Death by Killer Mop Doll (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery) (4 page)

The two hosts interrupted their whispering long enough to dart a quick once-over in our direction. The homicidal set of their jaws and dagger glint in their eyes remained in place. “They look about as friendly as a pair of porcupines with hemorrhoids,” I said.

“Get a load of those baubles,” said Cloris. A pair of multi-
diamond
and ruby earrings dangled from Monica’s lobes. “I’ll bet they’re worth
enough to cover a few years of college tuition.”

“If they’re real,” said Tessa. “Hard to tell from this distance. Or they could be on loan. The dress, too.”

“Yes,” said Cloris, “your predecessor used to take advantage of that little perk quite often. Got herself killed for the Cartier trinkets she was wearing.”

Well, not exactly. I raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. Cloris ignored me. We both knew Marlys’s borrowed diamonds were a bit of serendipity for Ricardo the Loan Shark, but Cloris liked to yank the newbie’s chain a bit from time to time. Having few perks of our own, we Bottom Feeders took whatever advantage we could get.

Jeanie continued to stare at Vince and Monica. “I’m feeling like the poor relation no one really wanted to invite. Do you get the sense they don’t want us here?”

“They don’t.”

We all turned. A shocking pink and lime green floral muumuu-
draped woman stood behind us. I pegged her as early-to-mid
fifties. She wore a Dorothy Hamill helmet of peat-brown hair and a smile that stretched between a pair of plump, splotchy red cheeks. Raising her hand, she wiggled her fingers in greeting. “Welcome, ladies. I’m Sheri Rabbstein, otherwise known as the power behind the throne.” She giggled.

We stared at her.

“Lou Beaumont’s indispensable assistant producer,” she explained. “Nothing gets done around here unless I do it. And I am
so
happy to meet all of you.” She reached out and pumped our hands, one after the other. “I’ve been after Lou for ages to give this show a swift kick in the gluteus maximus. ’Bout time he listened to me.” She darted a quick frown toward
Poor Lou
.

Then, her face-filling beam somersaulted back into place, and she cocked her head in the direction of Vince and Monica. “Those two are
so
yesterday. They were killing us. We were about to be canceled, you know.” She spoke this
sotto voce
, her hand cupping her mouth. “But you gals are tomorrow. Between my ideas and your know-how, this show is going to rock and roll.”

“We don’t do music,” said Cloris.

Sheri offered up another giggle. “Here.” She handed us each a sheet of paper. “This will explain all the changes in case any members of the press buttonhole you during the reception.”

“Buttonhole us?” I asked, glancing down at three paragraphs of black type on a pink page.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “After they hear about the changes, they’ll be all over Vince and Monica. I doubt anyone will ask you any questions. If you do get trapped and need rescue, I’ll be circulating, ready to bail you out of any jam.” She darted another quick frown toward
Poor Lou
. “That’s what I do best.” Then with her smile pasted in place, she wiggled her index finger at us before bouncing toward the exit. “Remember,” she sing-songed over her shoulder, “I’m here if you need me.”

“That woman missed her calling,” said Cloris. “She belongs on
Sesame Street
.”

“Too sweet.” Janice wrinkled her nose. “She’s more like that obnoxious, obese purple dinosaur.”

The others grunted in agreement as I bowed my head over the pink sheet of paper. “Oh. My. God.”

Three

“What?” My fellow editors
stared at me staring at the paper in my hand. Too flabbergasted to speak, I responded by jabbing at the words on the page. As they read from their own copies, I stole a glance at Vince and Monica. I swear I saw angry puffs of steam rising from the tops of their expertly coifed heads.

“No wonder they look ready to tear us limb from limb,” I said.

“Hell hath no fury like a celebrity snubbed,” muttered Cloris.

Vince Alto and Monica Rivers had been screwed. Big time. Not only had
Poor Lou
stripped their names from the show’s title, he’d yanked those plush host seats right out from under their celebrity derrieres. Naomi was the new host of the show, with Vince and Monica demoted to sidekick status.

