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

by Lois Winston

  Spader cleared his throat before he spoke. “Turns out all three of Belita’s kids have ironclad alibis with plenty of corroborating witnesses to back them up.”

  “What about the grandchildren? What about Trey?”

  “Trey was testifying at a court martial for a deserter at the time of the murder.”

  “Alibis and witnesses can be bought.”

  Spader shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs. Pollack. I personally drove down to Fort Dix this morning to question him.”

  “There was no way he could have driven to Westfield after he testified yesterday?”

  “None. Both the court transcripts and various witnesses place him in the courtroom during the time of the murder. Trey Bentworth didn’t kill his grandmother. He had no idea he even had a living grandmother.”

  “What about Belita’s children?”

  “We contacted both the military police in Guam and the Milwaukee P.D. John Jr. hasn’t left the island since returning from his father’s funeral two years ago.”

  “And Michael? Mary?”

  “According to the detectives who questioned them, they were both shocked to learn Susan wasn’t their real mother. Both insisted the detectives had them confused with some other Bentworths.”

  “I suspect Susan has a lot of explaining to do.”

  He shook his head. “Susan won’t be explaining anything to anyone. She’s in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s.”

  I motioned for Spader to follow me into the living room. My legs were about to turn into linguine. I needed to sit down before I collapsed onto my tiled foyer floor.

  After offering Spader a seat in one of the two wing chairs flanking the picture window, I settled onto the sofa opposite him and pulled a cable knit lap blanket off the back of the sofa and onto my lap. Suddenly I felt very cold. “How did Mrs. Cordova die?”

  Carmen Cordova lived at the opposite end of the street in one of the many mid-century split-level tract homes that dotted the neighborhood. A kind woman with a gregarious personality, you could spot her from a block away by her penchant for boldly colored floral dresses. In every way Carmen Cordova was the complete opposite of the drab and dour Betty Bentworth.

  “She was attacked in her home,” said Spader.

  “She lived alone. Who found her?”

  “Her daughter. When Mrs. Cordova didn’t show up for her granddaughter’s birthday dinner this evening and didn’t answer her phone, the daughter drove over to the house. She found her mother in the bathroom.”

  “Was she also shot?”

  “No, she’d been stabbed multiple times.”

  Ralph, perched atop the bookcase, spread his wings and squawked. Spader nearly jumped out of his seat as Ralph added his Shakespearean two cents to the discussion: “It may chance cost some of us our lives, for he will stab. Henry the Fourth, Part II. Act Two, Scene One.”

  “Creepy,” muttered Spader, eyeing Ralph. “How’s he do that?”

  “Photographic memory,” I answered automatically, hardly paying attention to the bird. My own mind had conjured up a graphic image of Mrs. Cordova’s last moments of life. I shuddered. No one deserved such a fate. At least Betty Bentworth never knew what hit her. “Do you think she surprised a burglar?”

  “Possibly. The intruder may have thought the house was empty at the time.”

  “I sense a but.”

  “He overlooked quite a few valuables. Of course, something may have spooked him and caused him to flee in a hurry.”

  “Carmen owned a lot of antique gold jewelry that looked more costume than real. He may not have realized the value of those pieces.”

  “That’s definitely a possibility. I don’t think this guy was a professional burglar.”

  “Why?”

  “The haphazard way he ransacked the home. The items he overlooked. We’re probably dealing with a drug addict hoping to score items to fence quickly. That would also explain the way Mrs. Cordova was attacked.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I think the killer was high at the time.”

  Spader’s words sent a shudder coursing through my body as the implication set in. I took a deep breath and fought to keep my dinner in my stomach. “There are two killers on the loose,” I whispered.

  He nodded, his mouth set in a tight, grim line. “Seems that way. Bentworth’s murder was a cold, calculated hit. Cordova’s killer appears to have been consumed with rage toward his victim. Whether that rage was drug-induced paranoia or set off by something else is pure speculation at this point. Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Mrs. Cordova?”

