A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5)

by Lois Winston

  Before Karl died, I used the apartment above our garage as a studio. Once I realized that he’d gambled away all our savings, taken out a second mortgage on the house, failed to pay our taxes, and maxed out our credit cards (the trusting wife really is always the last to know,) I was forced to rent out the apartment for added income. Renting out the apartment did bring Zack into my life. However, it also meant moving my studio down to my unfinished, drafty, poorly lit basement.

  I ushered Spader over to the desk and fired up my laptop to access the camera footage. Only there was no footage. “I don’t understand,” I said, staring at a blank screen.

  Spader grunted. “I’m not surprised. We’re dealing with a pro. Your neighbors’ cameras were also disabled.”

  “Are you telling me this guy went up to every house on the block that has security cameras and disabled all of them without anyone noticing him?”

  Spader shook his head. “He most likely did it remotely ahead of time.”

  “By hacking into the systems?”

  “Exactly. It’s not that hard, especially since most people don’t bother to reset the password supplied by the manufacturer. The makers of these devices even post the universal password on their websites.”

  “But I did reset my password.” Not only had Zack insisted on it, he’d made me change all my passwords to extremely complex ones that included upper and lower case letters, numbers, and symbols to increase my computer security—a different password for each site that required one.

  “There are plenty of hacking programs available on the Internet,” said Spader. “You just have to know where to look.”

  So much for security cameras—or any other form of security for that matter.

  “Was anyone home here during the day?” asked Spader.

  There was only one person who might have seen or heard something relevant to the case earlier that day. “Your favorite person,” I said.

  “You don’t mean—”

  “My motherin-law.”

  Spader groaned.

  We headed back upstairs and into the dining room. Lucille sat hunched over her plate, shoveling Kung Po chicken into her mouth. Spader planted himself alongside her chair. “Mrs. Pollack, I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Lucille continued shoveling and chewing, giving no indication that she’d heard him, let alone acknowledging his presence. Spader turned to me for assistance.

  “Lucille,” I said, “the detective needs to speak with you.”

  Around a mouthful of food she finally said, “I have nothing to say to that man.”

  Given Lucille’s history with Spader, neither he nor I should have expected her to cooperate. “Mrs. Bentworth was murdered sometime this morning or afternoon,” I said. “I’m sure the detective simply wants to know if you noticed anything out of the ordinary during the day. Isn’t that right, Detective?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So he can blame me, no doubt. Like last time.”

  Spader heaved a sigh. “No, ma’am. It’s like your daughter-in-law said. I just want to know if you heard or saw anything unusual earlier today. An unfamiliar car parked in the neighborhood, a stranger lurking on the sidewalk, maybe.”

  “Never heard of anyone named Bentworth.”

  “She lives—lived—directly across the street,” I said.

  “So? Doesn’t mean I ever met her.” Lucille finally raised her head and glared at the detective. “I was out all day. I heard nothing; I saw nothing.”

  “If you do happen to remember anything—”

  “I won’t.”

  “Even if she did, she wouldn’t tell you,” said Mama who had remained uncommonly silent until this point. “You know how those Bolsheviks are.”

  Lawrence placed his hand on Mama’s shoulder. “Flora, perhaps you should stay out of this. You’re not helping.”

  She brushed his hand away. “I have a right to my opinion.”

  “I doubt the detective is interested in your opinion of Lucille’s character.”

  In shock, Mama’s mouth dropped open and tears sprang to her eyes. She pushed her plate aside, rose to her feet, and began to walk away from the table.

  “Flora, come back,” said Lawrence.

  “Mama, please.”

  She stopped and pivoted back toward the dining room. In a quivering voice she asked, “How could you, Lawrence?”

  “How could I what? Sit down and finish your dinner.”

  “I’ve lost my appetite. For both the food and you. See if you get any tonight.”

  “Mama!”

  “Slut,” said Lucille.

