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

inserted herself between Sheri and Lou. She tipped her head, awaiting a lip-lock, but Lou appeared too distracted to even notice she’d arrived.
    Naomi cleared her throat. “We have a slight problem.”
    “ Slight problem?” Vince snickered. “A regular master of the understatement, isn’t she?”
    Monica curled her lip. “The hostess with the mostest.”
    “Lou, aren’t you even going to say hello to me?” demanded Mama, one hand on her hip, the other tucked around his arm.
    Sheri’s already crimson face deepened three shades darker than her pink carnation print muumuu. Her narrowed eyes targeted Vince and Monica. “The two of you are enjoying this, aren’t you?”
    Monica stared her down. “What if we are?”
    “God works in mysterious ways,” said Vince. He clasped his hands in front of him and glanced ceiling-ward, as if expecting divine acknowledgment to rain down on him from the fluorescent fixture. “Maybe the good Lord isn’t happy with the way you’ve railroaded us.”
    “And maybe you’re trying to railroad me,” said Sheri, her voice seething with unrestrained rage.
    Vince placed his hand on his chest, his eyes growing wide with surprise. “ Moi ? Surely you don’t think I’d stoop to anything so …” He wrinkled his nose and enacted a fake shudder. “So messy.”
    “Of course not, darling,” said Monica. “You’d never do anything to jeopardize your manicure.”
    Vince held his hands up to study his buffed nails. “So true.”
    “Would someone please tell me what’s going on?” I asked.
    Lou disentangled himself from Mama and turned to me, his face the ashen pallor of a man on the verge of a coronary. Mama might not make it to the altar with this one, I thought. “We canceled today’s rehearsal,” he said.
    That’s when I noticed the lack of hustle and bustle. The reception area had taken on the aura of a funeral parlor.
    “Honestly, Lou, you could have called,” said Mama. “I rushed to get here.”
    She wasn’t the only one annoyed. I had plenty of work to do back at the magazine and certainly didn’t need to waste half a day in the city. “Why?” I asked.
    “ Why ?” Sheri’s strangled voice pitched higher. “I’ll show you why.” She grabbed me by the hand and dragged me toward the studio. The others followed behind us. “This is why,” she said, kicking open the door.
    I stepped inside and stared bug-eyed, my gaze sweeping the formerly pristine stage set. “My God!” Someone had let loose the Tasmanian Devil, and he’d done one hell of a makeover to Morning Makeovers .
    Clumps of stuffing pulled from slashed cushions lay in cumulus nimbus-like piles across the floor. Deep gashes had been sliced into the wood cabinets and shelves. Splatters of blood red paint covered every horizontal and vertical surface. And in the midst of all the chaos, sitting propped against a paint bucket on the granite- topped island, sat my Christmas angel mop doll, looking proud as punch nestled in her gumdrop-decorated wreath. However, instead of a candy cane in her arms, she held a blood red acrylic-soaked paintbrush.
    “Oh dear!” said Mama.
    “Who did this?” I asked.
    “Someone out to sabotage my program,” said Sheri through gritted teeth. She stood hands-on-hips, her glare encompassing Naomi, Vince, Monica, and me.
    “ Your program?” asked Mama, getting in Sheri’s face. “It’s Lou’s program and my idea.”
    “Mama, don’t.” I pulled her away from Sheri. “We’ve been over this,” I hissed in her ear. “Sheri came up with the idea way before you met Lou. Now drop it. We’ve got more serious problems here.”
    “Hmmph!” She exhaled a classic Flora pout. “We’ll see about that.”
    Lou eyed Mama, eyed Sheri, then shook his head before wrapping a shaky arm around Sheri’s shoulders. Mama stiffened. “We don’t know that it’s sabotage directed specifically toward this show,” Lou said to Sheri. “You know the network has had union problems