  The idea seemed ludicrous to me. As much as people hated Betty, they adored Carmen. “Everyone loved her.”

  “Possibly not everyone.”

  “You think someone targeted Carmen? That this wasn’t a burglary gone wrong?”

  “I can’t rule anything out at this time.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t ever remember anyone in the neighborhood having a problem with her. She was the unofficial block grandmother. She doted on her family, never had a mean word for anyone, and she made the best flan I’ve ever tasted.”

  Spader raised an eyebrow.

  “Over the years she occasionally organized block parties. I think she missed the type of old-world neighborhood atmosphere of her childhood.”

  “Was she successful?”

  “To some extent but you know how hectic life is these days—working parents, kids in extracurricular activities, the parents pulled in a million different directions all the time. People came when they could. The only person who never showed up was Mrs. Bentworth, but no one ever expected her to accept an invitation. Although, I believe Mrs. Cordova always invited her. She was that kind of woman.”

  “I see.” Spader rose. “If you think of anything—”

  I tossed aside the lap blanket and stood. “I know where to reach you, Detective.”

  As I accompanied Spader to the door, I asked, “You’re sure there’s no connection between the two murders?” I found it hard to believe we had two different killers preying on elderly residents of my small street. What were the odds?

  “If there is, I’m not seeing it. Other than both victims being elderly women, nothing about the two cases matches up. The M.O.’s of the killers are completely different.”

  “There is one other connection that links Carmen and Betty.”

  “What’s that?”

  “They were both Latinas. Although she was born here, Betty’s family came from Spain. Carmen was born in Cuba. She fled with her parents and siblings when Castro overthrew Batista’s government in 1959.”

  “I think that’s most likely just a coincidence.”

  “Can you be absolutely certain?”

  Spader ran his hands through what was left of his hair before removing his knit cap from his pocket and pulling it over his head. “Damned if I can be certain of anything at this moment.”

  Not the comforting answer I wanted to hear.

  Once Spader departed, I headed down the hall to tell my sons about the latest murder on our street. “I need to speak with both of you,” I said, perching myself on the edge of Nick’s desk.

  They both pulled their noses out of their textbooks. Their faces filled with concern. “What’s up?” asked Alex. When I told them about Mrs. Cordova, he said, “Jeez, Mom! It’s like we’re all of a sudden living in Newark or Camden.”

  “Or we’ve been sucked into some weird video game where the bad guy targets old ladies,” said Nick. “What’s going on? Why is someone all of a sudden gunning down people on our street?”

  I didn’t tell him Mrs. Cordova wasn’t shot. The boys didn’t need to hear the graphic details of her death. “I wish I knew,” I said. “The police are baffled.”

  “Two old ladies on our street are killed less than a day apart,” said Alex. “Doesn’t that seem awfully coincidental to you, Mom?”

  “Yes, it does,” I said.

  “The co
ps must be looking at some suspects, right?” asked Nick.

  I shook my head. “Detective Spader had what he thought was a solid lead in Mrs. Bentworth’s murder, but it didn’t pan out.” I paused and took a deep breath. Now for the hardest part. “He doesn’t think the two deaths are connected.”

  “So we’ve got two killers on the loose?” asked Nick, the color draining from his face.

  “Strange as it sounds, yes. Which is why I want both of you to be super careful.”

  “This would be a terrific time to take a vacation,” said Nick.

  “Yeah, if only Dad hadn’t gambled away all our money,” said Alex.

  As if I didn’t have a long enough list of items to blame on Karl Marx Pollack, I could now add placing his sons in harm’s way—for the second time.

  “Are you going to tell Grandmother Lucille?” asked Nick.

  “My next stop,” I said. “I wanted to talk to both of you first.” Before leaving their room I gave each of my sons a long hug.

  I found my motherin-law in the den, The Real Housewives of New Jersey blaring from the television, Mephisto clutched in her arms. Ever since I’d caught Lucille and her fellow Daughters of the October Revolution watching Dancing With the Stars last month, she hadn’t bothered to hide her obsession with reality TV.

