Crewel Intentions (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery)

by Lois Winston

  He thought for a moment, scratching his cheek, then shook his head. “Ghana. For a year.”

  Erica patted his arm. “Have a nice trip.”

  “We do missionary work, me and the missus.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “He’ll wind up at the library,” said Erica after Mr. Buckwalter continued down the street. “He always does.”

  “He wanders around town on his own? Doesn’t anyone take care of him?”

  “His daughters stop by several times a day, bringing meals, doing his laundry, cleaning the house, driving him to doctor appointments. Beyond that, the entire town watches out for him, seeing that he gets home when he becomes confused and forgets where he lives. Since he no longer owns a car, he can’t go too far. His family doesn’t worry that he’ll wind up in Cleveland or Philadelphia.”

  We had arrived back at Erica’s house. At the edge of her walkway we both stopped short. A large white porcelain cache pot filled with pink tea roses sat on her top step.

  FOUR

  “He’s never left anything besides embroidery before,” said Erica, her voice barely audible.

  “Eldon might have dropped the flowers off earlier. When we saw him, he was coming from the direction of your house.”

  She pondered this for a moment. “I think you’re wrong about Eldon. Even if he does have a crush on me, he’s not a roses and embroidery kind of guy.”

  “What kind of guy is he?”

  “A geek. The kind who collects comic books and speaks Klingon. He’s spending his vacation this year at Dragon Con in Atlanta.”

  “Which means he lives in a fantasy world. I really think he’s your secret admirer, Erica.” The thought filled me with relief, edging out the dread that settled in the pit of my stomach whenever I considered the alternative—tangling with some of Joey Milano’s paid assassins.

  We made our way down the walk and climbed the four steps to the front porch. I stooped to pick up the small white florist’s envelope propped against the cachepot and handed it to Erica.

  Her fingers trembled as she opened the flap and slid out the card. Then she let loose a huge sigh of relief and began to laugh. “Definitely not Eldon.”

  I grabbed the card from her and read:

  Darling,

  I remembered you once said roses were your favorite flower. Rather than a bouquet, I thought you’d like to plant these in your garden so they’ll grow along with our love.

  Happy anniversary,

  Darren

  “Anniversary?”

  “We met three months ago today,” said Erica, a huge grin planted on her face. “I can’t believe he remembered!”

  Definitely a step up from Ricardo. That man didn’t have a thoughtful bone in his body. “He seems like quite a guy,” I said as we entered the house. Although I worried that Erica might be jumping into a relationship too soon, given that Ricardo had been her one and only boyfriend prior to Darren.

  “I can’t wait for you to meet him, Anastasia. I know you’ll love him.”

  Funny, I remember her saying something similar about Dicky AKA Ricardo. And look how that ended. But I bit my tongue and hoped for the best. After all she’d lived through, Erica deserved a heaping dose of good luck.

  However, I nixed meeting Darren. “Coming here once is dangerous, Erica. I can’t return, and you can’t visit me. What happens if you become Mrs. Darren What’s-His-Name?”

  “Applegate. Darren Applegate.”

  “Once he meets me, he’ll expect me at the wedding, not to mention various future family events. He’ll wonder why I never invite you to visit me. Why we never even talk on the phone. How are you going to explain that I’ve dropped off the face of the earth?”

  “But I already told him you were coming this weekend. He’s planning to take us both out to dinner tonight.”

  “That was foolish.”

  Her eyes welled up with tears. “You have no idea how lonely and depressed I get! I gave up so much. I miss you and Cloris and everyone else at work. And my cousins. Gina and I were like sisters, and I’ll never see her again.”

  She collapsed onto the sofa, buried her head in her hands, and bawled. I let her cry until she’d exhausted all her tears. “Why me?” she whispered as she rubbed her runny nose on her sleeve.

  I patted her shoulder. “I’ve asked myself that same question nearly every day since Karl died. And the only answer I can come up with is that no one ever guaranteed us life would be fair.”

  “At least you still have your sons and your mom. I have no one.”

  “For the weekend you have me, and if Darren is the keeper he seems, you’ll soon be part of a new family. One without mob connections.”

  “I hate my father,” she said.

  “I’m sure he’s not feeling too kindly toward you these days. That’s why we have to be careful. No more contact after this, Erica. I don’t want to be responsible for luring a hit man to your doorstep.”

  Her face filed with panic. “But what if we don’t figure out who the mystery rose guy is by the time you leave tomorrow? What if he really is someone my father or Dicky sent?”

  “And he’s doing what? Playing with you? That makes no sense. If someone from your past wanted you dead and he’d found you, you’d be dead already.”

  “That’s blunt.”

  “A fact is a fact. You’re a Mafia princess, Erica. You come from a family of contract killers. They don’t toy with their victims. They’d aim, shoot, and hightail it out of Oakmont before anyone knew what happened. Whoever your mystery man is, he’s someone not connected to your family.”

  “How can you be sure?”

  “Use your head. You grew up in the mob. You know how these guys operate.”

  She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”

  “I know I’m right. However, that doesn’t mean whoever this mystery man is, he’s not dangerous, just potentially a different kind of dangerous.”

