Mosaic Mayhem (Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery)
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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
Mosaic Mayhem
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
Crewel Intentions
Revenge of the Crafty Corpse
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
Mosaic Mayhem copyright 2013 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
Dedication
to all of Anastasia’s fans
Acknowledgments
Special thanks to the real Elaine Naiman for her Malice Domestic auction donation which entitled her to be named as a character in this book.
Also, for their critiquing and editing skills, much appreciation and huge thanks to authors Donnell Bell and Irene Peterson.
ONE
Not again! I stared down the barrel of a big black bad-ass gun pointed at my chest. Ever since last winter when Karl Pollack, my not-so-dearly-departed husband, died suddenly, people have been trying to kill me. First, Karl’s loan shark. Then a crazy co-worker. Most recently, a hired assassin.
My name is Anastasia Pollack. I’m a debt-ridden, pear-shaped, middle-aged single mom, and crafts editor at a woman’s magazine. I’m also apparently a killer magnet, not only in my home state of New Jersey but also across the Atlantic Ocean in Spain.
Worst of all, unlike my three previous run-ins with killers, I had no idea who this guy was or why he wanted me dead. He apparently didn’t speak English, and my Spanish is limited to a few words and phrases picked up from watching Sesame Street years ago with my kids. My Catalan is non-existent.
So much for a quick getaway to Barcelona.
After the relief of finding that my passport hadn’t expired, I thought my biggest problem would be arranging extra care for my semi-invalid mother-in-law during my three-day absen
ce. Silly me.
I landed in this situation thanks to Zack. When Karl dropped dead, leaving me with debt that rivaled the gross national product of an average third-world country, I was forced to rent out the apartment over my garage and move my studio to my dingy, unheated basement. Little did I know at the time that my new tenant, award-winning photo-journalist and possible spy (although he vehemently denies the latter) Zachary Barnes, would segue from renter to lover.
Zack looks like his DNA cavorted in the gene pools of George Clooney, Pierce Brosnan, Patrick Dempsey, and Antonio Bandares. What he sees in me, I’ll never know, and yet here we are—a couple. I’m not complaining.
I’d spent most of the summer working a second job every weekend, and I was beyond exhausted. So when Zack invited me to tag along with him while he photographed architect Antoni Gaudi’s Parc Güell for a National Geographic spread, I cashed in some of my comp time and packed a bag.
We arrived in Barcelona early in the morning, dropped our luggage at a hotel off Plaça de Catalunya, and headed to the park, a fairytale inspired masterpiece that resembled a miniature city. While Zack took a meeting with the director in Torre Rosa, the park’s museum and former Gaudi home, I wandered the enchanting grounds and buildings, snapping photos of the whimsical Hansel and Gretel gatehouses, the Sala Hipostila marketplace with its multi-domed ceiling, and the main terrace, ringed with an intricately decorated serpentine bench—all embellished with Gaudi’s trademark mosaics. I planned to use the photos as part of a feature on mosaic art for a future issue of American Woman, the magazine where I worked.
Afterwards, I set off on one of the many trails weaving through nearly forty acres of steep hillside in order to enjoy some of the spectacular views of the city spread out below. I was in a secluded area with no one else around when a bear of a man with a short dark beard that did little to hide his acne scarred cheeks stepped from the wooded area onto the path in front of me. Like so many other men on the streets of Barcelona, he wore a red and gold soccer jersey, but unlike all the others, this guy accessorized his outfit with a deadly weapon.
A gasp froze in my throat.
He might as well have been speaking Swahili for all the good my Sesame Street Spanish did me. Zack had warned me that pickpockets trolled the streets of Barcelona, preying on hapless tourists. He hadn’t mentioned anything about armed gunmen, but common sense told me I was being robbed.
“Take it,” I said, dropping my handbag at his feet. But this was no robbery. He didn’t scoop up my bag and run. Instead, he grabbed both the bag and my arm.
With the gun jabbing me in the ribs, he wrapped his other arm tightly around my shoulders and forced me back down the path and across the courtyard filled with oblivious tourists who ignored me as I tried to make eye contact and silently mouthed, “Help me.”
As he led me through the main gates onto the street, several self-defense options came to mind—stamping my heel into his instep, twisting my body to knee him in the groin, screaming at the top of my lungs. Preferably all three at once. The gun barrel poking my midsection forced me to discount all of them, even after he marched me down a deserted alley, zip-tied my hands behind my back, placed a sack over my head, and shoved me into the back of a mud-spattered black panel truck.
Better alive and kidnapped than bleeding out on the street, I figured. But why me? I had no money, no political connections that might figure into the Catalan separatist movement. Had he wanted to rape or murder me, he could have pulled me into the woods back at the park. No one would have seen or heard anything. I don’t know whether it was intuition or past experience, but something told me I didn’t need to fear for my life.
After a bruise-inducing ride around sharp turns, the truck finally came to a stop a few minutes later. My abductor hauled me out and dragged me up a flight of steps into a building. When he yanked the sack off my head, I found myself standing in front of an ornately carved massive desk in a room reminiscent of a nineteenth century American robber baron’s library. Floor-to-ceiling stained glass windows filled the one wall not covered in floor-to-ceiling bookcases.
