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

hand truck and headed down a hallway past the dressing rooms, unlocking a door at the far end. The closet was more a room, nearly as large as my bedroom. Floor-to-ceiling metal shelving units stood along one wall. A counter with cabinets underneath ran the length of the opposite wall. Additional cabinets hung above the counter. Along the back wall were several wheeled clothing racks holding an assortment of outfits. No muumuus.
    “The other editors came by yesterday, but there’s still plenty of room for you,” she said, indicating the empty shelves with a sweep of her arm.
    “I had a photo shoot yesterday and didn’t finish the mop dolls until last night.” Why did I feel compelled to offer her an excuse? After all, we weren’t taping for another week.
    “Not a problem,” she said. “I’ll help you unpack. I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.”
    An odd comment, I thought, considering she had specified each project. I ripped the packing tape from the first carton. Sheri reached in and removed a mop doll witch attached to a woven grapevine wreath. Her eyes sparkled; her mouth stretched into a wide grin. “For my front door?”
    I nodded. “As you requested. One for each holiday.”
    Sheri gingerly fingered the witch. I had dyed the mop black, dyed the strands used for the hair orange, and dressed the doll in a black witch’s hat with a purple felt cape. Yellow felt stars embellished both. She carried a straw broom and a jack-o-lantern. Black plastic spiders climbed over the vines of the wreath.
    “Oh, I love it! Thank you!”
    And then she did something that knocked the Cynicism Gene right off my DNA helix: she hugged me. So maybe she didn’t blame me for Mama’s credit hijacking, after all.
    When she had finished oohing and aahing over each mop doll wreath, Sheri locked the storage room and handed me the key. “See you Monday,” she said with a wiggle-wave of her index finger.
    I wiggle-waved back and headed for my car.
    By the time I arrived at the office, the day was half over, but I still had at least ten hour’s worth of work ahead of me. I fired up my computer, stared at my to-do list, then did the only sensible thing under the circumstances. I headed for the break room in search of coffee and a chocolate anything. Nothing was so bad that it couldn’t improve with an infusion of caffeine, carbs, and calories.
    _____
    Or so I thought until Monday morning when I arrived back at the studio to find the proverbial caca had hit the proverbial fan.

Four
    Mornings at Casa Pollack are never pretty, not when two hormonally driven teenage boys and their bodily function-obsessed grandmothers vie for the same bathroom. Call me selfish, but I refuse to share the master bathroom with any of them. I have little enough privacy in this madhouse as it is. And given that I’m the sole pumpernickel-winner, I like to think of my actions as more practical than selfish. I can’t afford to be late for work. Which is why I installed a lock on my bedroom door.
    Not sharing my bathroom has its drawbacks, though. Invariably, someone runs late. This morning it was Mama, thanks to Lucille staking claim after the boys departed.
    I exited my bedroom to find Mama still in her lilac robe and matching fuzzy mules, pounding her fist on the hall bathroom door. I checked my watch. “Mama, we’ve got fifteen minutes to catch the train.”
    “We’ll have to take the next one,” she said. “The commie pinko’s hijacked the bathroom again.”
    I sighed. Then capitulated. “Use my bathroom.”
    “I can’t. She’s holding my make-up hostage.”
    Needless to say, we missed the train. By the time we arrived huffing and puffing into the studio reception area, we were forty minutes late, but I didn’t think forty minutes warranted the reception that greeted us.
    Vince looked annoyed.
    Monica looked antsy.
    Naomi looked frustrated.
    Lou looked apoplectic.
    Sheri looked fit to kill.
    “What’s wrong?” I asked as Mama