“Looks like Mama was right,” I said.

“About what?” asked Cloris. “Your mother said we were all going to make money on this gig, remember?”

An awkward silence fell between us. I bowed my head and contemplated the press release. Each month the producers would choose one lucky person for a total makeover of herself and her home with the various editors taking charge of their areas of expertise. Jeanie and I would do a trash-to-treasures transformation of her home.

“
Queen for a Day
meets
Extreme Makeover
,” said Sheila.

“
What’s
Queen for a Day
?” asked Tessa.

Sheila sighed. “Showing my age again, huh?” In her early sixties, Sheila was the oldest among us. “A TV show from my childhood. One lucky contestant each show was granted her fondest dream.”

“Like a mansion with live-in help or a first-class trip around the world?” asked travel editor Serena Brower.

“More like a washing machine or new refrigerator,” said Sheila.

Tessa snorted. “That’s what people dreamed about back then? Appliances?”

“I suppose they pre-selected contestants whose dreams corresponded with the show’s sponsors,” said Sheila. “After all, this was back in the days of rigged game shows.”

“Stop prattling,” said Jeanie, waving her press release. “Did any of you really read this?
A total transformation of her home
?” Her voice rose several octaves. “We don’t do this much work for each issue.”

“What happened to fifteen minutes once a week, taped ahead of time?” asked Cloris.

“It’s obvious,” said Tessa. “The boys upstairs lied to Naomi.” She paused for a moment, eyeing us one at a time. “Or Naomi lied to us.”

“Naomi wouldn’t lie to us,” said Sheila. “This show means lots of extra work without additional pay for her, too.”

“Does it?” asked Tessa.

“What are you implying?” asked Cloris.

Tessa shrugged. “I think it’s obvious. After all, we don’t really know whether or not Naomi negotiated a hefty raise for herself at our expense, do we?”

“Naomi wouldn’t screw us,” I said. “If you weren’t so new, you’d know that.”

“Why do you keep defending her?” asked Tessa. “Look at her hobnobbing over there with the kingpins. It’s every woman for herself in this world. She wouldn’t agree to hosting the show without adequate compensation. I say she took care of herself at our expense.”

I glanced at Cloris. She nodded. “It certainly looks like Naomi’s sold us out.”

I had always admired and respected Naomi. I didn’t want to believe that I was such a bad judge of character. But then again, I had married Karl, hadn’t I?

“We should go on strike,” said Tessa.

“Easy for you to say.” Tessa had mentioned on more than one occasion that she came from money. Old money. And lots of it. “The rest of us have financial obligations.”

“They can’t run the magazine and TV show without us,” she said. “That gives us leverage.”

Cloris laughed. “Trimedia could replace all of us within a day.”

“More like an hour,” said Janice. “Look how quickly they filled our dead fashion editor’s chair.”

An involuntary shudder skittered up my spine. To force the image of Marlys’s dead body from my mind, I gestured toward Vince and Monica. “I don’t know what they’re so annoyed about. We’ll be doing all the work for
bupkis
while they continue to collect their weekly paychecks for doing nothing more than showing up and smiling.”

“Nice work if you can get it,” said Jeanie.

Cloris waved the press release. “According to this, they’re supposed to assist us. Along with guest celebrities.”

“Right.” I said. “Can you see Monica Rivers and Jack Nicholson donning smocks to faux finish a second-hand chest of drawers?”

“Let alone trolling suburban garage sales to find that chest of drawers?” added Jeanie.

Considering Mama’s role in precipitating our current situation, I wondered if my coworkers would eventually blame me for our new status as indentured servants. I had to hope they never found out.

At that moment the culprit in question, still arm-in-arm with her newest catch, joined us, and I was finally formally introduced to my stepfather-to-be.

“Isn’t this exciting, Anastasia?” asked Mama, her charm bracelet and an assortment of gold bangles tinkling as she stroked Lou’s forearm. “We’re all going to be famous.”

“We?” I asked.

