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

by Lois Winston

  Given the events of the last few months, I can only imagine what was going through Zack’s mind during that nearly eight-hour flight across the Atlantic. “I’m sorry I worried you. As for Mama, you do know she’s prone to hyperbole.”

  He placed both hands alongside my cheeks, tilting my head toward his. “Are you saying there were no murders on your street?”

  I bit down on my lower lip. “Not exactly.”

  “So there is a serial killer on the loose?”

  “Not exactly.”

  He huffed out his frustration. “How about if we go inside, I pour us both a glass of wine, and you define ‘not exactly’?”

  “I have to make dinner. The boys will be home from soccer practice any minute.”

  “No, you don’t. I ordered pizzas. They’ll arrive in about twenty minutes. I left a note and money on the kitchen table for the boys to pay the delivery guy. You have plenty of time to explain everything to me.”

  “Don’t count on it,” I muttered under my breath. Zack shook his head again before linking the fingers of one hand through mine and leading me up the stairs to his apartment.

  As I suspected, twenty minutes wasn’t nearly long enough to explain the events of the last four days. Along with the two homicides on my street, I had to fill him in on Pablo’s murder. I began chronologically, first catching him up on the investigation into Cynthia’s death. I had just started telling him about Betty and Carmen when Nick knocked on the apartment door to announce the arrival of the pizzas.

  “The police see no connection between Betty’s death and Carmen’s,” I said as we followed Nick down the garage steps and back to the house.

  “Why is that?”

  “Betty was targeted. The list of people who hated her is quite long, and her killer was a pro.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “I found her body.”

  “You found the body? Talk about burying the lede!”

  I quickly explained how I came home Tuesday evening to discover Betty’s front door ajar. “She was killed by a single gunshot to her eye. Given the position of her body, it was apparent the killer pointed the gun at her from the hallway, never entering the living room where she sat in the dark watching television. She never knew what hit her.”

  “And Carmen? Did you happen to find her body, too?”

  “No. I learned about Carmen’s death when Detective Spader showed up at the house last night and told me. She was probably the victim of a burglary gone wrong. I don’t have many details. He said she’d been stabbed multiple times and suspects the guy was a drug addict looking for a quick score. Betty didn’t suffer but poor Carmen…” I shuddered at the thought of what she must have endured the last few minutes of her life.

  “So you see, we definitely don’t have a serial killer targeting the neighborhood.”

  “No, just a hit man and a psycho burglar. What a relief!”

  Wait until I told him someone had hacked into the surveillance cameras on the street. He’d toss me over his shoulder and carry me all the way to Ira’s home if he had to. Maybe I’d save that topic until after a few more glasses of wine—or a far more potent potable.

  I waited until Nick had stepped into the kitchen, then stopped and turned to confront Zack. “Don’t you dare jump on the Mama and Ira bandwagon. Do you have any idea how difficult and complicated our lives would become if the boys and I had to commute each day from clear across the state? Not to mention you’d have to visit me in prison because there’s no way I wouldn’t wind up strangling his three brats.”

  “You’d rather put your lives in jeopardy?”

  “We’re not in any jeopardy! Besides, we have police protection on the street. There’s a squad car parked at each end of the block.”

  “They didn’t do such a bang-up job of protecting Carmen.”

  No they hadn’t. I couldn’t argue with that. It takes a burglar with a heck of a lot of chutzpah to target a house with a police presence on the street.

  “There is one other option,” said Zack, “given that I don’t relish the thought of you in an orange jumpsuit.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I move into the house until the killers are caught.”

  “You and Mr. Sig Sauer?” I’d recently learned Zack owned a gun after I became the victim of a stalker. He claims he needs the gun to protect himself from poachers and drug lords while on location in certain dicey areas of the globe. I saw it as yet another checkmark in the Zack as Government Agent column.