  My sons bit down on their lips to avoid the guffaws threatening to erupt from their throats. They failed miserably. Nick, having just taken a sip of water, wound up spewing it across the table. His brother nearly gagged on a piece of pork. Even Spader found it hard to keep a straight face.

  A moment later we heard a door slam. Mama had probably locked herself in the bathroom to sulk. Lawrence turned to me. “See? Talking to her only makes matters worse.”

  Was he blaming me? “I can’t win,” I muttered.

  With the intensity of someone hooked on soap operas, Spader had observed the scene playing out before him, his gaze moving from one player to the next. Then again, I suppose to an outsider my life out-soaped most soap operas. He cleared his throat. “I guess I’ll be going now.”

  “About time,” said Lucille.

  I rose to walk him to the door, but he waved me back into my seat. “Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”

  *

  Murder triggers insomnia in me. Ever since I’d walked into my cubicle nearly a year ago to discover the dead body of fashion editor Marlys Vandenburg glued to my desk chair, I’ve spent many a sleepless night trying to figure out whodunit and keep my family and me from becoming the killers’ next victims.

  I pounded my pillow into submission, trying to work off my anxiety and fear. It didn’t help. I wished Zack were here. As much as I profess I can’t ever again allow myself to rely on a man, all I really wanted at the moment was to have Zachary Barnes wrap his protective arms around me and whisper that everything would be all right. Pathetic!

  My sleep-deprived state then transferred my anger to Zack. He picked a fine time to fly off to Greece or wherever he really was, doing who-knows-what for who-knows-which alphabet agency in the guise of taking pictures of what may or may not be the tomb of Alexander the Great’s mother. The woman had been dead for over two millennia. Another woman, one who was alive this morning, had been murdered across the street from me. A coldblooded killer was on the loose. Damn Zack! He needed to get his priorities straight.

  But then I remembered Zack knew nothing about Betty’s murder. How could he? I pulled the quilts over my head and laughed hysterically at my own irrationality. Lack of sleep was definitely taking a toll on my higher brain functions.

  I flung back the quilts and shoved my arms into my flannel robe and my feet into my fleece-lined slippers. Then, as I had every hour since first settling into bed, I once more quietly padded my way through the house, checking the locks on every door and window and making certain the alarm was activated. Returning to my bed, I resumed my tossing and turning.

  I never had to deal with killers before my not-so-dearly-departed husband dropped dead in Las Vegas, saddling me with both debt equal to the GNP of Uzbekistan and his curmudgeon of a mother. You’d think that would be enough crap for one person to juggle. But no, I now have to contend with stumbling over a constant queue of dead bodies. Maybe one had nothing to do with the other, but really, how many murders does the average middle-aged suburban mom come across in a lifetime, let alone in less than a year? Can this really be coincidence?

  Workplace murders are bad enough, but this time a killer had struck right across the street from my home. I doubted I’d sleep another night until the cops nabbed the guy and the justice system locked him away for life—with no chance of parole. Ever.

  Cynthi
a’s death I could understand. People hooked on drugs often overdose. Maybe Pablo panicked and dumped her body in the canal. Maybe she wound up in the canal under other circumstances, but according to the police, she’d died of an overdose. Cocaine hadn’t ended Betty Bentworth’s life; an assassin’s bullet had killed her. But why?

  And why would someone who had taken such pains to enter Betty’s home surreptitiously, leave her front door wide open? Given that everyone steered clear of Betty, months might have passed before someone discovered her body. Unless the killer wanted her body discovered. But that made even less sense than the murder itself.

  Betty’s mean streak almost made my motherin-law look like Mary Sunshine. At least Lucille didn’t constantly phone the police, trying to have our neighbors arrested on specious offenses. People loathed Betty. And with good reason. So maybe one of our neighbors had reached his limit. However, I’d learned enough about murder to know that when a person like Betty is killed, it’s usually over some disagreement and in the heat of the moment, not an obviously planned, assassination-style execution.