  Although a mysterious suitor held an element of charm, the situation also might lead to Norman Bates type creepiness. If Erica rebuffed the man, would he turn psycho on her?

  “So what do we do now?”

  “We need to find out if there are other needlework shops relatively close to Oakmont.”

  Erica shrugged. “I don’t do needlework. If they exist, they’re off my radar.”

  “Where’s your computer?”

  She led me upstairs to a small bedroom she used as an office, then left to make us some lunch. I sat down at the desk, fired up her laptop and began a search, not expecting to find much. Most independent needlework shops folded years ago, forced out of business by the big box stores and the craft chains, many of which no longer carried much in the way of needlework supplies. Nowadays, about the only place to buy cross stitch, needlepoint, and embroidery products was online or through a few remaining mail order catalogs.

  The majority of hits that popped up from my Google search brought me to machine embroidery shops, the kind that personalize baseball caps, T-shirts, and tote bags. However, I did find a needlepoint shop located less than ten miles from Oakmont and two others more than an hour’s drive in opposite directions. Discounting those as too much of a stretch for a lovelorn stalker, I printed out directions to the first shop, then joined Erica in the kitchen.

  ***

  When we finished our lunch, we set off in Erica’s red Prius for Shadyside, a Pittsburgh neighborhood not far from the campuses of both Carnegie Mellon and the University of Pittsburgh.

  I remembered Erica driving a gas-guzzling Cadillac and wondered if that car had belonged to her father. Not to stereotype, but I didn’t think many Caddie drivers cared enough about the environment to trade their wheels in for a hybrid. However, given Erica’s earlier breakdown, I decided against bringing up the subject.

  “This is where I met Darren,” she said as we drove past the University of Pittsburgh. “He’s an admissions counselor at Pitt.”

  A definite improvement over a Mafia loa
n shark. I was beginning to feel better and better about Darren Applegate. “Are you taking courses?”

  “I’m auditing a few classes to see if I want to go back to school. With all the government cutbacks, who knows how long I’ll have a job at the library?”

  “Given the uncertainty of your job, I’m surprised you bought a house and put so much into renovations. Not to mention bribing me with three thousand dollars to help you find your stalker.”

  Erica came to a stop at a red light and turned to face me. “The job isn’t about money, Anastasia. I have more money than I’ll ever need.”

  I stared at her, waiting for an explanation. Finally, she grinned, then said. “Remember that scene in The Sopranos when Carmella helped herself to some of Tony’s stash, then opened up accounts in her name at several banks?”

  “Weren’t you a little young for The Sopranos?”

  “I caught the show in reruns.”

  “Are you telling me you stole from your father?”

  “Damn right. A hell of a lot more than Carmella took from Tony, too.”

  “I’m betting WitSec doesn’t know.”

  “Of course not. You think I’m crazy?”

  Yes, I did, but I kept my mouth shut. Joey Milano had more than one reason for wanting his daughter dead. I’m guessing from Erica’s more money than I’ll ever need comment, he probably had at least a million reasons.

  Even though I doubted her stalker had any connection to Ricardo or her father, Joey had probably put a hit out on Erica the moment he discovered both his money and his daughter missing. Hopefully, his gun-toting muscle men would never find their way to Oakmont, Pennsylvania.

  Two minutes later, Erica pulled into a parking space on Walnut Street, Shadyside’s upscale commercial district. “The shop should be somewhere on the next block,” she said.

  We exited the car and began walking. In the middle of the next block we found Needle Me, a needlepoint shop featuring hand-painted canvases and a finishing service.

  Upon entering the store, I glanced around. Needlepoint canvases, both stitched and unstitched, covered most of the walls to my left and right. A framed needlepoint sign hanging on the back wall behind the counter advised of a custom design service specializing in needlepoint portraits of your home or pets.

  A second framed needlepoint sign listed the prices for various forms of finishing. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head as I read. Finishing a needlepoint dollhouse carpet cost eighty-five dollars! And that didn’t include the price of the needlepoint canvas or yarn.

  Maybe I should quit my editorial job and open a needlepoint shop. A glance at the canvas prices told me I should at least consider exploring the possibility of selling hand-painted canvases.

  Unlike the women in Oakmont, the two saleswomen working in this shop ignored us as we walked around. Both were too busy waiting on paying customers eager to hand over their gold cards for hundreds of dollars worth of canvas and yarn.

  “I don’t see anything similar to my pieces,” said Erica as we studied the merchandise.

  “I didn’t expect to.”

  “Then why are we here?”

  Before I could answer her, a salesperson finally approached us. “May I help you?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I collect old embroidery pieces. Would you know where I might find some?”

  “This is a needlepoint shop,” she said. “We don’t handle embroidery.”

  “I see that, but I thought you might know—”

  She waved in the direction of the front door. “You can try a few of the antique shops in the area.” Then she abruptly walked away to wait on another customer.

  “Rude, wasn’t she?” asked Erica after we exited the shop. “She should only know who my father is.”

  “Erica!”

  “Just kidding.” She laughed. “You should see the look on your face.”

