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

said the one on the left. The two were pretty much interchangeable, except for a few pounds and even fewer inches. They both sported graying buzz cuts that screamed marine sergeants , right out of central casting, the ones from World War II-era movies. Only these guys wore off-the-rack navy gabardine instead of khakis or camouflage. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember their names, although I’m sure they had introduced themselves prior to questioning me yesterday.
    “What are the two of you doing here?” asked the shorter one, short being a relative term since both towered over six feet.
    Although he’d directed the question to me, Mama answered, “We came to pick up some clothes for poor Lou’s funeral. And maybe find some clues to the identity of his killer.”
    “Why didn’t you open the door when we knocked?” Again, addressed to me, but this time by the taller, slightly thinner detective, and this time Mama didn’t answer.
    Instead, she turned to me. “Why didn’t you answer the door, Anastasia?”
    I nodded toward the entertainment unit. Symphony No. 4 had long since ended, replaced by the 1812 Overture . “May I?” When the shorter detective waved his consent, I reached for the volume control and lowered Mr. Tchaikovsky’s volume down to that of background music.
    I wanted to roll my eyes and exclaim, “Duh!” but decided sarcasm directed toward men with guns wasn’t the brightest move. Instead, I simply said, “I’m sorry, detectives, but I didn’t hear your knock over the rockets and cannon fire.”
    “Where are my manners?” exclaimed Mama with a clap of her hands. “Would you boys like some coffee or tea?”
    The two detectives exchanged a quick glance. Then the shorter one said, “That would be great, ma’am. Coffee. If it’s no trouble.”
    “No trouble at all.”
    Mama bustled off to the kitchen, and the two detectives turned their full attention to me. “Clues?” asked the taller one.
    “Or destroying evidence?” asked the shorter one.
    I glared at both of them. They’d certainly established good cop/bad cop pretty quickly. “Clues. I have nothing to hide, and neither does my mother. Frankly, it never occurred to me that you hadn’t already searched Lou’s apartment. I was hoping to discover something you might have overlooked, given my mother knew Lou and you didn’t.”
    “The way we understand it,” said the shorter detective, “your mother only met Lou a few weeks ago. How intimately could she have known him?”
    “If you’re inferring what I think, detective, you’re not only way out of line, your skills are questionable. What would be her motive? Wouldn’t it make more sense to kill Lou after they’d married? Not to mention after he’d had a chance to change his will?”
    “How do you know he hadn’t already changed it?” asked the taller detective.
    I pointed to the desk. “Bottom drawer. Filed under W. And while you’re checking, his life insurance policy is also there. Filed under I. When you’re through making sure I’m not lying, there’s something I found that might interest you.”
    The taller detective strode across the room to the desk, opened the file drawer, and thumbed through the folders until he found both documents. After checking them out, he turned to his partner, “She’s right. The vic left everything to charity.”
    “As I could have told you,” I said.
    “What else did you want to tell us?” asked the shorter one.
    I still held the uncrumpled sheet of paper between the tips of my thumb and index finger. “Something either angered or frightened Lou Monday night.”
    “What makes you think that?” asked the taller detective.
    I told him what Mama had said about the state of the apartment and pointed to the empty bottle of Scotch. “He downed the entire bottle. The cardboard packaging is still on the kitchen counter.”
    “Pardon me for saying so, ma’am,” began the taller detective, “but maybe the guy was just