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

didn’t find was the receipt for Mama’s ring.
    I walked over to the bedroom. Mama held a pair of tighty-whitey briefs in one hand, a pair of navy silk boxers in the other, and a perplexed expression on her face.
    “I don’t think it matters which you choose,” I told her. Did funeral parlors even bother to dress the deceased in underwear?
    “Why would Lou have both boxers and briefs? Don’t most men prefer one over the other?”
    “That’s more your area of expertise,” I reminded her. “I had only one husband, remember?”
    “Of course, dear, but you have that nice Zachary Barnes waiting in the wings. Which is he? Boxers or briefs?”
    “Mama! How should I know?”
    “Well, if you don’t know yet, I’m sure you’ll know soon.” She folded the boxers and placed them in the garment bag she’d opened on the bed, then tossed the briefs into an open bureau drawer.
    An image of Zack parading around in nothing but a pair of silk boxers, the iconic Rolling Stones red tongue graphic splashed across the front, filled my brain. I shook my head and tried to focus on why I’d entered the bedroom. “Did Lou seem upset or nervous at any point Monday?”
    “Of course, dear. He was upset about the vandalism to the set.”
    “Yes but beyond that. Did he mention anything else?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    I walked back into the living room. Maybe Lou’s mail held a clue. I collected the strewn sections of Monday’s New York Times and set it aside. Then I gathered up the mail and began to sort through the pile. Lots of junk. A cable bill. An empty white business envelope with no return address. I sifted through the remaining mail in search of the envelope’s contents. Nothing. Could whatever had come in that envelope be what caused Lou to hit the Glenlivet bottle?
    I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the scene, putting myself in Lou’s place. I’ve had a stressful day. I come home and open the mail. Something in one of the envelopes upsets me. Or angers me. Upsets or angers me enough that I start drinking. What would I have done with the contents of that envelope?
    My eyes sprang open, and I jumped to my feet, nearly toppling the coffee table. I scanned the room, searching for what I knew must be hiding somewhere, but I couldn’t find it. I ran into the kitchen and started opening drawers until I found a flashlight. Returning to the living room, I got down on my hands and knees and systematically checked behind and under each piece of furniture. Nothing.
    But I knew it had to be somewhere in this room. I sat back down on the sofa and pretended to crumple a piece of paper and hurl it across the room. A large entertainment unit sat on the wall opposite the sofa. Books filled shelves on either side of the flat screen TV. I bounded back up, this time careful not to knock into the coffee table, and headed for the shelves on the left. And there it was, wedged into a shadowy corner, resting on top of a well-worn copy of Melville’s Moby Dick .
    I carefully uncrumpled the sheet of paper, holding only the edges with the very tips of my fingers and nails. No point adding my fingerprints to those already on the paper. Just as I finished reading the short note, the door to the apartment flew open.
    “Freeze!”

Seven
    I froze. Except for my adrenaline, which was pumping so fast I thought my heart would explode. The two detectives from the day before, guns pointed and ready to fire—at me—stood inside the entryway.
    “You!” said one by way of recognition. He holstered his gun. His partner did likewise. “What the hell are you doing here?”
    “Can I move?” I asked, barely opening my mouth to speak.
    The first detective nodded.
    Before I could answer his question, Mama poked her head out from the bedroom. “I thought I heard someone.” Then recognizing the detectives said, “Oh hello, boys. Have you caught my poor Lou’s killer already? Was it that nasty you-know-who, like I suspected?”
    “No, ma’am,”