  “You should remember who you are now and not breathe a word about your past. Especially in public.”

  She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

  She rooted in her purse for her iPhone and searched for the location of antiques shops in Shadyside. “I found five. Two on Walnut and three on a couple of the side streets.”

  We headed for the closest one.

  ***

  An unsuccessful hour and a half later, after stopping in a café for lattes, we settled into the car to head back to Erica’s house. One of the shops sold antique samplers stitched by schoolgirls in the nineteenth century. The rest had no needlework at all, and the shop owners knew of no one with a penchant for embroidering roses.

  We arrived back in Oakmont to find two people sitting in a black Range Rover with New York plates, parked directly across the street from Erica’s house.

  FIVE

  Erica noticed the car first. After a short gasp, she continued to drive down the street instead of pulling into her driveway. Neither of us turned to look at the occupants in the Range Rover, but after we passed them, Erica glanced up at her rearview mirror.

  “Do you recognize them?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “Hard to tell. Two men. They’re both wearing sunglasses and ball caps.”

  “Would your father’s goons be stupid enough to show up in a car with New York license plates?”

  “Who knows? I’m not taking any chances. We’ll park on the next block, cut through my neighbor’s property, and enter my house through the back door.”

  “Has this happened before?” I asked as we darted through the yard of the house that backed up onto her property.

  “No.”

  Her answer scared the crap out of me. Erica had called me on a burner phone, but what if someone had bugged my phone and intercepted her call?

  Ricardo had confessed, sparing me the need to testify in court. He then ratted out Erica’s father, hoping for a reduced sentence, but the prosecutor refused to cut him a deal. I guess he had more than enough evidence on Joey Milano from his daughter.

  With Ricardo behind bars, I hadn’t worried about my own safety. No one suggested otherwise or offered the option of Witness Protection to me. But what if Joey Milano had been keeping tabs on me all along, hoping I’d eventually lead him to Erica? Which I may have done by agreeing to come here. “You need to contact your WitSec handler at once,” I said.

  “I can’t. I’ll lose Darren.”

  “You’re going to lose a lot more than a boyfriend if you don’t.” And what about me? If the guys in the Range Rover planned to carry out a hit on Erica, they weren’t going to leave me around as a witness.

  “Grab a change of clothes,” I said after she unlocked the back door and we slipped into the house. “We’re not staying here.”

  “Where will we go?”

  “A hotel for now.”

  She raced upstairs.

  “Don’t turn on any lights, and keep away from the windows,” I called after her.

  My overnight bag still sat at the foot of the stairs. I grabbed the strap and positioned myself off to the side of the living room window, giving me a view of the street without risk of being seen by anyone outside.

  The minutes ticked by. What was taking her so long? “Hurry up!” I yelled. My life was flashing before my eyes, and I didn’t like the ending.

  “I am!”

  A minute later I heard the toilet flush. Finally, she ran back downstairs, a gym bag looped over her shoulder—just as a blue minivan pulled into the driveway of the house across the street.

  The two men stepped from the Range Rover. One appeared to be in his forties, the other in his seventies. Neither carried a gun. They headed for the minivan as the side door slid open. Two young boys jumped out and raced into the men’s arms.

  “False alarm.” I slid down the wall and collapsed onto the floor. Maybe by next Tuesday, if I were lucky, my blood pressure would return from the stratosphere.

  Erica stared out the window at the happy family reunion. “I need a drink.”

  “Make mine a triple.”<
br />
  After a few drinks, Erica and I calmed down sufficiently not to arouse any suspicions regarding our harrowing, non-life-threatening escapade. Still, I’d feel much safer once my plane departed from the Pittsburgh airport the next evening, even though, once back in New Jersey, I now needed to make sure no electronic bugs lurked in either my house or my office. The thought of Joey Milano or one of his goons eavesdropping on my life left me totally freaked out. Been there, done that. And once had been one time too many.

  ***

  Erica’s doorbell rang at six-thirty. She ran to the door and swung it open. “Darren—” In a split second her voice shifted from excited to horrified. “Where did you get those?”

  As he stepped into the living room, I saw what had rattled her. In his hands he held a pale pink envelope and a small package wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a pink ribbon.

  “They were sitting at your door,” he said. He leaned over to peck her cheek. “Do I have competition?”

  Erica recovered quickly, snatching the package and envelope from him. She forced a laugh. “Of course not. I forgot. They’re from my next door neighbor. I guess she left them while we were in the backyard earlier.”

  “Why is your next door neighbor leaving you gifts?”

  “It’s…uhm…a…a thank-you for some research I did for her at the library. For her mother. For a nursing home. She needs to find a nursing home for her mother.”

  Poor Erica. She’d stroke out if we didn’t unmask her love-struck mystery man before I left tomorrow. I needed to set a trap to catch Eldon in the act.

  Right now, though, I knew I’d better empty my brain of anything remotely connected to love-struck geeks, stalkers, and mob hit men until after my dinner with Erica and her boyfriend. I had an evening of lies ahead of me, thanks to Erica, and needed to concentrate on not screwing up.