  Prior to the stalking incident, I stood firmly in the anti-gun camp. Now I’m quite happy to know a kick-ass guy, who may or may not be a spy, is protecting me with his semi-automatic badass weapon. “What if you have to go out of town on assignment?”

  “I’m not going anywhere until both of these guys are caught.”

  I threw my arms around his neck and kissed him. “Thank you for keeping me out of prison. I look ghastly in orange. You’ll be amply rewarded.”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  Zack had ordered three pizzas for the five of us. Lucille had already devoured one slice of mushroom and spinach and made a serious dent into a second slice by the time we entered the dining room. Mephisto sat at her feet, gnawing on a discarded pizza crust. My sons, displaying better manners, had waited until Zack and I joined them at the table before they helped themselves to slices.

  Mushroom and spinach pizza is my favorite. Lucille doesn’t prefer it above pepperoni or bacon and onion, the two other pizzas on the table. Rather, she derives extreme pleasure in depriving me of my favorite toppings. Zack grabbed the box she’d commandeered and placed three slices of pizza on my plate. Then he took the remaining three slices for himself.

  My motherin-law’s hostile glare spoke volumes. In a not-so-subtle way I answered her by saying, “Lucille, wasn’t it nice of Zack to buy pizzas for dinner tonight?”

  Ignoring me, she shoved the remainder of the mushroom and spinach slice into her mouth and reached across the table for two slices of pepperoni.

  “Why bother?” asked Zack.

  I sighed. “Because hope springs eternal.”

  The best part of dinner that evening, aside from Zack’s homecoming, was not receiving a visit from Detective Spader. No further homicides had occurred on our street in the past twenty-four hours. Hopefully, the trend would continue.

  Of course, that didn’t prevent Mama from continuing her campaign to have us move in with Ira. She and Lawrence arrived shortly before seven o’clock. Mama strode into the dining room, took one look at Zack and said, “I hope you’ve talked some sense into her.”

  Then she headed into the kitchen. A moment later she returned with two plates, handed one to Lawrence, and the two of them proceeded to divvy up the remaining slices of pizza between them. So much for thinking I’d have one less mouth to feed once Mama and Lawrence tied the knot.

  “Aren’t you both lucky we had leftovers,” I said. “Had I known you planned to drop by for dinner, we would have waited for you.”

  My sarcasm flew right over their heads. “Oh, we’ve already eaten,” said Mama, “but it’s a shame to let good pizza go to waste.” She turned to Zack. “Now, Zack, dear, tell me you’ve convinced my stubborn daughter she needs to move in with Ira.”

  “What!” Lucille nearly toppled over backwards. Zack reached out to steady her chair, but she jumped to her feet, and the chair fell to the floor. “I am not moving into that man’s house.”

  “Then stay here and get yourself killed,” said Mama.

  “Mama!”

  “What? The woman is an idiot. If she’d rather risk death at the hands of a serial killer than accept Ira’s hospitality, that’s her decision.”

  “We’re not moving in with Ira, Mama.”

  “No way I’m moving out there,” said Alex.

  “Ditto that,” said Nick.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mama. “Of course, you are. It’s for your own safety. Tell them, Zachary
, dear.”

  All eyes turned to Zack. He cleared his throat. “We’ve come up with a solution that doesn’t involve anyone moving, Flora.

  “What’s that?”

  “I’m moving into the house until the killers are caught.”

  “And what if you’re targeted as well?” asked Mama. “How do you plan to keep my family safe if you’re dead?” Mama turned to her husband. “Would you please help me convince them to listen to reason?”

  Throughout the exchange Lawrence had concentrated on consuming a slice of pizza, never saying a word. He finished chewing, wiped his mouth on a napkin, and turned to Mama, placing his hand over hers. “Flora, you’re blowing these murders completely out of proportion.”

  She gasped, pulling her hand away. “How can you say that when a serial killer is targeting people who live on this street?”

  “There is no serial killer, Mama.”