  As I continued to toss and turn, I kept falling back on the supposition that Betty witnessed something she wasn’t supposed to see and was eliminated for that reason. But what could she possibly have witnessed on our quiet little street or during one of her weekly trips to church or the supermarket? Betty rarely left her home for any other reason.

  Because Westfield lies along the main corridor between Plainfield and Elizabeth, the police routinely pull over suspect vehicles containing drug-running gang members. However, other than the occasional drug bust, we’re a relatively crime-free town compared to many others in the area.

  I rolled over to check the time on my nightstand clock. Two-thirty. Tossing back the quilts once more, I shoved my feet into my slippers and grabbed my robe for the fourth—or was it fifth?—time that night. Since I couldn’t sleep, I decided I might as well work on my presentation for Monday.

  I quietly tiptoed my way through the house, taking pains to keep from making any noise. A duet of unison snoring—one human, one canine—greeted me as I once again passed Lucille’s room. Good thing I wasn’t a burglar because Mephisto was certainly no watchdog. Each time I’d passed by the bedroom this evening his snore pattern remained steady.

  After arriving in the kitchen without so much as the sound of ruffling feathers from Ralph, I descended the basement stairs, collected my laptop, and returned upstairs. If I was going to be up all night working, I might as well do so in the comfort of my own bed, rather than in my dank dungeon of a workroom.

  I decided to make myself a cup of herbal tea before leaving the kitchen but didn’t want to tempt fate with the sound of the microwave. Instead I filled the teakettle, set it on the stove to heat, then grabbed the kettle off the burner just before it began to whistle. Computer in one hand, tea in the other, I returned to the warmth of my bedroom.

  Experts advise turning off computers, tablets, and e-readers two hours before bedtime to avoid sleep problems. Sound advice in theory but totally impractical for kids with homework or working moms. Besides, I was already wide-awake and had slim hope of falling asleep tonight. I might as well use the time productively.

  An hour later I’d finished my baby layette presentation and emailed it to myself at work. No sleepier, even after downing a ten-ounce cup of chamomile tea, I remained on the computer. A quick Internet search revealed little in the way of recent criminal activity in town. Other than a drunk-driving arrest and a group of teens caught smoking pot behind the high school field house, nothing of significance had happened in Westfield in the past two weeks. Neither seemed a likely catalyst for Betty’s murder.

  Three hours remained before I needed to get ready for work. I contemplated cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms but the activity would wake Ralph, and his squawking would wake everyone else, especially Mephisto. Having no desire to walk a dog in below-freezing temperatures at three-thirty in the morning, I decided to forego any cleaning and let sleeping animals snore.

  Instead, I searched online for any reference to Betty Bentworth, not that I expected to find anything of significance. Her television hailed from the last century. I doubted she owned a computer, much less had any sort of Internet presence. However, refining the search parameters, I might discover some information about her.

  After nearly two decades of living across the street from the woman, I knew nothing about her other than her name. And I wasn’t alone. To my knowledge none of my neighbors knew anything more than I did.

  A search of “Betty Bentworth” turned up nothing. The only “Elizabeth Bentworth” I found was a reference to a woman born sometime around 1781 and listed in an 1841 census in England. I then checked nicknames for Elizabeth—Bess, Bessie, Bette, Beth, Betsy, Liz, and Lizzie—as well as less common nicknames. When nothing of significance surfaced, I searched related named, checking out Lisa, Liza, Eliza, Elle, Elsa, Elsie, Elspeth, Libby, Liddy, Lise, and Lizbeth. I even tried odd spellings I found listed on one website.

  Zilch. Nada. I was just about to spend the remainder of the night playing computer solitaire when I stumbled upon a site that listed foreign forms of the name “Elizabeth.” With nothing to lose, I systematically worked my way down the list of countries, pairing each given name with “Bentworth.” When I typed “Belita,” a Spanish derivative of Elizabeth, into the browser, the results revealed a shocking news article.

