Patchwork Peril (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  About Patchwork Peril

  An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery

  by Lois Winston

  After rescuing her elderly neighbor Rosalie’s quilts from a rainstorm, Anastasia discovers Rosalie unconscious at the bottom of her basement stairs. Rosalie’s estranged niece Jane flies east to care for her during her recovery, but Rosalie suspects her motives are less than altruistic and even accuses Jane of drugging her. Is Rosalie’s paranoia a result of her head injury, or is there something more to her accusations? And can Anastasia uncover the truth before it’s too late?

  Patchwork Peril

  An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-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 best-selling 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 best-selling 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

  Also by Lois Winston

  Talk Gertie to Me

  Elementary, My Dear Gertie

  Love, Lies and a Double Shot of Deception

  Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun

  Death by Killer Mop Doll

  Crewel Intentions

  Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

  Mosaic Mayhem

  Decoupage Can Be Deadly

  Crafty Crimes

  A Trio of Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mysteries

  Top Ten Reasons Your Novel is Rejected

  Once Upon a Romance

  Romance Super Bundle

  a boxed set of ten romances by ten authors

  Romance Super Bundle II, Second Chances

  a boxed set of eleven romances by eleven authors

  Love, Valentine Style

  a boxed set of six romances by six author

  Writing as Emma Carlyle

  Hooking Mr. Right

  Finding Hope

  Four Uncles and a Wedding

  Lost in Manhattan

  Someone to Watch Over Me

  Patchwork Peril copyright 2014 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.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

  Cover design by L. Winston

  Dedication

  to my saintly husband Rob who has patiently spent decades putting up with my total lack of patie
nce

  Acknowledgements

  Enormous thanks to authors Donnell Bell and Irene Peterson for their critiquing and editing skills.

  ONE

  I glanced through the windshield at the ominous black sky. Accuweather called for a Nor’easter to hit within the hour. The brooding cloud cover suggested otherwise. With the rate the wind had begun to pick up, I figured I had three minutes tops to arrive home before a deluge of Diluvial proportions. A minute later the first large drops of rain splashed onto my windshield. By the time I turned down my street, sideway sheets of rain buffeted my car.

  I pulled into my driveway, parked the car, opened the door, and darted for my back porch. That’s when I caught a glimpse of bright colors frenetically flapping above the azalea bushes that separated my backyard from the one directly behind my house. Rosalie Schneider’s award-winning patchwork quilts clung precariously to her clothesline. At any moment the gale force winds would sweep them off to parts unknown. The crafter in me couldn’t let that happen.

  With one quilt already hanging by a single clothespin, I had no time to grab my Wellingtons from the mudroom. I sandwiched my purse between my back door and storm door, then raced across the yard. Thick muck oozed up from the grass, sucking my shoes off my feet.

  Welcome to the life of Anastasia Pollack, where no good deed goes unpunished.

  By the time I reached Rosalie’s clothesline and bundled the three waterlogged quilts into my arms, I was drenched from head to stocking-covered toes and spattered up to my armpits in mud. The quilts hadn’t fared much better.

  Huddled under the overhang, I banged on her back door. No one answered. I tried listening for some signs of activity inside the house, but the wind and rain drowned out all other sounds. Rosalie probably couldn’t hear me. Shivering from the icy rain, I slogged my way back across both yards. As I bent to scoop up my now ruined Nine West pumps, I imagined my elderly neighbor, warm and cozy, curled up in front of her television, oblivious to my heroism on her behalf.

  But if Rosalie were home, why hadn’t she brought her quilts in before the storm hit?

  “Holy cow, Mom!” Alex stood in the kitchen, Ralph, our Shakespeare quoting African Grey parrot on his shoulder. Both stared bug-eyed at me as I dropped the quilts, my shoes, and purse onto the mudroom floor. “What happened to you?”

  “I was searching for Noah’s ark.”

  Ralph squawked. “There is, sure, another flood toward, and these couples are coming to the ark. As You Like It. Act Five, Scene Four.”

  “Huh?” Alex ignored Ralph and directed his confusion toward me.

  “Never mind. Please get my bathrobe for me.”

  When he returned, I closed the door separating the mudroom from the kitchen, stripped down to my undies, and slipped on my robe. Before heading to a hot shower, I brought my clothes and Rosalie’s quilts down to the basement. Those quilts would need washing before the mud stains set. Three more loads of wash to add to my Friday night chores. My punishment for being a nice neighbor was multiplying exponentially.

  Back in the kitchen I tried calling Rosalie but got her answering machine. Maybe she’d gone out to dinner with friends. I left a message telling her I had her quilts.

  As I headed to my bedroom, Nick poked his head out from the room he shared with his brother. “Hi, Mom. What’s for dinner?”

  “Mud pies.”

  He plucked a twig from my hair and handed it to me. “I’ll take mine with a side of bark.”

  “You’ve got it.” Sarcasm is high on my list of flaws, one my teenage sons inherited from me, along with their honesty, integrity, sense of justice, and ability to score high grades. You can’t have everything, right? Luckily, all they inherited from their father was his good looks. I’m clueless about their athletic ability. Those genes must have lain dormant for generations.

  My weekend off to a stellar start, I locked myself in my bathroom, finished stripping off my remaining clothes, and stepped into the shower. Rivulets of mud and muck streamed from my body and swirled down the drain. If only all my problems washed away so easily.