  “Two people were murdered!” she shrieked two octaves above her normal voice. “Why can’t any of you see what’s going on here?”

  “Confer with me of murder and of death,” squawked Ralph from his perch atop the breakfront. “Titus Andronicus. Act Five, Scene Two.”

  Mama glared at Ralph. “Someone should murder that filthy bird. Really, Anastasia, how can you allow him in here while we’re eating?” She didn’t wait for me to answer. Instead she turned back to Lawrence. “Tell her she needs to move out of here.”

  Lawrence shook his head. “Anastasia is right. Yes, two people were murdered but in two unrelated incidents. There’s no connection. No serial killer.”

  “Says who?”

  “The police.”

  “You heard a discussion about the murders on your scanner?” I asked.

  “I did.”

  “And you’re willing to accept that?” asked Mama. “What if they’re wrong?” She burst into tears. “I can’t believe all of you! How can you do this to me?”

  “This isn’t about you, Mama.”

  “Of course it is! How could I live with myself if something happened to you and the boys?”

  I never got a chance to answer Mama because at that moment someone rammed open my front door, and a dozen men dressed in SWAT gear and armed with assault rifles swarmed into my house.

  NINE

  Lucille screamed.

  Mama gasped. All the color drained from her face. Then she fainted dead-away into a slice of half-eaten bacon and onion pizza.

  “Hands behind your heads,” said one of the team members.

  We all complied except for Lucille who reached for her cane, which somehow hooked her plate, sending it and uneaten pizza crusts flying in the direction of the SWAT team. The next thing I knew, several SWAT members had her pinned to the floor, her hands cuffed behind her back, a gun pointed at her head.

  I held my breath, waiting for Lucille to let loose a string of profanity about police brutality, but for once in her life, my motherin-law kept her mouth shut. Ignoring the commotion, Mephisto made a beeline for one of the pizza crusts, and Ralph swooped in for another. Luckily, no one panicked and shot at either of them.

  Several officers fanned out throughout the house. Intermittently they’d call out, “Clear.” After several minutes they all regrouped in the living room. A moment later Detective Spader joined them.

  “Nothing, sir,” said the team leader.

  “Stand down,” he ordered. Spader glanced at Lucille’s prostrate body. Her mouth set in a tight line, her one visible eye speared him with a laser-like glower. “You! I should have known you’d have something to do with this.”

  Spader pointed to her and said, “Release her.”

  This time my motherin-law didn’t hold back. “You’ll be hearing from my lawyer.” She proceeded to hurl every four-letter word ever invented and possibly several new ones at Detective Spader and the SWAT team. “Every single one of you,” she continued. “I demand all your names.”

  Exhibiting more restraint than I’d ever have given him credit for, Spader remained silent while stooping to assist her to her feet. Surprisingly, Lucille didn’t yell at him to take his hands off her. He then retrieved her cane and offered it to her. She snatched the cane from his hand and hurling curses in her wake, lumbered off in the direction of her bedroom.

  Spader indicated to the SWAT team that they could leave, then turned to me. “My apologies, Mrs. Pollack. I’m afraid you’ve been the victim of a swatting.”

  “A what?”

  “Swatting,” said Zack. “It’s when someone phones in an anonymous tip to the police that there’s a hostage situation or a violent crime in progress.”

  Zack’s explanation triggered a vague memory of a news story I’d heard on the radio a few months ago about such malicious pranks. The callers had targeted several high-profile Hollywood actors. However, my family and I were as far from celebrity status as Westfield, New Jersey was from Hollywood, California. “Why would someone target us?”

  Spader shrugged. “Could be for any number of reasons. The practice is becoming more and more common throughout the country. We’ve had a spate of incidents in New Jersey over the last few months including a state assemblyman from down in Gloucester County who was swatted after he introduced legislation to toughen penalties for swatting. But we have to take these calls seriously because we have no way of knowing which are hoaxes and which are real.”

