Patchwork Peril (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  “Is it me or the results of the accident?”

  “I’ve wondered about that.”

  “Any conclusions?”

  “I think it may be a combination of both.”

  “Why is she so hostile toward me? I’ve gone out of my way to come here. I hardly knew anything about her before the hospital called me last week. I didn’t even know she was still alive.”

  “What did you know?”

  “Just that she was jealous of my mother and tried to break up my parents’ marriage. They moved halfway across the country to get away from her.”

  I poured two cups of coffee, handed Jane one, and took the seat opposite her. “Rosalie tells a quite different story. She claims she was married to your father and caught him having sex with your mother.”

  Jane froze, her coffee cup halfway to her mouth. Her features hardened. “She’s lying.”

  “She also said she never gave your father a divorce. Either he and your mother never married, or he was a bigamist.”

  “I don’t believe it. The woman’s delusional. My parents were honest, God-fearing people. They’d never do anything like that.”

  I shrugged. “Everyone has secrets. Maybe the truth lies somewhere in-between.”

  “Still, that’s no reason for her to hate me. I had nothing to do with what happened.”

  “No, but Rosalie was trying to get pregnant when she claims to have walked in on your parents. Not only did they betray her, they stole her chance to have a child of her own. I imagine when she looks at you, she sees the daughter she never had.”

  Jane frowned but said nothing.

  “Give her a chance,” I continued. “Once she’s fully recovered, the two of you might be able to forge a friendship. After all, neither of you has any other family.”

  “I’d like nothing better, but it’s up to her.”

  *

  Zack returned from his latest jaunt to find me on my hands and knees, scrubbing the kitchen floor. He looked like sex on a stick, even with his rumpled clothes and several days of stubble.

  If he ever traced his DNA, I’m betting we’d discover his genetic material cavorted in the same gene pool with that of Pierce Brosnan, Hugh Jackman, and Antonio Banderas. He’s that good-looking. What he sees in me with my slightly overweight, pear-shaped body, is something I’ll never understand, but I’m not complaining.

  However, putting aside the pear-shape and extra pounds, I currently looked like crap. And probably smelled worse. “You might want to keep your distance until I’ve had time to shower,” I said.

  He sized me up, then pulled me to my feet and into his arms. “Compared to where I’ve been? I’ll take my chances.”

  “And where might that be this time?”

  “Cameroon.”

  “Do I want to know what’s in Cameroon?”

  “Eisentraut’s Shrew.”

  Ralph, perched atop the refrigerator, flapped his wings and squawked. “Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported? The Taming of the Shrew. Act Four, Scene One.”

  Zack turned to Ralph. “Absolutely.”

  “We were discussing Cameroon, not Kate,” I said. Or was he referring to me? I decided ignorance was bliss. “No militants, terrorists, or drug warlords in Cameroon?”

  “Probably all three. But I was there for the shrews.”

  Of course he was. “What’s so special about Eisentraut’s Shrew?”

  “It’s endangered.”

  I’d Google that later. No matter how much he denies it, I still think Zack’s photojournalism is a cover for his work as a government operative.

  “Where is everyone?” he asked, changing the subject. “It’s far too quiet in this house.” Zack is very good at changing the subject whenever the subject is his work. Another reason I suspect he’s not who he says he is, no matter how many photo credits and bylines he’s amassed over the years.

  “The boys are on a school service project, and Lucille took off early this morning with her fellow revolutionaries.” I glanced at the clock. “So far I haven’t received a call from the police, so I suppose she’s staying out of trouble.”

  “Or hasn’t been caught yet.”

  “Another possibility.” And knowing Lucille, the more likely.

  “I think we should take advantage of the situation.”

  “What are you suggesting?”

  He twined his fingers with mine and led me through the dining room and living room, then down the hall toward my bedroom. However, instead of stopping at the bed, he continued into the bathroom. “You scrub my back, I’ll scrub yours,” he said.

  Hopefully, back was a euphemism for other parts of our anatomy.