  *

  By the next morning the fast-moving storm had traveled up into New England, and a bright autumn sun streamed through the windows. An unfamiliar quiet blanketed my normally chaos-filled home.

  Alex and Nick had risen early to leave for a two-week all-school community service project, helping Habitat for Humanity build new homes for Hurricane Sandy victims. Mama now lived in a condo two miles away with her sixth husband and Catherine the Great, her portly Persian cat.

  Lucille, my semi-invalid communist mother-in-law, was probably off fomenting a revolution somewhere with the twelve other members of the Daughters of the October Revolution. I hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning. Apparently, she’d taken Manifesto (AKA Mephisto, AKA Devil Dog,) with her, because I hadn’t seen the grumpy French bulldog since Friday morning, either. As long as Lucille didn’t get herself arrested again, I really didn’t care where she was or what she was doing. With any luck, she’d stay away all weekend.

  I wasn’t used to having the house to myself. Well, myself and a Shakespeare-quoting parrot. Too bad Zack was off either shooting indigenous flora and fauna with his Nikon or terrorists with his bad-ass Sig Sauer. (My boyfriend claims he’s a photojournalist; I think he’s a spy.)

  I still hadn’t heard from Rosalie Schneider. Her freshly laundered quilts sat folded on my dining room table. After breakfast I called her, only to have her answering machine pick up again. Had she gone away for the weekend and forgotten she left her quilts hanging on the line? To my knowledge she’d never exhibited any lapses of memory, but she was pushing eighty-five.

  I decided to check to see if her car was parked in front of her house or in her garage, but I took the long way around the block rather than trudging through both soggy backyards.

  In its wake, the storm had left a crisp breeze, enormous puddles, and a multitude of fallen branches throughout the neighborhood. Luckily, my property had sustained no damage, only a yard full of debris to clean up. Given my precarious finances, the last thing I needed was a huge repair bill. As I walked down the street, I realized some of my neighbors hadn’t faired as well. An uprooted tree leaned against the roof of one house on the next block. Another tree had crushed two cars parked on the street.

  When I arrived at Rosalie’s house, I found her car parked in her driveway. I tried both her doors, ringing the front doorbell and knocking on the back door. Once again no one answered. However, this time I heard the television blaring from her living room. A sense of foreboding shuddered through my body. Ignoring the backyard muck, I kicked off my shoes, and raced home to phone the police.

  “9-1-1. State your emergency.”

  I quickly explained the reason for my call and rattled off Rosalie’s address. “She’s quite elderly. You need to send someone right away.”

  “Are you certain she’s in the house, ma’am? Did you see her lying on the floor?”

  “No, but—”

  “Many people leave their televisions on to fool would-be burglars into thinking someone is home. It’s also possibly she just didn’t hear you. She may have been in the bathroom.”

  “Or she’s injured and can’t get to the door.”

  “I’ll dispatch an officer as soon as possible, ma’am, but it will take time.”

  “Are you kidding me? A woman could be dying.”

  “No officers are available right now. Have you seen what’s going on in town? We’ve got ruptured gas mains and downed power lines all over the place.”

  “And an elderly woman who may be in need of medical attention.”

  “You might want to see if any neighbors have a key to her house. Or get in touch with one of her relatives.”

  If Rosalie were going to give anyone a key to her home, I was the candidate-of-choice. Since I didn’t have a key, I knew no one would. Rosalie didn’t get along with either of her next-door neighbors. She and I had bonded over crafts when I
moved into my house years ago and one day spied her quilts flapping in the breeze.

  As for relatives, as far as I knew, there was only a niece living somewhere in the Midwest. Rosalie mentioned her once years ago when I asked about her family. Then she abruptly changed the subject.

  “Just get someone there as soon as possible, please.” With that I hung up. Maybe I was panicking over nothing, but my gut told me something was seriously wrong, and I needed to do something.

  After pocketing my cell phone, I headed down the basement to grab a hammer and screwdriver. Then without bothering to wash the grass and mud from my feet, I stepped into my Wellingtons, traipsed back across the soggy yard, and squeezed through the azalea hedge.

  Once at Rosalie’s back door, I tried to jimmy the screwdriver in-between the door and the jamb, hoping I could pop the lock. When that didn’t work, I looked around for some other way to get into the house.

  The kitchen window seemed the likeliest candidate. If I could get enough leverage by standing on Rosalie’s picnic table, I might be able to jimmy it open and climb through. If not, I’d have to resort to breaking the glass with the hammer.

  Moving the picnic table proved extremely difficult. One of those old redwood varieties popular back in the middle of the last century, it weighed a ton. Pushing and pulling no more than an inch or two with each shove, I finally maneuvered it under the window. My arms and legs shook from the exertion, but I couldn’t take time to recover. I grabbed the screwdriver, and climbed onto the table.

  Much to my surprise, the window was unlocked. I slid the pane open, and attempted to hoist myself up, not an easy task, given my disdain for any form of strenuous physical exercise, a fact made obvious by my slightly overweight, pear-shaped body. On my third attempt I gained enough purchase to swing one leg through the window—right into a sink of dirty dishes.

  At that moment I knew something was definitely wrong with Rosalie Schneider. An obsessive-compulsive neat freak, she’d never leave a single dirty dish unwashed for longer than five minutes.

  I scrambled out of the sink and grabbed a dishtowel to wipe down my boots. Rosalie would have a fit if I left footprints of mud and mashed potatoes all over her pristine hardwood floors.