“Well, after all, it was my idea,” said Mama, puffing out her chest. “I’m even going to have my name in the credits.” She raised her chin and batted her eyes at Lou. “Isn’t that so, dear?”

He smiled down at her. “Of course, my sweet. It’s the least I can do to honor your creative genius.”

Mama turned to me. “It’s going to say …” She glanced back up at Lou. “How exactly did you word it, dear?”

“Based on an original idea by Flora Sudberry Periwinkle.”

She nodded as she beamed a megawatt Pepsodent smile at all of us. “Yes, that’s right.”

Cat out of the bag. My fellow editors glared at me. “Sheri claimed
she came up with the idea,” I said, hoping to keep seven murderous editors from drawing and quartering me on the spot.

When I had told Mama I wouldn’t get paid extra for the television show, she assured me that everything would work out for the best. So in typical Mama fashion she had moved on, fixating on what was important to her.

“Sheri who?” she asked.

“An assistant,” said Lou with a pat to Mama’s arm. “No one important.”

“Just another one of the overworked, underpaid Trimedia minions?” I asked.

Lou’s balding pate under the comb-over grew crimson. “I heard about your contract situation,” he said. “I’m sorry. I have no control over that.”

The editorial gaggle raised a collective eyebrow at each other.

“Why would this Sheri person take credit for my idea?”

Lou stooped to kiss Mama’s cheek. “She’s not, my sweet. Don’t worry. The credit goes to you.”

“I should think so,” said Mama with a jut of her chin. “People have no right stealing other people’s ideas. Is she here? Someone needs to set her straight.”

At that moment the lights blinked, signaling that it was time to move into the other room for the start of the press conference. I now understood the earlier malevolent look Sheri had cast toward Lou. Or maybe her glare had been aimed at Mama. Somewhere between Fort Lauderdale and Antigua, Mama had mesmerized Lou Beaumont. As he regaled her about his show, Mama had stolen claim to Sheri’s ideas. Sheri may have originated the reformatted show, but apparently Lou hadn’t considered it worth pursuing until Mama pushed it.

If Lou knew what was good for him, he’d keep two oceans and a continent between the show’s staff and his fiancée. If Sheri, Vince, or Monica didn’t kill Mama, my fellow editors surely would.

_____

Two hours later I had crammed myself full of enough mini quiches, potato puffs, and crab balls to qualify as a tummy tuck candidate. Too bad Trimedia’s munificence stopped with free carbs and didn’t extend to offering a week at a fat farm before sticking us in front of blubber-enhancing cameras.

Since liposuction was out of the question, I headed for the nearest ladies’ room, only to find a queue of women stretching out the door and halfway across the lobby. Leave it to Trimedia to book a reception on the same floor as the Marquis Theatre and schedule a press conference that ended right before an eight o’clock curtain.

I decided to hop the escalator and find an empty facility one flight up. Apparently, Monica Rivers had the same idea. As I stepped onto the escalator at the bottom, I noticed her stepping off at the top.

As the moving stairs ascended, a man sprinted past me, taking the steps two and three at a time. His shiny blue-black ponytail bounced between shoulder blades broad enough to threaten the integrity of his jacket seams. By the time I reached the top, he’d nearly caught up with Monica. I ducked behind a column and watched as he grabbed her by the arm and spun her around.

What can I say? I have a dominant nosey gene. Anyone else in my position would have done the same.

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I think that’s obvious,” he said.

“Stop following me, you suspicious bastard.”

“I know what you’re doing,” he said.

“What I’m doing is going to take a piss. Since you’re so paranoid, maybe you’d like to watch?”

Monica winced as his grip tightened around her arm and he shook her. “I’ve had enough of your sneaking around. Do you think I don’t know what’s going on behind my back? It’s Alto, isn’t it?”

Monica jerked free. “Oh, please! Give me credit for better taste than that.”

“Then who is it? Beaumont? You’ve always had a thing for diddling old geezers. As long as they’re fat in the one place that counts. Isn’t that so, sweetheart?”