  “Someone could get killed,” I said.

  He grimaced. “It’s only a matter of time.”

  “Why didn’t you surround the house and call in a hostage negotiator if you thought we were being held captive?” I asked. I’d seen enough instances of that on the news to know such tactics were standard operating procedure in hostage cases.

  “Given the recent murders on the street, we thought our best option in this case was the element of surprise,” he said.

  Mama had come to, thanks to Lawrence tossing half a glass of ice water on the back of her neck. She stared wide-eyed at Spader and asked, “What happened?”

  “You fainted, Mama.”

  “I remember now. Men with guns. They swarmed into the house.” She swiveled her head, her gaze darting across the room and into the living room. “Where are they?”

  “Gone, dear,” said Lawrence, patting her hand. “Everything is fine.” He grabbed a napkin and began wiping pizza sauce from her cheek.

  “Why were they here?”

  Spader repeated his explanation.

  “What sort of sick individual would do something like that?” she demanded.

  “It’s often online gamers who swat their rivals, especially if the rivals are winning.” Spader turned to the boys. “Either of you participate in online gaming?”

  “No, sir,” said Alex.

  “Same here,” said Nick.

  “Any problems with someone at school? Any bullying going on?”

  “No,” they both said in unison, shaking their heads.

  Spader turned to me. “What about you, Mrs. Pollack? Have you had any problems with anyone at work?”

  “No, we all get along.” Well, all except for Tessa, but I doubt she has the skills to pull off such a complicated prank. Besides, as diva fashion editors go, Tessa is fairly benign compared to her predecessor. I could definitely see Marlys Vandenburg orchestrating a swatting of certain staff members, and most likely, I would have topped her hit list. But Marlys was dead, and I didn’t know anyone else who hated me to the extent that she had.

  “Why didn’t you call first?” Mama asked Spader. “We’d have told you everyone was safe.”

  “Because the police would have no way of knowing whether or not someone was being coerced into saying there was no problem,” said Lawrence. “They have to take every call seriously.”

  “That’s right,” said Spader. “And given the murders that occurred on the street this week, we figured this call wasn’t a hoax.”

  “Well, thank goodness that’s all it was,” said Mama. She placed a shaky palm across her décolletage. “As i
t is, you nearly gave me a heart attack!”

  For once I couldn’t accuse Mama of over-dramatizing the situation. I was still waiting for my own adrenaline to descend from the stratosphere. “What happens now?” I asked Spader.

  “We’ll investigate, of course, but I doubt we’ll turn up anything.”

  “Why is that?” asked Mama. “Can’t you trace the call you received?”

  Spader shook his head. “These guys use computers to hack into phone lines to make it appear the call is coming from the residence where the event is occurring or from a concerned neighbor. In reality, the caller is often hundreds or even thousands of miles away. The worst part is that anyone can search the Internet to learn how to swat someone. It doesn’t take a computer genius to figure it out.”

  “So these reprobates could send you here again?” asked Mama.

  “It’s possible, but they usually move on to another target.”

  “Usually?” Mama’s eyes grew wide.

  “Celebrities are often the victims of multiple swattings.”

  Mama turned pleading eyes toward me. “A serial killer on the street isn’t bad enough? Now you’ve got cops with guns blazing breaking into you house. You aren’t safe here.”

  I knew nothing I said would appease Mama. She’d made up her mind. If we didn’t move out of the house, one way or another, we’d all come to a gruesome end. But before I could answer her, Lucille lumbered back into the dining room.

  “Where are they?” she demanded to no one in particular.

  “Who?” I asked.

  “All those cops.” She waved a pad of paper and a pencil in the air. “I want their names and badge numbers.”

  And I want a month on a white sand beach in Aruba. I took a deep breath. “They’ve gone, Lucille.”

  She shoved the pad and pencil at Spader. “Write them down. All of them. Names. Badge numbers. This minute.”