by Lois Winston
Acclaim for 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
Acclaim for 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
Acclaim for 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
Crewel Intentions
An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery
by Lois Winston
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
Revenge of the Crafty Corpse
Mosaic Mayhem
Top Ten Reasons Your Novel Is Rejected
Once Upon a Romance
Writing as Emma Carlyle
Hooking Mr. Right
Finding Hope
Four Uncles and a Wedding
Lost in Manhattan
Someone to Watch Over Me
Crewel Intentions copyright 2012 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 Scott Winston
ONE
“Anastasia, I need your help.”
I recognized the voice at once. “Erica? You shouldn’t be calling me.”
“I had to. I don’t know where else to turn.”
“Hold on.” I poked my head out of my cubicle and found the hall empty. Quickly I darted down the corridor to the models’ closet, a walk-in storage area where I kept arts and crafts supplies and models from past magazine issues.
Once inside, with the door closed and keeping my voice to a whisper, I said, “Are you crazy? You’ll get kicked out of the program.” Although I had gleaned my knowledge of WitSec one hundred percent from a now-canceled TV show, I assumed breaking the No Contact With Anyone From Your Past rule was definitely grounds for expulsion.
“I’ve taken precautions.”
“What kind of precautions?”
“I’m on a burner phone. No one will know.”
Erica Milano, former American Woman fashion editor and daughter of crime boss Joey Milano, now lived under an assumed name in an undisclosed city, compliments of Witness Protection. Several months ago, she’d provided a federal prosecutor with evidence against her ex-boyfriend after he tried to kill me. Attempted murder was only one of the many crimes that permanently relocated Ricardo to a federally run establishment with bars on the windows and razor wire landscaping.
In addition, Joey Milano now awaited trial on m
ore than two dozen counts. Thanks to Erica, the feds had enough information to cripple her father’s organization and put him in standard-issue neon-orange jumpsuits for the rest of his life—unless his goons got to her before she testified against him.
“I really shouldn’t be talking to you, Erica. For your safety and my own.” This call not only put her in jeopardy, but might also lead to a couple of Neanderthals with baseball bats showing up at my front door. And they wouldn’t be asking directions to Yankee Stadium.
She panicked, her voice trembling as she sniffed back tears. “P…please don’t hang up, Anastasia.”
I caved. After all, Erica had played a major role in saving my life. I owed her. “What’s going on?”
“I need to see you. Can we meet?”
“Is that such a good idea?”
“I’ll make sure no one finds out. You’re the only person I can trust.”
“What about the U.S. Marshals? Aren’t they supposed to protect you?”
“If I tell them what’s going on, they’ll relocate me.”
“So?”
“I can’t leave.”
“Why not?”
“I’ve met someone.”
Translation: I have a new boyfriend. “Won’t they relocate him with you?” Again, my source of knowledge was totally television-based.
“He wouldn’t be able to move with me.”
“Why not?”
“It’s complicated.”
Isn’t everything? I sighed. “I don’t think meeting with you is a good idea, Erica.”
“I’ll pay you.”
Bull’s eye. Erica knew all about Karl Pollack, my not-so-dearly departed husband, leaving me in debt that rivaled the gross national product of many a small third-world nation. Ricardo had been Karl’s bookie, a fact I learned only after Karl dropped dead at a roulette table in Las Vegas when I naively believed he was at a sales meeting in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. Since then, my life has been reduced to scrounging for whatever additional money I can earn to supplement my paltry craft editor’s salary.
“Three thousand dollars,” she added.
A sum much too large to pass up, even though I had no clue what she needed from me. Too many bill collectors had me on speed dial, and every day my sons inched closer to college. Right now I couldn’t even afford to send them to the local community college. Hoping I didn’t regret whatever I was about to dive blindly into, I said, “Okay, where do you want to meet?”
“First, swear you won’t tell anyone.”
Was she kidding? “Of course, I won’t tell anyone. You shouldn’t even be telling me where you are.”
A huge heave of relief made its way through the phone line. “Thank you. I knew I could depend on you. I sent you a plane ticket.”
“You were pretty sure of yourself. What if I turned you down?”
“I knew you wouldn’t.”
“And why is that?”
“I saved your life.”
My mind flashed on an image of Bing Crosby and Danny Kaye from White Christmas, my favorite holiday movie. Throughout the story, Danny Kaye’s character manipulates Bing Crosby’s character with the same argument. Visions of me plummeting into a similar, non-ending situation with Erica swam around in my head. Would I wind up running to her aid for years to come, risking my life each time she dangled a few thousand dollars in front of me? Probably. Thanks to Karl, I had little choice.
“And what happens once I arrive at this as yet undisclosed location?” I asked.
“I’ve arranged for a car service to pick you up at the airport.”
She hung up before I could say anything else. An hour later the mailroom sent up a FedEx envelope that had arrived for me. Inside I discovered a roundtrip ticket to Pittsburgh and a money order for three thousand dollars.