  *

  Some time later my rumbling stomach interrupted the hazy bliss of our sated bodies. I untangled my limbs from Zack’s limbs and shifted to glance at the clock on my nightstand. Five-thirty. Nearly dinnertime. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  “Sounds like I need to take you to dinner,” said Zack.

  “I can whip up something here.” Or he could. Of the two of us, Zack was the gourmet cook.

  He swung his legs off the side of the bed, stood, and stretched. “Let’s go to Short Hills. I need to buy a birthday present for the twins. They turn three next week.”

  The twins, Mia and Chloe, belonged to Zack’s ex-wife Patricia and her second husband. Zack and Patricia married too young, realized their mistake almost immediately, and parted friends. When Patricia’s dormant maternal genes showed up a few years ago, she became a first-time mom in her early forties, and Zack became Uncle Zacky.

  *

  Twenty minutes later Zack maneuvered his silver Porshe Boxster around the winding curves of Watchung Reservation on our way to one of the most upscale malls in the country. Before Dead Louse of a Spouse had reduced me to pauperdom, I would occasionally splurge on an item at the Short Hills Mall. More often than not, though, I’d limit my shopping to Macy’s with the rare foray into Nordstrom or Bloomingdale’s. Even back then, when I was comfortably ensconced in the realm of the middleclass, I couldn’t afford to shop in most of the mall’s pricey designer boutiques.

  I’d been to the mall twice since Karl died. The first time was last winter when the police coerced me into taking part in an unsuccessful sting to flush out Ricardo the loan shark.

  A few months later I found myself back at the mall. Mama had wanted an appraisal for the engagement ring Lou Beaumont gave her prior to his murder. She walked into Tiffany & Co. flashing a diamond the size of Cleveland, never expecting the gemologist to take one look at the ring and sniff his disdain. Quintessential robin’s egg blue box not withstanding, Cleveland definitely didn’t come from Tiffany’s.

  Needless to say, I had less than fond memories of my last two trips to the mall.

  “Italian or seafood?” asked Zack as he pulled into the covered parking garage and began trolling for an empty spot.

  “Whichever has the shortest wait time. I’m famished.”

  “We have a reservation at both. I made them while you were dressing. I’ll cancel the one we don’t use.”

  I opted for Italian. Although I loved the food at Legal Sea Foods, I preferred Papa Razzi’s quieter ambiance for a romantic dinner for two.

  Zack nosed into a parking space and killed the engine. “Those two look like they bought out the mall,” he said, pointing to a couple of women one parking lane in front of us. They struggled to load dozens of shopping bags into the trunk of a car that looked suspiciously like Rosalie Schneider’s gray Ford Escort, given the Warning: I Brake for Quilt Shops sticker on the rear bumper.

  I placed my hand on Zack’s thigh. “Don’t get out of the car yet.”

  “Why? What’s the matter?”

  I waited until one of the women closed the trunk. Both still had several large shopping bags looped over their arms. And not just any shopping bags. These women hadn’t spent their money at Macy’s or even Bloomingdale’s. Their shopping bags contained the logos of Chanel, Dolce & Gabb
ana, Fendi, La Perla, and Henri Bendel. One of the women opened the door behind the driver’s seat, and placed the remainder of her bags on the back seat. When she turned slightly, and I caught a glimpse of her face. “Jane!”

  “Jane who?”

  Zack’s question barely registered. My mind raced. From what I’d seen of her wardrobe so far, Jane wore strictly designer labels. Given the way Rosalie was treating her, she certainly had the right to indulge herself in more than a little retail therapy while in New Jersey. I knew nothing about Omaha, but I suspected their malls didn’t rise to the level of Short Hills. Jane’s college friend—who else could the other woman be?—had introduced her to a shopper’s paradise for women with bulging bank accounts.

  My attention fixed on Jane’s companion, an exceedingly large woman. I studied her profile as she lumbered around the car to deposit the rest of her bags behind the passenger seat. Why did she look so familiar? I wracked my brain, trying to place her. Then it hit me. The octagonal red-framed glasses. The frizzy orange hair. “Oh my god!”

