A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5)
Page 1
A sense of déjà vu washed over me. Less than two weeks earlier I’d discovered Rosalie Schneider, another elderly neighbor, unconscious at the bottom of her basement stairs. I took a few steps into the foyer and turned toward the dimly lit living room. Batty Bentworth sat on her sofa, a multi-colored crocheted granny square afghan draped across her lap, her gaze fixated on the news broadcasting from an old black and white console television set.
“Mrs. Bentworth, didn’t you hear me?”
When she didn’t respond, I stepped between her and the television. She continued to ignore me, but now I knew why. Batty Bentworth was dead—but not from natural causes.
About A Stitch to Die For
An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery
by Lois Winston
Ever since her husband died and left her in debt equal to the gross national product of Uzbekistan, magazine crafts editor and reluctant amateur sleuth Anastasia Pollack has stumbled across one dead body after another—but always in work-related settings. When a killer targets the elderly nasty neighbor who lives across the street from her, murder strikes too close to home. Couple that with a series of unsettling events days before Halloween, and Anastasia begins to wonder if someone is sending her a deadly message.
A Stitch to Die For
An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery
by Lois Winston
Acclaim for the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries
Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun
“Crafty cozies don’t get any better than this hilarious confection…Anastasia is as deadpan droll as Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon, and readers can’t help cheering as she copes with caring for a host of colorful characters.” – Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Winston has hit a homerun with this hilarious, laugh-until-your-sides-hurt tale. Oddball characters, uproariously funny situations, and a heroine with a strong sense of irony will delight fans of Janet Evanovich, Jess Lourey, and Kathleen Bacus. May this be the first of many in Winston’s Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series.” – Booklist (starred review)
“A comic tour de force…Lovers of funny mysteries, outrageous puns, self-deprecating humor, and light romance will all find something here.” – ForeWord Magazine (Book of the Year nominee)
“North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum. Funny, gutsy, and determined, Anastasia has a bright future in the planned series.” – Kirkus Reviews
“…a delightful romp through the halls of who-done-it.” – The Star-Ledger
“Make way for Lois Winston’s promising new series…I’ll be eagerly awaiting the next installment in this thoroughly delightful series.” – Mystery Scene Magazine
“…once you read the first few pages of Lois Winston’s first-in-series whodunit, you’re hooked for the duration…” – Bookpage
“…madcap but tough-as-nails, no holds barred plot and main character…a step above the usual crafty cozy.” – The Mystery Reader
“…Anastasia is, above all, a JERSEY girl…, and never, ever mess with one of them. I can’t wait ‘til the next book in this series…” – Suspense Magazine
“Fans of Stephanie Plum will love Lois Winston’s cast of quirky, laughable, and loveable characters. Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun is clever and thoroughly entertaining—a must read!” – Brenda Novak, New York Times bestselling author.
“What a treat—I can’t stop laughing! Witty, wise, and delightfully clever, Anastasia is going to be your new best friend. Her mysterious adventures are irresistible—you’ll be glued to the page!” – Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award-winning author
“You think you’ve got trouble? Say hello to Anastasia Pollack, who also happens to be queen of the one-liners. Funny, funny, funny—this is a series you don’t want to miss!” – Kasey Michaels, USA Today bestselling author
Death by Killer Mop Doll
“Anastasia is a crafting Stephanie Plum, surrounded by characters sure to bring chuckles as she careens through the narrative, crossing paths with the detectives assigned to the case and snooping around to solve it.” – Booklist
“Several crafts projects, oodles of laughs and an older, more centered version of Stephanie Plum.” – Kirkus Reviews
“In Winston’s droll second cozy featuring crafts magazine editor Anastasia Pollack…readers who relish the offbeat will be rewarded.” – Publishers Weekly
“…a 30 Rock vibe…Winston turns out another lighthearted amateur sleuth investigation. Laden with one-liners, Anastasia’s second outing (after Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun) points to another successful series in the works.” – Library Journal
“Winston…plays for plenty of laughs…while letting Anastasia shine as a risk-taking investigator who doesn’t always know when to quit.” – Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine
Revenge of the Crafty Corpse
“Winston peppers the twisty and slightly edgy plot with humor and plenty of craft patterns. Fans of craft mysteries will like this, of course, but so will those who enjoy the smart and snarky humor of Janet Evanovich, Laura Levine, and Laura DeSilverio.” – Booklist
“Winston’s entertaining third cozy plunges Anastasia into a surprisingly fraught stew of jealousy, greed, and sex…” and a “Sopranos-worthy lineup of eccentric character…” – Publishers Weekly
“Winston provides a long-suffering heroine, amusing characters, a…good mystery and a series of crafting projects featuring cloth yo-yos.” – Kirkus Reviews
“A fun addition to a series that keeps getting stronger.” – Romantic Times Magazine
“Chuckles begin on page one and the steady humor sustains a comedic crafts cozy, the third (after Death by Killer Mop Doll)… Recommend for Chris Grabenstein (“John Ceepak” series) and Jess Lourey readers.” – Library Journal