  FIVE

  In 1965 Belita Acosta Bentworth was arrested in Sacramento, California for attempting to kill her three young children by poisoning them with lethal doses of salt. The justice system worked much more swiftly back then, and Belita was convicted four months later. She served twenty years in a federal prison before being released in August 1985. Could Betty Bentworth be Belita Acosta Bentworth? Her age certainly fit.

  I opened another window on my computer and typed Betty’s address into Zillow. Her house last sold in September 1985. I certainly couldn’t present this tenuous connection to Detective Spader. He’d accuse me of basing my suspicions on circumstantial evidence at best—or worse, mere coincidence. And he’d be right. I needed to dig deeper.

  As daybreak began to filter into the bedroom from between the slats of my wooden blinds, I wondered: if Betty really was Belita, had one of her kids tracked her down after all these years to exact some long overdue revenge?

  I glanced at the clock. Ten past six. Too early to call Detective Spader, even if I had more than speculation to offer him, but definitely time to power down my computer and start my day. Besides, before handing Spader my theory, I thought it best to check into the whereabouts of Belita’s children. Were they even still alive? I knew with every hour that slipped by, the likelihood of finding Betty’s killer grew slimmer. I didn’t want to waste precious investigating time by sending Spader off on a wild goose chase, should he take me seriously. I’d hunt down those geese myself and present him with a platter of foie gras, when and if I located them.

  *

  Trimedia, the parent company of the magazine where I work, has a strict policy against using company computers for non-work-related activities. Nita Holzer, otherwise known as the Human Resources Attendance Nazi, not only used to write us up if we arrived a minute late to work, she also monitored our computer usage. Get caught playing Candy Crush or watching YouTube videos on company time, and you risked receiving a pink slip.

  However, not too long ago I watched as the Morris County police escorted a handcuffed Nita Holzer and her Human Resources cohorts from the building. They currently await trial on multiple counts of embezzlement, conspiracy, theft by deception, and a variety of other charges the district attorney filed against them.

  The new Human Resources employees couldn’t care less about continuing Nita’s Gestapo spy tactics. They’re all too busy playing Candy Crush and watching YouTube videos. Couple that with the recent axing of our CEO, and working at American Woman has almost returned to the relaxed atmosphere we enjoyed before Trimedia’
s hostile takeover of our company. It also meant I could surf the Internet for information on Belita’s children without fear of losing my job.

  Upon arriving at work, I stopped first in the break room to grab a cup of coffee and snag one of two remaining blueberry pistachio muffins from the platter on the counter. Cloris keeps the break room stocked with goodies from her photo shoots and samples sent to her by vendors who want her to feature their products in our magazine. However, baked goods never last long around here. Arrive too late and you’re stuck with stale chips from the vending machine.

  Juggling coffee cup, muffin, purse, and tote, I headed down the corridor to my cubicle. As I slipped out of my coat, Cloris called from her cubicle across the hall. “Any more news on Cynthia’s death?”

  “No, but you’re not going to believe what happened last night.”

  “Good or bad?”

  An image of Betty Bentworth with a bullet hole in her head flashed before my eyes and sent a shiver skittering up and down my spine. “Bad. Really, really bad.”

  “Triple chocolate Crème de Cerise cupcake bad?”

  “Definitely.”

  A moment later she darted across the hall, a cupcake in each hand. “These are too good to leave in the break room,” she said, passing one to me. “I’m hoarding them for us.”

  Cloris’s superb baking skills coupled with my slowing metabolism and lack of willpower, were slowly turning me into a female version of the Pillsbury Doughboy, but only a constant sugar rush and massive amounts of caffeine would get me through today. Besides, in gastronomic heaven chocolate and cherries ran a close second to chocolate and raspberries. I placed the blueberry pistachio muffin on my desk for later and sank my teeth into unadulterated chocolate and cherry decadence.

  “Hmm. This almost makes me forget about murder,” I said around a mouthful of liqueur-soaked black cherries, fudgy cake, chocolate chips, and ganache frosting. “Did you bake these?”