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

accusing Monica of two-timing him. At least once a week he bursts in here hurling accusations. One week it’s Vince, the next week me. As if either of us would want to get involved with that nut job.”
    “But if he’s accusing Monica of having an affair with either Vince or you, and Monica gets paid whether the show proceeds or not, then—”
    Lou slapped his forehead. “Then Ray’s the vandal. Of course! I should have known. The man’s been a thorn in my rump for years. I’d love to nail him. Too bad Trimedia refuses to let the police get involved.”
    “Hold on. I’m only conjecturing here,” I reminded him. “Think- ing out loud. We have no proof. Ray could have an alibi. For that matter, so could Monica and Vince.”
    “But it looks like you’re on to something,” said Lou. “Pursue it. See what you can find out.”
    “I told you, I’m no detective.”
    “What if I offered to pay you?”
    The man had found my Achilles heel. “How much?”
    He named a figure that would take care of the upcoming school and real estate tax bill—even with the increase. “I suppose I could snoop around, ask a few questions.”
    “Good. It’s settled then. I’d better get back to your mother before she thinks I’ve gone AWOL.”
    He hustled back down the hall before I remembered to ask him about those extenuating circumstances in Vince’s and Monica’s last contract.
    _____
    The next morning Mama and I returned to the studio, Mama sporting her Cleveland-sized diamond and Sheri all nervous energy and giggles as she rushed around the new set powwowing with the director and various techies. Looked like Lou had succeeded in smoothing out the credit wrinkles.
    “What’s this?” asked Mama, indicating the replacement leather sofas and the same stainless steel stove and refrigerator. “I said damask upholstery and white appliances. Where’s Lou?”
    “Probably in his office,” said Sheri, all smiles.
    Mama spun on her heels and headed off in search of her fiancé. Twenty minutes later she returned, all flustered. “I can’t find Lou. No one’s seen him.”
    “I’m sure he’s around somewhere, Mama.”
    She grabbed my arm. “What if something’s happened? What if he’s had a stroke or heart attack?” Given Mama’s track record with men, this was certainly a possibility, except that her men always waited until after she married them to croak. She turned to the nearest crew member. “You. Check the men’s room.”
    But Lou wasn’t in the men’s room. Lou didn’t seem to be anywhere. “He probably left the building for a few minutes, Mama. Maybe he had a meeting.”
    But Mama wasn’t buying it. She gripped my arm so tightly that I had to pry her fingers loose. I led her to a chair and sat her down. “Look, if he isn’t back by the time I’m finished, I’ll help you track him down, but right now I have to rehearse my segment. They’re waiting for me, and I haven’t even collected my models and supplies yet.”
    She jumped out of the seat. “Let me help you.”
    Mama followed me out of the studio and down the hall to the models and supply room. I unlocked the door and pushed it open.
    Mama screamed.

Five
    “Lou!” Mama dropped to the floor. “Anastasia, do something! Get help!”
    But Lou was beyond help. His body lay sprawled on the floor, my Valentine mop doll wreath sitting on his chest. The knitting needle I planned to use to demonstrate making curly hair for one of the mop dolls was impaled through both the doll and Lou’s heart.
    Mama reached for the knitting needle. I grabbed her wrist. “What are you doing?” she shrieked. “We have to save him!”
    “He’s dead, Mama.” I lifted her to her feet and wrapped my arms around her. “You can’t touch anything. This is a crime scene.”
    “Dead? Nooooo! You don’t know that.”
    I figured Lou’s open-eyed, blank stare was a dead giveaway—no pun intended—but I didn’t say anything, just held firm to Mama. She struggled to