“You’ll be both surprised and entertained by this terrific mystery. I can’t wait to see what happens in the Pollack household next.” – Suspense Magazine
“The book has what a mystery should…It moves along at a good pace…Like all good sleuths, Anastasia pieces together what others don’t…The book has a fun twist…and it’s clear that Anastasia, the everyday woman who loves crafts and desserts, and has a complete hottie in pursuit, will return to solve another murder and offer more crafts tips…” – Star-Ledger
Decoupage Can Be Deadly
“Decoupage Can Be Deadly is the fourth in the Anastasia Pollock Crafting Mysteries by Lois Winston. And it’s the best one yet. More, please!” – Suspense Magazine
“What a great cozy mystery series. One of the reasons this series stands out for me as a great one is the absolutely great cast of characters. Every single character in these books is awesomely quirky and downright hilarious. This series is a true laugh out loud read!” – Books Are Life–Vita Libri
“This is one of these series that no matter what, I’m going to be laughing my way through a comedy of errors as our reluctant heroine sets a course of action to find a killer while contending with her eccentrically dysfunctional family. This adventure grabs you immediately delivering a fast-paced and action-filled drama that doesn’t let up from the first page to the surprising conclusion.” – Dru’s Book Musings
“Lois Winston’s reluctant amateur sleuth Anastasia Pollack is back in another wild romp.” – The Book Breeze
A Stitch to Die For copyright 2015 by Lois Winston. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Cover design by L. Winston
Dedication
For Jack, Zoe, Chase, and Collin
who make life so beautiful
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to Donnell Bell and Irene Peterson for their superb editorial skills.
Thanks also to the various members of Crime Scene Writers, DorothyL, Guppies, and Sisters in Crime who generously volunteer their expertise on an incredible range of topics whenever asked.
And finally, much thanks to plotting weekend hostess Gail Freeman. A Stitch to Die For came to life thanks to your incredible generosity and spare bedroom.
ONE
Two weeks ago my mother, Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe, took her sixth trip down the aisle to become Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe Tuttnauer. The groom’s daughter was a no-show. At the time of the ceremony her body was being fished out of the Delaware and Raritan Canal in Lambertville, New Jersey.
Ira Pollack, my stepbrother-in-law and the groom’s son-in-law, had just finished a toast to Mama and Lawrence Tuttnauer when two men in dark suits entered the backyard catering tent and headed straight toward him. Given all my dealings with the police over the last few months, I easily made them for detectives, a suspicion confirmed when I spotted them flashing their badges. Ira nodded and followed them out of the tent.
I followed Ira.
He and the two men made their way to the patio at the back of his house. I stopped at the entrance to the tent. The men stood with their backs to me, Ira facing me. From my vantage point I couldn’t hear their words over the conversations and music going on behind me, but I saw the color drain from Ira’s face. He shook his head violently and yelled, “No!” loud enough for me to hear.
I raced across the lawn as fast as I could in three-inch heels. Once at the patio, I placed my hand on Ira’s arm. In a voice that trembled as much as his body, he said, “Cynthia. They found her floating in the canal.”
I gasped, then led Ira over to one of the patio lounge chairs. He collapsed onto the cushion and buried his head in his hands as he choked out huge sobs.
I turned to the detectives, waiting for more of an explanation, but both ignored Ira’s grief to fixate on the party across the lawn. “What’s going on here?” one of them asked.
“A wedding,” I said.
“Whose?”
“Ira’s father-in-law married my mother.”
Both detectives knit their brows together and glared at Ira. “Your wife doesn’t show for her father’s wedding, and you’re not worried?” asked the older and taller of the two men.
Ira tried speaking between sobs. His mouth opened and closed several times, but no words came out. I answered for him. “Cynthia didn’t approve of her father marrying my mother.”
“And you are?” asked the second detective, whipping out a notepad and pencil.
“Anastasia Pollack. I’m also Ira’s stepsister-in-law.”
Both detectives repeated the twin eyebrow knit, but neither said anything. Also, up to this point I had no idea how Cynthia had died, so I asked, “What happened to Cynthia?”
“The medical examiner will have to determine cause of death,” said the older detective. “We’re waiting on an autopsy.”
“Do you suspect foul play?”
“Why would you suggest that?” he asked.
I shrugged. “I can’t imagine how Cynthia would land in the canal on her own. She isn’t…wasn’t the canal-strolling type.” Dirt and extremely expensive designer duds don’t mix.
“What type was she?” asked the younger detective.
Cynthia the Trophy Wife was more the spend-all-day-spending-Ira’s-money type. I thought for a moment, not wanting to say anything that might be misconstrued. If Cynthia hadn’t died of natural causes, Ira would wind up at the top of the suspect list. “I only met her once,” I said, “but I’d describe her as someone more interested in indoor activities than communing with nature.”
The spouse is always the prime suspect, but Ira was no killer. The man didn’t even have the backbone to discipline his bratty kids. If Cynthia had met with foul play, my money was on the pool boy she’d run off with weeks earlier. “Ira, you have to tell the detectives what happened with Cynthia.”