Instead of answering him, she hauled back and clipped him across his two-day stubble. As he staggered backwards, she twirled on her four-inch designer stilettos and marched into the ladies’ room.

Since I couldn’t be sure the man wouldn’t follow her, I decided to head for a restroom on the floor above. I wasn’t worried about Monica. With that left hook of hers, she could take care of herself.

_____

The following Monday we had our first official production meeting with Sheri Rabbstein. “Could be an ethnic statement,” whispered Cloris as we eyed Sheri’s outfit, another muumuu but this time a turquoise, navy, and purple geometric print. “Maybe she’s Hawaiian.”

I helped myself to a cup of coffee while we waited for the others to arrive. “Only if the lost tribe of Israel wound up on Waikiki Beach,” I said.

One by one, the other members of the
American Woman
team trickled in. Twenty minutes after the scheduled start of the meeting I checked my watch for the eighteenth time, mentally running through a checklist of the tasks awaiting me back at the office.

“What are we waiting for?” asked Naomi.

“Vince and Monica,” said Sheri.

We waited. And waited. And waited. Fifteen minutes later, Vince called in sick. Ten minutes after that, Monica did likewise.

“Sick my ass,” muttered Sheri, disconnecting from the call. Then she flashed us a tight smile. “Vince and Monica have both come down with Blue Flu. They won’t be joining us today.”

“What about Lou?” asked Naomi.

“Lou isn’t hands-on. He deals with the big picture. I handle segment production.” She grabbed a stack of thick presentation books sitting on a chair and dealt them out along the makeshift conference table set up in the
You Heard It Here First
studio. Around us, workmen dismantled the former stage set.

“This is the first month’s shows broken down into segments and taping schedules,” said Sheri. She raised her voice above the din of hammers, drills, and grunting carpenters. “We begin rehearsals a week from today. Five days for everyone to learn the ropes, then we begin taping.”

“Doesn’t give us much time,” grumbled Jeanie.

“Sorry about that,” said Sheri. “Lou wants to kick off on Labor Day, so we have no choice.” She waved her arm at the chaos surrounding us. “We’re broadcasting reruns now in order to get ready for the premier show.”

I flipped open my book. “You’ve chosen the makeover candidate already?”

Sheri’s normally ruddy cheeks flamed to near-vermilion as she grinned sheepishly and spoke around a giggle. “You’re looking at her.”

“You?” asked Tessa.

“Uhm … isn’t that a bit unethical?” asked Sheila.

“Not at all,” said Sheri, a puzzled expression settling across her brow. “Given our time constraints, this was the most expeditious solution. We have no intention of misleading our viewers. We plan to use staff members to start things rolling and will have a disclaimer to that effect at the end of each show. Once the shows begin to air, viewers will be invited to send videotaped resumes from which we’ll select future candidates.”

“Nice little perk,” said Cloris. “Do you get to take the vacation, too?”

Sheri graced her with one of her flush-cheeked, perky smiles. “Of course. Each month’s segment ends with a video diary of the vacation.”

“I don’t suppose we get any such perks,” said Sheila.

“You’ll get to meet and work with lots of celebrities.”

“Like Vince Alto and Monica Rivers?” asked Tessa. “Whoop-de-fucking-doo.”

Sheri’s buoyant attitude deflated like a punctured dirigible.
“Look,” she said. “I know how you’re all feeling about getting roped
into this show—”

Naomi placed her palms on the table and leaned forward. “With all due respect, you can’t possibly know how my editors feel.”

Cloris and I made eye contact, silently acknowledging to each other that Naomi hadn’t included herself in her statement. Reluctantly, I concluded my coworkers were right about our editorial director. She’d sold us out.

“Unless you’ve agreed to forego your salary and work for free,” Serena added. Two angry splotches appeared on either side of her café latte complexion, and her eyes narrowed into tight slits.

Sheri blinked. “Why would I do that?”

“Exactly,” said Cloris. “However, we weren’t given a choice.”

I stared at Sheri’s confused expression. “She doesn’t know,” I said.