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

by Lois Winston

  They say the newest generation of Mafiosi doesn’t live up to the name. Ricardo is living proof. Anyway, I had no desire to kill a few hours watching a television show about the Mafia.

  Zack handed me the remote, then rose from the couch. “Find a movie.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “This popcorn would taste a lot better with a bottle of wine.”

  “I don’t have any. Think Spader will allow you out of the house and into your apartment?”

  “I’ll sweet talk him,” he said, exiting the den.

  I was about to commence channel surfing when an image on the screen caught my attention. I immediately hit pause and stared dumbstruck at the face partially filling the screen.

  Five minutes later when Zack returned, I was still transfixed by the black and white shot of a group of men standing clustered on the sidewalk in front of the door of a pizza parlor with a large plate glass window and a striped awning.

  “You shouldn’t leave the screen paused too long,” said Zack. “It’s not good for the TV.”

  I waved the remote at the television. “Take a look at the guy second from the left. Remind you of anyone?” The awning had cast a shadow across the four men captured in the grainy photo, but something about one man’s stance sent a shiver down my spine. “Am I letting my imagination run amok, or does that guy look like who I think it looks like?”

  Zack moved closer to the television and bent down to take a better look at what appeared to be a photo taken from a security camera across the street from the pizza parlor. “Steven Jay?”

  “Exactly. What’s he doing pictured in a Mafia documentary?”

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “As in all Mafia look alike?”

  Zack took the remote and pressed the Play button. The narrator began speaking about the men in the picture. “In 2009 the District Attorney believed he had an ironclad case against four high-level members of the Gambino family, pictured here in front of Mama Leone’s Pizza Parlor. Vincent ‘Little Vinnie’ Vinci, Stevie ‘Jelly Bean’ Benini, Bruno ‘the Nose’ Labriola, and Dominic ‘Macaroni’ Marchioni were all charged with racketeering and extortion, but the case quickly fell apart, and all charges were dropped when a key witness disappeared and several others recanted their statements before the start of the trial.”

  “It’s him,” I said. “Steven Jay is Stevie ‘Jelly Bean’ Benini.” That’s why he looked familiar to me when he showed up at the condo yesterday. In the back of my mind I must have remembered seeing pictures of him in the newspaper and on the news during the court proceedings.

  I suddenly understood why Lawrence had no money, even though he’d sold his commercial laundry concern. No wonder he sponged dinner so often. “Lawrence is being squeezed by the mob,” I said. Even though I had reservations about my new stepfather, I could sympathize with his situation. I, too, had dealt with mob extortion, and I wouldn’t wish that experienced on anyone, whether I disliked him or not.

  “Stevie ‘Jelly Bean’ Benini didn’t come to pick up papers from Lawrence yesterday; he came to pick up a payment.”

  But for what? Interest on a loan? Protection money? Lawrence no longer owned the laundry. “Do you think the mob continues to demand protection money even when a business goes out of business?” Or, like Karl, was Lawrence under the spell of Lady Luck?

  “Anything is possible with the mob,” said Zack. “All they care about is getting paid. However, it’s more likely Lawrence is either at the mercy of a loan shark or he’s being blackmailed.”

  “Over what?”

  “There’s only one way to find out. We ask him.”

  “Do you think he’d tell us?”

  “He may not have to. We might be able to glean the truth from the way he reacts to the question.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then we figure out what to do about it.”

  THIRTEEN

  Spader and his crime scene investigators found no further weapons or other evidence after combing through my backyard for hours. They packed up their gear and vacated my property by five o’clock.

  Zack and I finished raking the backyard as dusk transitioned into the deepening darkness of a moonless night. By the time we began tackling the front yard, our only light was the pole lamp illuminating the walkway leading to the front door and the fixture hanging above the door. We felt, rather than saw, the tree detritus under our feet. I wouldn’t know the extent of our success in clearing the lawn of all the fallen leaves until daybreak.

  I spent most of my raking time mulling over how Lawrence had gotten himself entangled with a member of a known crime family. “Do you suppose it has anything to do with Cynthia’s drug habit?” I asked Zack. “It could explain his hardened feelings toward her.”

  “That’s certainly a plausible supposition. Drugs and the mob go hand-in-hand.”

  I stopped raking the leaves at my feet and stared ahead into the night as another thought—one that caused an ominous shiver to course through my body—formed. “What if Cynthia’s death was a mob hit?”

  “The medical examiner ruled her death an overdose,” said Zack. He, too, paused from his raking and grew thoughtful for a moment. Then he added, “Although it’s possible the overdose was forced on her rather than her own doing.”

  As much as I had disliked Cynthia, I shuddered at how terrifying her last moments of life must have been if that were the case. No one deserved such a fate. Then I had an equally terrifying thought. “What if she was killed to teach Lawrence a lesson?” History had taught us the mob was big on administering lessons through lethal means.

  And now that Cynthia was dead, were the rest of us in danger should Lawrence step out of line again? But out of line over what?

  My throat turned dry as the Gobi. What if this was the reason for Betty and Carmen’s murders and why one of the murder weapons was tossed into my bushes? Were these signs meant to frighten Lawrence? If so, what the hell was he mixed up in?

  In the dim glow of the walkway lamp I looked up at Zack and realized he had had the same exact thought. “We need to get to the bottom of this,” I said, “before Lawrence gets us all killed.”

  Or Harriet Kleinhample.

  A moment later as we stood at the curb dumping another tarp full of leaves onto the pile, Harriet barreled up in her orange VW minibus and nearly drove into us. We jumped out of the way just in time.