  SIX

  “What?” asked Zack.

  I ignored him, trying to wrap my mind around the implications of my discovery: Jane’s companion was the hospital emergency room desk clerk. The one with a name that mocked her body: Willow Something.

  I watched as both women settled into the front seat of Rosalie’s car. Jane started the engine, then backed out of the parking space and headed for the exit ramp. “This makes no sense,” I muttered.

  “Damn right,” said Zack. “What’s going on?”

  I opened my door. Before stepping out of the car, I said, “Long story. I’ll explain over dinner.”

  After we had settled into a booth at the restaurant and placed our orders, I told Zack how I’d discovered Rosalie unconscious at the bottom of her basement stairs. “The hospital contacted her niece. She flew in from Omaha to care for Rosalie during her recovery, but Rosalie has been very suspicious of Jane’s motives. At first I chalked up Rosalie’s paranoia to her head injury and meds, but now I’m beginning to wonder.”

  Logically, I could see where Willow wouldn’t tell me that she knew Jane. After all, it was none of my business. “I realize hospital personnel are required to adhere to patient confidentiality laws, but don’t you think it’s odd Jane never mentioned that her college friend works at the hospital that treated Rosalie?”

  The waiter returned with the bottle of sauvignon blanc Zack had ordered. We waited for him to uncork the wine and pour two glasses. Once he departed, Zack asked, “Rosalie never met Jane prior to her fall?”

  “No.” I explained the melodramatic family history that resulted in Rosalie’s parents moving to Omaha. “Who knows which version of the story is the truth, Rosalie’s or Jane’s? But according to Jane, she didn’t even know Rosalie was still alive until the hospital contacted her.”

  Zack reached into his pocket and pulled out his iPhone. “What’s Jane’s last name?”

  “Sherman.”

  “What else do you know about her?”

  “Not much. She’s single and has lived in Omaha her entire life.”

  Zack began to tap the screen of his phone. “What does she do for a living?”

  “Some sort of financial work where she isn’t tied down to an office. She said as long as she has her laptop, she’s able to work anywhere.”

  Zack continued to tap. “Anything else?”

  “Her parents are dead. No siblings. Rosalie is her only living relative.”

  He stopped tapping, studied his phone, and frowned as he began scrolling. The more he scrolled, the deeper the frown lines grew on either side of his mouth and across his forehead. Finally, he handed the phone to me. “This is the real Jane Sherman.”

  Zack had accessed Jane Sherman’s Facebook page. My jaw dropped as I stared at the image on the screen. The real Jane Sherman bore no resemblance to the doppelganger who’d moved into Rosalie’s home. “It’s a common name,” I said. “There could be more than one Jane Sherman in Omaha.”

  “Read through her profile and postings.”

  The information left no doubt. The real Jane Sherman was one of those clueless individuals who share far too many personal details of her life on social media. Everything the fake Jane had told me about herself was documented on the real Jane Sherman’s Facebook page, including the reason for her parents’ flight to Omaha. She described the aunt she’d never met as a jealous sociopath, bent on destroying the love between her mother and father.

  Slowly the pieces began to slip into place. “The hospital never contacted Rosalie’s niece. Jane and Willow are running a con.”

  “That’s my guess.”

  Rosalie wasn’t paranoid. She had every right to be suspicious of Jane because Jane wasn’t Jane. “The hospital gave Jane Rosalie’s purse. She had access to all of Rosalie’s credit cards.”

  “Which she’s obviously putting to good use, judging from the number of shopping bags those two crammed into the car.”

  “She also had plenty of time to go through Rosalie’s financial records before Rosalie was discharged from the hospital.” Instead of worrying about Jane pinching her quilts and knickknacks, Rosalie should have been concerned with Jane getting her hands on her bank accounts. “Should we call the police?”

  “Not yet. We need proof for the police to make arrests. Jane—or whoever she is—can easily claim that Rosalie gave her the credit cards to use. And gifted her with anything else she’s stolen.”

