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

they’d commandeered for interviews, they looked like they’d been the ones to undergo the grilling.
    Mama, on the other hand, had resorted to her natural busybody self, all signs of her emotional breakdown gone. Whether it was the effect of the happy pill or her own stoic resilience, I couldn’t say, but she did have more than her share of experience dealing with death.
    “Now, you dear boys will keep me informed about your progress in capturing my poor Lou’s killer, won’t you?” She craned her neck to face the two men who were both well over six feet tall.
    “Of course, ma’am,” said one.
    Mama patted his arm. “If you need any help, you be sure to give me a call. I started watching CSI and Law & Order after that nasty business I told you about. Believe me, getting tied up with a Ruskie in a bathtub for hours certainly changed my perspective on life, not to mention my television viewing choices. I could be a big help to you boys.”
    “Yes, ma’am.”
    Apparently Mama had regaled them with her tale of how Ricardo the Loan Shark broke into my house three months ago, hog-tied her to Lucille, and dumped them in the bathtub. I don’t know how the detectives managed to remain straight-faced. I reached for Mama’s arm and nudged her along. “Come on, Mama. We need to let these gentlemen continue with their investigation.” I turned to them. “We can go?”
    They nodded. “For now,” said one of them.
    Mama and I had only taken a few steps down the hall when she stopped short and turned back to them. “And you won’t forget what I told you about you-know-who,” she said in a conspiratorial whisper that could be heard halfway down the corridor.
    “No, ma’am. We’ll check into it,” said the detective standing to the left.
    “What was that all about?” I asked as we stepped into the elevator.
    “What was what, dear?”
    I eyed Mama with skepticism, not about to fall for her Miss Innocent act. “Who’s you-know-who and what did you tell the detectives?”
    “I told them the truth, of course.”
    I silently counted to ten on a swiftly exhaled rush of exasperation and balled my fists, fighting the urge to grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. “The truth about what?”
    The elevator came to a stop, and we stepped out into the street level lobby. Turning to face me, Mama exhaled her own breath of annoyance before answering in a tight, clipped voice. “I told them all about that nasty Sheri and how she tried to steal my idea. As far as I’m concerned, she’s the prime suspect. She had motive, opportunity, and method.”
    Who said network television isn’t educational? Thanks to her nightly diet of police dramas, Mama had police jargon down pat. I resisted the urge to say, “Ten-four, good buddy,” but since she seemed to be challenging me, I decided to play along. As we exited the building and headed down the street, I asked, “And exactly what was Sheri’s motive, Detective Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe?”
    Mama stopped in the middle of the crowded sidewalk and turned to face me. As pedestrians darted around us, she lifted her chin and puffed out her chest. “Jealousy, of course.”
    I raised both eyebrows. “If that’s the case, why didn’t she kill you?”
    With a roll of her eyes, a click of her tongue, and a shake of her head Mama said, “Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Anastasia. Why would anyone want to kill me?”
    _____
    We didn’t arrive home until after seven. Lights blazed from every window of the house even though we were well into Daylight Savings Time, and the sun was just beginning to lower in the sky. Time for another mom lecture on how pennies saved on electricity grew into dollars for college.
    As I opened the front door, classic rock assaulted my ears. Across the living room, Catherine the Great leaped from her throne atop the sofa and sauntered over to greet Mama with a loud purr and a rubbing of fur against stockinged