Great. She’s already pissed over Mama stealing her idea. Now I’m late for our appointment, and I get caught eavesdropping on a lover’s quarrel. Nice work, Anastasia . Hand truck thoughtfulness aside, for someone who didn’t want to make an enemy, I’d certainly gotten off to a slam-bang start.
    “Sorry about being late.” I shrugged. “Traffic. No matter how much time you allow yourself, it’s never enough.” Without pausing, I launched into damage control. “Look, I didn’t mean to intrude. Your door was open, and I—”
    Sheri held up her hand. “No need. It was nothing. Really. Don’t worry about it.” She smiled as she rounded her desk, but the smile didn’t mask the hurt and worry in her eyes. “Come see the set,” she said, grabbing my arm. “You’ll love what we’ve done.”
    The generic talk-show desk and chairs with a faux New York city skyline backdrop had been replaced by a country great room, complete with gas fireplace and overstuffed leather sofas. A kitchen-to-die-for took up a sizable section to the left. “We’ll do the craft demos here,” she said, pointing to the granite-topped island that separated the kitchen from the seating area. “What do you think?”
    “Very nice.” A heck of a lot nicer than my own humble abode with its chipped Formica countertops and worn upholstery. “When can I move in?”
    Sheri giggled. “We have a storage closet set aside for all your supplies and models.” She led me back out of the studio, grabbed the