Behind the desk sat a man with a full head of silver hair and a matching goatee. Dressed in a charcoal gray three-piece pinstripe suit, he exuded a cultured, sophisticated air that reminded me of certain James Bond villains—until he smiled, showing off a mouthful of nicotine stained teeth. “Welcome, Señora.”
“Who are you, and what do you want?”
“Who I am is not important. What I want is the ransom your husband will pay to get you back unharmed.”
“You obviously have me confused with someone else. I don’t have a husband.”
He made a tsking sound with his tongue and shook his head in a gesture of disappointment. “There’s no sense lying to me, Señora Naiman. I know very well who you are. And I know your husband will pay handsomely to have you returned safely.”
“Would that be the no-good deadbeat who died last winter? Because that’s the only husband I’ve ever had, and his name wasn’t Naiman.”
Anger settled over his face. “Enough games!” He slammed his hand on the desk. “We will call your husband.”
“Good luck with that. Unless, of course, you have a direct line to hell.”
He reached for his phone, punched in a number, and pushed the speaker phone button.
“Hello?”
In a calm, controlled voice my captor said, “Señor Naiman, listen carefully. I am holding your wife. You will deposit one hundred million Euros into the Swiss bank account I’m texting to your phone to secure her safe return.”
“I don’t know who you are or what kind of scam you’re running, bub, but my wife is standing right beside me.” He then disconnected the call.
“Your husband has little regard for you welfare,” he said to me. “That is troubling. For you, especially.”
“That wasn’t my husband.”
“Señora Naiman, Elaine—”
“My name is not Elaine Naiman!”
He snapped his fingers and pointed to the bag my kidnapper still held.
When his goon deposited my handbag on the desk, he upended it to retrieve my passport. His mouth tightened and his eyes narrowed as he stared at the information. He slammed the passport onto his desk and launched into a rapid-fire Spanish tirade directed at the goon.
Goon Guy whipped out his phone, pointed to the screen, then pointed to me while he argued his case. His boss wasn’t buying it. He grabbed the phone and hurled it across the room, shattering a large porcelain urn—Renaissance era if I remembered my art history lessons. I cringed at the senseless destruction of such a valuable artifact. Then he pointed to the door and screamed something that I didn’t need translated. Goon Guy beat a hasty retreat.
My silver-haired captor placed the items spilled across his desk back into my handbag. “I am sorry for the misunderstanding, Señora Pollack. Juan will bring you back to Parc Güell.”
He rounded his desk and tucked my bag between my torso and my still bound arm, then exited the room. Juan the Goon reentered, placed the sack back over my head, and dragged me out the building, down the steps, and back into the van.
A few minutes later I once again walked through the entryway of Parc Güell, the red welts on my wrists the only evidence of my short but harrowing ordeal. I’ve lived through far worse. I parked myself outside the entrance of Torre Rosa and waited for Zack to finish his meeting.
In my experience, most guys are less than observant, but Zack zeroed in on my sore wrists the moment he stepped from the building. I should have kept my hands behind my back.
“What happened?” he asked.
Before I’d uttered more than two sentences, he whisked me into the museum office, quickly explained the situation to the director, then placed a call to the police. While we awaited their arrival, the director accessed an article from the London Times. “Take a look at this,” he said, pointing to a photo on his computer screen. “Definitely a striking resemblance.”
I scanned the article which detailed a charity auction held a week earlier. Mr. and Mrs. Michael Naiman had donated a Brancusi to an auction to raise funds for the removal of landmines in Somalia.
“If they have that kind of money, it certainly explains why someone is trying to kidnap her for ransom. Who are these people?”
“Michael Naiman owns Global Armament,” said Zack.
Why was I not surprised he knew of the man? “Is that as frightening as it sounds?”
“GA manufactures missiles and bombs.”
“Holy irony.”
“More so than you realize,” said the museum director. He turned to Zack. “That opening I invited you to this evening at the Museu Picasso?”
“What about it?”
“The paintings are from the Naimans’ private collection.”
“How much money does this guy have?” I asked.
“Rumors estimate his net worth as greater than that of Trump, Soros, and Buffet combined,” said Zack. “But they’re only rumors. No one knows for sure because the company isn’t publicly traded.”
“How come I’ve never heard of him?”
“People who make their money dealing in the tools of warfare usually keep a low profile.”
I rubbed my sore wrists. “Apparently, not low enough.”
When the police arrived, they confirmed that Mr. Naiman had received a phone call from a would-be kidnapper. With Zack acting as translator—who knew he spoke fluent Catalan?—the police asked if I’d be able to pick out my kidnappers from mug shots.
“Definitely.”
After the police escorted us to the station, I spent the next half hour flipping through mug shots until I found both men. As a trained artist, I’m used to noticing details. Each man had enough distinct facial features that I had no trouble identifying them. Juan Balaguer, AKA Goon Guy and Esteve Laporta AKA the older guy with the silver hair, goatee, and brown teeth.