The two men practically pounced on Ira. “Do we need to haul you into headquarters, Mr. Pollack?” asked the older detective.
“It’s nothing like that,” I said. “Cynthia ran off with her lover.”
Ira lifted his tear-streaked face and nodded in confirmation.
“When?” asked the older detective.
“Several weeks ago.”
The younger detective headed back to the tent and returned a few minutes later with Mama and Lawrence in tow. Mama had no love for Cynthia, but she was visibly shaken upon learning of her death.
Lawrence, on the other hand, exhibited more anger than grief. “I’m not surprised,” he said, shaking his head. “She was always a wild child. Drugs. Cocaine mostly. And alcohol.”
Cynthia a cokehead? Maybe that’s how she maintained her size zero figure.
The narrow canal path, out of the way and nearly hidden within the wooded area separating the canal from the Delaware River, would make for a perfect spot to deal drugs. I turned to Ira. “Did you know?”
He shook his head. “I had no idea.”
“Why didn’t you tell him?” I asked Lawrence.
“I had hoped that was all behind her, but…” His voice trailed off. He wrapped an arm around Ira’s shoulders. “I’m sorry.”
“Do you suspect drugs?” I asked the detectives.
“We’ll know more after the autopsy,” the older one said. “For now we need Mr. Pollack to make a positive ID of the body.”
Ira shuddered, turning green at the thought, but he didn’t protest and left willingly. I was surprised the detectives didn’t issued a don’t leave town order to the rest of us before departing, but maybe that only happens on TV and in the movies. Lawrence’s bombshell regarding Cynthia’s drug habit had put an entirely new spin on their investigation. Ira was probably no longer Suspect Numero Uno.
Even more surprising was Lawrence and Mama’s decision to go ahead with their honeymoon. Drugs or not, Lawrence had still just lost his daughter.
“What kind of father takes off on a honeymoon hours after learning of his daughter’s death?” I asked Zack on the ride home from the wedding.
Zachary Barnes, professional photojournalist and possible spy, had rented the apartment above my garage last winter shortly after my husband Karl dropped dead in Las Vegas, leaving me with his semi-invalid communist mother and gambling debts equal to the gross national product of Uzbekistan.
Zack looks like Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, and Antonio Bandares all contributed to his gene pool. I’m a pear-shaped, middle-aged mom of two teenage boys. You’d think we’d have nothing in common. Maybe we don’t, but no one told that to our hormones.
This past summer I decided I’d mourned Dead Louse of a Spouse long enough and let nature takes its course with Zack. We’d both been enjoying the trip ever since.
“People handle grief in all sorts of ways,” he said.
“I suppose. But it seems rather callous.”
Mama hasn’t had much luck with husbands since my father drowned while scuba diving in the Yucatan on my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Each of her subsequent husbands has met with an unfortunate death not long after their nuptials.
George Ramirez made the unwise and deadly mistake of running with the bulls at Pamplona. Oscar Scoffield succumbed from an allergic reaction to shellfish. Arnie Goldberg lost his footing at the Grand Canyon and plunged to his death. Seamus O’Kee
fe suffered a fatal cerebral aneurysm when he tried to kiss the Blarney Stone. Lou Beaumont never made it as far as I do. Several months ago, shortly after he and Mama announced their engagement, a deranged coworker stabbed him in the heart with one of my knitting needles.
Given her track record, you’d think my mother would be gun-shy about wading into matrimonial waters yet again. Not Mama. Her cockeyed optimism puts Nellie Forbush to shame. She and Lawrence knew each other all of three months before they tied the knot.
*
After two weeks in Paris, Mama and Lawrence returned from their honeymoon, the trip—along with the wedding and their new condo—paid for by Ira. At least this time the groom had survived the honeymoon.
In true Mama fashion they showed up to retrieve Catherine the Great, Mama’s corpulent Persian cat, in time to invite themselves to stay for dinner. Mama had also invited Ira and his triple terrors—the interchangeable eleven-year-old twins Melody and Harmony (neither of whom knew a C-sharp from a B-flat) and their nine-year-old brother Isaac. All had arrived before I’d had a chance to kick off my heels after a long day at work.
Luckily, I didn’t have to figure out how to stretch a tuna-noodle casserole for four to accommodate an additional six mouths. Ira arrived with enough Chinese take-out to feed half of Westfield. As much as I didn’t want a houseful of company on a Monday night, at least I’d have leftovers for the remainder of the week.
“Did you enjoy yourself?” I asked Mama.
“Hardly.” She sighed. “I spent the entire trip holding my breath, worrying that something would happen to Lawrence.”
“But nothing did,” he said, “I told you nothing would.”
Mama squeezed his hand. “You can’t blame me, given the series of unfortunate events that have plagued my marriages. I swear I’m cursed.”
“And now the curse is broken,” he said, stooping to plant a peck on her cheek.
I certainly hoped so. Mama deserved some lasting happiness. She and Lawrence made quite the couple, too. My mother bears a striking resemblance to Ellen Burstyn, and Lawrence, with his full head of silver hair, could easily pass for the reincarnation of Cary Grant.