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

to soothe my nerves while I tackle this task,” she said by way of explanation.
    I kissed her cheek. “I know.” Mama may not have loved Lou the way she loved her husbands, but her grief was genuine. She adjusted the volume to a decibel below blaring, then crossed the room to the bedroom.
    “Oh, before I forget.” She turned back toward me. “See if you can find the receipt from Tiffany’s for my ring. I’ll need a copy for the insurance company.”
    “Sure, Mama.”
    I cleared a stack of Variety magazines off Lou’s desk chair and sat down to survey the contents of his desk. The bottom drawer served as a filing cabinet. Given the mess surrounding me, I was surprised to find his files so well-organized. It took me no time to extract a copy of his will, filed under W, and a copy of his life insurance policy, filed under I.
    For once Mama was correct. If Lou had any family, he certainly wasn’t close enough to any of them to bequeath them anything. “You were right,” I called to her. “Both Lou’s will and his life insurance policy list the American Heart Association as his beneficiary.” I didn’t comment on the irony, given that Lou had been stabbed right through the heart.
    “That’s understandable,” Mama called back. “He told me both his parents and his four grandparents all died of heart disease. And quite young. He said that’s why he walked to and from work every day. No matter how bad the weather, he always made sure he got his exercise.” I heard her choke back another sob. “A lot of good it did him.”
    I glanced over at the empty bottle of Scotch. Men concerned with heart health don’t usually down 750 milliliters of Glenlivet in one sitting. Of course, I had no way of knowing how full the bottle had been before Lou emptied it. Out of curiosity, I headed for the kitchen. There on the counter next to the sink stood the empty cardboard carton. I’ve never known anyone to put an opened bottle of booze back in its packaging. Under the circumstances, I drew the only logical conclusion. Lou Beaumont had gotten himself soused sometime after bringing Mama home Monday evening.
    But why? Had Lou been a closet alcoholic? Or was there some other reason for his night of binge drinking?
    I walked back to the desk, returned the will and insurance policy to their proper folders, and pulled out the file marked INVESTMENTS. It contained only one statement. Back when we had investments, Karl simply added each month’s statement to the front of the folder. I suppose Lou employed a different system. At any rate, the American Heart Association was going to be very happy. According to the statement, Lou’s portfolio was greater than the GNP of many a small third-world nation.
    Something just didn’t add up.
    Mama poked her head out from the bedroom and held up a hanger holding a white dress shirt, a necktie draped over each shoulder. One was a royal blue with a small white dot pattern, the other a navy with a red stripe. “Which do you think, dear? The suit is a navy single-breasted.”
    I quickly closed the investment folder and shoved it back into the file drawer. Mama didn’t need to know how close she’d come to filthy rich status. No point upsetting her further.
    “The red stripe is more stately,” I said. Not that it mattered. Jewish funeral law dictated a closed casket, but this was hardly the time to remind Mama of that fact. Better to humor her.
    She nodded. “That’s what I thought.”
    “See if you can find a wheeled overnighter for the clothes in one of Lou’s closets. And don’t forget shoes and socks.” That should keep her busy a little longer. I wanted to search through the rest of Lou’s papers to see if I could determine what had happened Monday night.
    I found no clues on Lou’s desk or by rifling through the remaining desk drawers. The other files contained nothing beyond standard household utility and credit card receipts and a stack of bills awaiting payment. What I