I stared at both in disbelief. Erica had me booked on a flight leaving out of Newark Liberty the following morning and returning Sunday night. A note indicated that a car service would pick me up at the crack of dawn to drive me to the airport.
***
Luckily, Mama had no plans for the weekend and agreed to stay with the boys. I wasn’t about to leave two teenagers alone for a couple of days. Not that I didn’t trust my sons, but temptation can invade the bodies and brains of even the best of kids. “Where are you going?” she asked.
Mama never met a secret she could keep. Unfortunately, I’m a lousy liar. I turned my back on her, pretending to sort through the mail so she didn’t see my face. “Atlanta.”
“What in heaven’s name for?”
“I’m meeting with a craft book publisher.”
“On a weekend? I hope Trimedia is paying you time and a half.”
Still keeping my back to her, I said, “It’s not for work. It’s freelance. And they were nice enough to agree to meet with me over the weekend so I wouldn’t have to take any vacation or sick days.” Not that I had any left to spare.
At least Erica took my work schedule into consideration when she booked the flights. Whatever the crisis, she seemed confident that I’d be able to solve it over a weekend. Unless she expected me to fly back and forth every weekend from now until she no longer needed my assistance in solving her unknown problem.
TWO
I arrived in Pittsburgh at nine o’clock Saturday morning. A dark-suited driver holding a sign reading Anastasia (no last name) waited on the other side of security. Since no other drivers held up signs with names remotely similar to mine, I figured Anastasia meant me. I introduced myself, then followed him to his car.
An hour later we drove past a sign that read Welcome to Oakmont. We continued for another half mile, making several turns, before he pulled up in front of a small yellow and white two-story clapboard house on a quiet, tree-lined street. Erica waited on the front porch.
At least I think Erica stood on the porch. The woman bore little resemblance to the plus-size, twenty-three-year-old I remembered. If her father’s goons had fanned out across the country in search of her, they’d never mistake this woman for Joey Milano’s daughter.
Erica had dropped at least thirty pounds and chopped off all but a few inches of her hair, which she’d dyed platinum and wore gelled and spiked. In addition, she’d traded her Donna Karan pantsuits for skinny jeans and a torso hugging Jon Bon Jovi lime green T-shirt that exposed several inches of flesh and a belly button ring.
I finally accepted this stranger as Erica when she ran down the porch steps, threw her arms around me, and started blubbering. “Thank you, thank you so much for coming. You’ve saved my life.”
I hope she didn’t mean that literally.
“So what’s going on?” I asked after she’d calmed down enough to tip the driver and escort me into the house.
“Leave that,” she said, indicating my carry-on. “I’ll show you to your room later. I made coffee and bought raspberry croissants. Let’s talk in the kitchen.”
I followed her through a small living room and dining room into a spotless kitchen. All the furnishings looked new. The kitchen appeared recently renovated with granite countertops, stainless-steel appliances, and polished hardwood floors. I thought of my own kitchen with its original circa nineteen-sixties chipped Formica countertops, builder’s grade laminated cabinets, and speckled linoleum. I had no idea Witness Protection paid so well.
“You have a lovely home,” I said as I took a seat at her glass-topped kitchen table.
She poured two cups of coffee and handed me one before taking the seat opposite me. “Thanks. The renovations took lots of elbow grease. You wouldn’t believe what this place looked like when I bought it, but I needed a project to keep my mind off everything that had happened.” She paused for a moment, her eyes growing misty as she struggled to continue. “All that I’d given up. My job. Family. Friends.”
“I’m sure the situation hasn’t been easy.” I reached across the table and placed my hand over hers. “It’s good to see you.”
Her face brightened, and she squeezed my han
d. “You, too.”
“What should I call you?”
“Erica.”
“Really? Isn’t that risky?”
“I’m now Erica Miller. WitSec suggests people entering the program keep their first names and the first initial of their last names.”
“Why is that?”
She shrugged. “Ease of remembering, I suppose.”
I guess I missed that bit of WitSec trivia from the TV show, but the explanation made sense. I couldn’t imagine the anxiety involved in Erica having to remember an entirely new back-story of her own life. What if she slipped up? Or forgot something? Keeping her first name provided her with a sense of familiarity and maybe a small amount of comfort.
I polished off a croissant, washing the pastry down with a sip of coffee, then helped myself to another croissant. The time had come to get down to the reason for my visit. “So what kind of trouble did you get yourself into, Erica Miller?”
“I’m being stalked.”
“What?!” I nearly choked on a mouthful of raspberry croissant. “Jeez, Erica! You need to tell your WitSec contact. What do you expect me to do?”
“I told you on the phone, if I tell WitSec, they’ll move me, and I can’t move.”
“Because your new boyfriend can’t move. I know. But you didn’t tell me why he can’t move.”
“Darren’s divorced. He shares custody of his kids with his ex-wife. WitSec would have to move all of them, and his ex would never agree to that. They’re not on the friendliest of terms. Besides, he doesn’t know I’m in the program. He can’t know. No one can.”