  She claimed she watched the shows for research, that she was writing a book on the detrimental effects of bourgeoisie culture on the minds of the American public, but I hadn’t once seen her take any notes, let alone sit down at a computer. Instead she glued herself to the television screen, consuming a steady diet of spoiled nouveau riche housewives from various states, assorted Little People, various Amish behaving badly, and of course, all those Kardashians.

  I had to take some of the blame. A few weeks ago after dealing with Ira’s brats, I broke down and reinstalled basic cable. The phone company had made me an offer my kids convinced me I couldn’t afford to pass up. Alex and Nick now had their ESPN back, Lucille had her Bravo and E!, and I didn’t have to listen to snide remarks from Melody, Harmony, and Isaac on the state of my finances—all for the bargain price of only an additional $49.95 a month for the next two years.

  Lucille ignored me when I entered the den. I had to stand in front of the television, blocking her view, in order to get her attention.

  “Move,” she said. “I can’t see.”

  “Pause it. I need to speak with you.”

  “I’m busy.” She tightened her grip on Mephisto. The poor dog whined, beseeching me with woeful eyes, as if pleading for rescue from his mistress.

  “Too bad.” I snatched the remote off the coffee table. Instead of pausing the show, I turned off the television. “There’s something you need to know. It’s important.”

  Mephisto yelped as Lucille leaned forward, compressing her body against his while trying to grab the remote from my hand. The poor dog finally wriggled out of her grasp, jumped off her lap, and waddled from the room.

  “Manifesto, come back to mother,” she called after him. When the dog ignored her, she graced me with one of her trademark scowls. “Now see what you’ve done! You’ve frightened him. The world revolves around you, doesn’t it, Anastasia?”

  “That’s right, Lucille. It most certainly does, as evidenced by the fact that I live in the lap of luxury.” I waved my arms at the decades-old, threadbare furnishings that filled my den. Everything in the room had been purchased at secondhand shops when Karl and I first married and were saving all our pennies, nickels, and dimes to buy a house. Or maybe we were only saving what he didn’t gamble away. I had no way of knowing how far back in our marriage his affair with Lady Luck had started, and I never would. For all I knew, the gambling may have preceded our marriage. That part of Karl’s secret life died with him.

  “Get on with it then,” said Lucille, crossing her arms over her sagging bosom.

  I told her about Mrs. Cordova. “Perhaps you should arrange to stay with one of your friends until the police catch the killers,” I said.

  “You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Once you get me out of the house on some trumped up excuse, you won’t allow me back. I’m well aware you’ve been plotting a way to get rid of me from the moment I moved in.”

  “Lucille, two elderly women on this street are dead. You could be next.”

  “Not likely. I can take care of myself.” She reached out her hand. “Now give me the remote. This is my son’s home, and I’m not leaving.”

  I’m not a petty person, really. However, Lucille tries my patience to the limit, and right now I’d not only reached that limit, I’d surpassed it. By at least a mile. Instead of handing her the remote—or even placing it on the coffee table—I deliberately set it on the television console, forcing her to haul herself off the sofa and walk across the room to retrieve it. I then exited the den without a backwards glance. The woman needed to exercise more anyway. How’s that for rationalizing my behavior?

  I’d only made it halfway down the hall when my front door flew open, and Hurricane Flora burst inside.

  SEVEN

  “Anastasia! We just heard. Poor Mrs. Cordova! How did it happen?”

  Lawrence followed Mama inside, closing the front door behind him but not before a flurry of dried leaves whirled their way into the foyer. Instead of bending to pick them up, he crushed several underfoot as he joined his wife. I stared down at the leaf crumbs, then up at Lawrence. “You’ll find a dust pan and broom hanging in the mudroom.”

  Looking totally oblivious, he didn’t say a word. Nor did he make any attempt to move toward the mudroom.