  “Rosalie would never do that.”

  “Where’s your proof? It’s Jane’s word against the word of a medicated woman recovering from head trauma. We also don’t want to tip those two off and have them move on to their next victim.”

  “You think they’ve done this before?”

  “Undoubtedly. My guess is they’re grifters, moving around the country, repeatedly pulling off this con. I bet the one who works at the hospital is a fairly new hire. She bides her time, waiting for the admittance of an elderly patient with no family in the area. Then they set their scheme in motion and disappear once they’ve wiped out their unsuspecting mark. By the time anyone’s the wiser, they’re long gone.”

  A two-ton boulder settled in the pit of my stomach. “And I played right into their hands by telling Willow about Rosalie’s niece.”

  Zack reached across the table and clasped my hand in his. “Don’t beat yourself up. She probably accessed Rosalie’s records the moment the ambulance wheeled her into Emergency. You didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know or wouldn’t find out soon enough on her own.”

  I wondered how a photojournalist who spends his days tracking down endangered shrews knew about the modus operandi of grifters, but I didn’t ask. There are things about Zack I’ve decided are best filed under the Ignorance is Bliss category. I already have plenty of worries keeping me awake at night.

  The waiter arrived with our dinners. Over platters of Salmone al Forno for me and Gamberi alla Brace for Zack, we began formulating a plan to uncover the proof we’d need to present to the police.

  Before heading home, we made a quick stop at Pottery Barn Kids where Zack bought Mia and Chloe a dollhouse expensive enough to qualify for a mortgage.

  *

  The next morning I called Rosalie to invite her to a quilt show in Sussex County. Jane answered the phone. “I’m sure she’d love to go, but how will she get around? She can’t walk more than a short distance with her casts.”

  “I have a wheelchair we can use.” Karl had purchased one for Lucille after the accident that brought her to live with us. Given that Karl had set the accident in motion, it was the least he could do. I learned of the circumstances surrounding the hit-and-run that nearly killed his mother shortly after his death. I’ll take that secret to my grave, not that Lucille would believe me if I told her the truth.

  I gave Zack the thumbs-up. “I just hope she doesn’t freak when we tell her what’s going on.”

  “Since she already has susp
icions about Jane, knowing Rosalie, she’ll say, ‘I told you so.’”

  Zack brought the wheelchair up from the basement. After giving it a thorough cleaning, he loaded it into the trunk of my car. Then I drove around the corner to pick up Rosalie.

  “Have a nice time,” said Jane, holding the front door open as I maneuvered the wheelchair through the opening.

  “Don’t expect us back until dinnertime,” I said. “What will you do with an entire day to yourself?”

  She nodded over to where her laptop sat on the dining room table. “I plan to catch up on some work.”

  “Have a productive day,” I said.

  She smiled. “I will.”

  I’ll bet.

  As I settled Rosalie into the front passenger seat of my car, she asked, “When did you and Jane arrange this outing?”

  “I called half an hour ago.”

  “Odd that I didn’t hear the phone ring.”

  “Maybe you were in the bathroom at the time.” I placed the wheelchair in the trunk, then settled behind the wheel. After driving around the block, I pulled into my driveway.

  “Did you forget something?” she asked.

  I shifted in my seat to face her. “There is no quilt show, Rosalie.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Come inside. We need to discuss something.”

  “Is this about Jane?”

  I nodded.

  “Whatever you have to say in her defense, you can save your breath. That woman is up to something. I know it.”

  “And you’re absolutely right. I’m sorry I doubted you.”

  Rosalie’s mouth dropped open. “You believe me?”

  “I do.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  “My trip to the mall last night.”

  Her brow furrowed as she puzzled through my statement. Then she said, “I don’t care if you took a trip to Jupiter as long as you finally realize I’m not crazy.”

  “I never thought you were crazy, Rosalie.”

  “Bull hockey! I could see it in your eyes. You thought I was developing dementia.”

  When I didn’t deny the accusation, she asked, “What happened at the mall to make you change your mind?”