  “Never mind about that now,” said Mama. She waved her hand, swatting away the idea that her husband should be responsible for cleaning up his own mess. Why should he? She never did. At least not while she lived under my roof.

  “You can sweep up later, dear,” she said. “Now tell us what’s going on. And what are the police doing to ensure your safety?”

  Yesterday Mama and Lawrence had arrived minutes after I discovered Betty’s body and called 911. Tonight Spader had already canvassed at least part of the neighborhood before they showed up. “Listening to the wrong bandwidth tonight?” I asked Lawrence.

  Lucille had definitely brought out the worst in me. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mama and Lawrence tonight. But at least, unlike last night, they’d arrived after dinner. I hope they didn’t expect me to serve them a late night snack.

  “Really, Anastasia! Where are your manners? That’s no way to speak to your stepfather. We were worried about you and the boys.”

  When is a grown woman old enough that her mother’s husbands don’t count as stepfathers? I heaved a sigh. “Mama, as you can see, I’m fine. The boys are fine. You should have called.”

  “Well, excuse me for wanting to see for myself! Lawrence was gracious enough to drive me over here at this hour. You should appreciate that.”

  I closed my eyes and rattled off a quick internal count to ten. Then I backtracked. “I’m sorry, Mama. Lawrence. It’s been a long day, and I’ve just had an altercation with Lucille—”

  “I should have known that pinko had something to do with this. I raised you to have manners and respect your elders.”

  “Yes, Mama, you did. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s late, and I’m very tired. I didn’t sleep last night. We can talk tomorrow.” Not that I’d get any sleep tonight now that I knew we had two killers in the neighborhood. I tried to usher Mama and Lawrence toward the door, but Mama refused to budge.

  “But there’s a serial killer on the loose in your neighborhood! Do the police have any suspects?”

  “I’m sure you know as much as I do, if not more, Mama.”

  “How would I know more?”

  “Your husband has a police scanner, doesn’t he? Isn’t that how you learned about both murders?”

  I wondered why it had taken them so long to show up tonight. Spader said Mrs. Cordova’s daughter discovered her mother’s body a little after six o’clock, shor
tly after I’d arrived home from work this evening. It was now close to nine o’clock. I thought about asking but given how Mama and Lawrence spend a good deal of their time together, I bit my tongue. There are some things that registered too high on my TMI barometer.

  Mama choked back a sob. “But this is the second murder in two days on your street. I’m worried. Maybe you and the boys should stay somewhere else until the police catch this killer.”

  Killers. But I refrained from mentioning that fact. I’d never get Mama and Lawrence to leave if Mama knew two separate killers had targeted my neighbors. Instead, bad daughter that I was, I clapped my hands together and responded with sarcasm. “What a great idea, Mama! I’ll book a suite at the Waldorf.”

  “Really, Anastasia! There’s no need for sarcasm. I’m only trying to help.”

  “Where do you expect us to go, Mama? Should we move in with you and Lawrence?”

  “Of course not. We only have one bedroom. Where would we put you and the boys?”

  “Then where do you suggest we go?”

  “We thought you could move in with Ira temporarily. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He certainly has enough room for all of you.”

  “Ira?” I burst out laughing. “Ira?” Not in a million years.

  “What in the world is so funny?”

  “Would you like to live in the same house with Ira and his bratty kids, Mama?”

  “It would only be temporary. And you’d be safe.”

  “One day would be a day too long. I’d rather take my chances with a couple of killers.”

  “Killers? Plural?”

  Oops! “I mean killer. Two murders. I’m tired, Mama. I already told you I didn’t sleep last night.” Sidestepping my mother and Lawrence, I swung open the front door. Another wave of dried leaves rushed into my foyer. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise. Please don’t worry.”

  Mama sniffed. “Don’t worry? How can I not worry? You’re the only daughter I have, and the boys are my only grandchildren. Of course, I’m going to worry, but I’d worry much less if I knew you were safe at Ira’s.”

  “Nothing is going to happen to us, Mama. Now go home. Please.”