  “What are you doing standing in the street in the dark?” she demanded after she switched off the engine and slid out of the driver’s seat. With hands on her hips she continued to admonish me. “You’ll get yourself killed. Lucille is right. You don’t have the sense you were born with, Anastasia.”

  She didn’t wait for a response. As the rest of the packed minibus disembarked, Harriet strode like a general toward my front door. The others followed, then stood waiting while Lucille hobbled toward them, then waited some more while she fumbled in her purse for her key.

  “Are you going to tell her the door is already unlocked?” asked Zack.

  “I don’t think so.” Let her figure it out for herself. We watched as Lucille locked the door, fought with the doorknob, then finally unlocked the door and swung it open. She and her contingent then marched inside my house. The last woman to enter slammed the door behind her.

  “What do you suppose they’re up to?” asked Zack.

  “Something that will undoubtedly annoy me, not to mention most likely cost me money.”

  A few months ago I arrived home to find the Daughters of the October Revolution had appropriated my printer and were running through my supply of colored ink cartridges and paper for their latest demonstration against perceived government wrongdoings. Harriet and I nearly came to blows when I unplugged the printer and grabbed it off the dining room table.

  “Or maybe they just came to watch the Kardashians and raid my refrigerator,” I added. Lucille was not the only member of the October Revolution addicted to reality TV. That had surpris
ed the heck out of me.

  As soon as we finished dumping the last tarp load of leaves into the street, Zack and I cleaned off the scraps of debris clinging to nearly every square inch of our clothes and headed over to Mama and Lawrence’s condo. I didn’t bother telling Lucille we were leaving. I just hoped my house was in one piece when I returned. Although I didn’t trust the thirteen members of the Daughters of the October Revolution alone in my home, I had no choice. They came and went as they pleased while I was at work during the week, anyway.

  On the way to the condo I called the boys and told them to stay at their friend’s house until we returned home. I didn’t want them alone (thirteen communist octogenarians didn’t count) in the house on Mischief Night—especially this Mischief Night with killers on the loose.

  Alex and Nick didn’t even question me. The lure of Sunday Night Football on a fifty-four inch flat screen TV trumped any possible curiosity on their part over why their mother would allow them to stay out so late with school the next day.

  The boys were easy. Mama, on the other hand, posed a problem. “I don’t want to worry her,” I told Zack. “Until we know the facts, it’s best to keep her in the dark. But how do we speak with Lawrence without her?” Mama would never agree to stay in one room while we confronted Lawrence in another. She’d demand to know what was going on.

  “I’ll talk to Lawrence after you and Flora leave the apartment.”

  “Leave the apartment? At this hour? Where would I take her?” The lure of a shopping trip wouldn’t work. On a Sunday night neither the malls nor any of the local shops were still open.

  “Go out for coffee. Tell her you need her advice on something.”

  “Like what?”

  “Something private and female that you don’t want Lawrence to overhear.”

  “Are we talking pregnancy or menopause here?”

  Zack shrugged. “Either would work.”

  I shifted in my seat to stare at his profile. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

  He shrugged again. “Got a better idea?”

  I didn’t. “I’m not going to get her hopes up about another grandchild. By first thing tomorrow morning she’ll have a caterer booked.”

  Zack shot me a puzzled look before quickly turning his attention back to the road. “For a baby shower?”

  “For our wedding.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.” Zack and I were nowhere near ready to move our relationship up to the matrimonial level. Or more precisely—I wasn’t ready. And he knew it. Maybe at some point but for now I insisted on taking one day at a time. Unlike Mama, I didn’t need a ring on my finger to feel complete. Karl’s deception had done more than leave me penniless. The fallout hadn’t given me cold feet; it had completely frozen my tootsies, transforming me into a consummate commitment-phobe.

  However, at forty-two I was nowhere near ready to confront menopause, let alone discuss the topic with my mother, but I saw no other option. Her safety came first. If we told her the truth, we might jeopardize that safety. I blew out a sigh of frustration. “Menopause it is, then.”

  Zack reached over and patted my knee. “All for a good cause.”

  “Right.”

  “One other thing,” said Zack.

  “What’s that?”

  “Tell me you know how to drive a stick.”

  We had taken his Boxster, not having planned out our course of action ahead of time. I had learned how to drive on a standard transmission because that’s what my father owned when I was seventeen years old. However, I hadn’t driven a stick shift in more than two decades. Still, it had to be like riding a bike, right? Once you learn, you never forget. Or so I hoped.

  “No problem,” I said, forcing a massive dose of confidence into my voice—confidence I didn’t feel—and hoping I fooled Zack into believing me. After offering him a radiant smile, I turned to stare out the side passenger window into the dark night. Then I closed my eyes and mentally visualized stepping on the clutch pedal with my left foot while shifting from first to second to third with my right hand. With any luck I’d avoid stripping his gears.

  Luckily there were no hills between the closest all-night diner and the condo. Having to stop for a traffic light at the top of a hill would surely spiral me into a full-blown, paralytic panic attack.

  We pulled up in front of the condo and walked to the front door. I paused before ringing the doorbell. I hadn’t called Mama before heading over to the condo because I didn’t want to risk her telling us not to come. However, barging in unannounced risked interrupting activities that fell into the TMI category. I’d already stumbled upon the randy pair too often prior to their marriage when Mama still lived with me. The images had left permanent burn scars on my eyeballs.

  I held my breath as I pressed the button.

  To my relief Mama, fully dressed, swung open the door within seconds. “What a lovely surprise!” she said. Sandwiching herself between us, she looped her arms with ours and led us toward the den. “Lawrence! Look who’s here.”

  Lawrence, on the other hand, showed far less exuberance, offering only a grunt without taking his eyes off the New York Jets and San Diego Chargers. Zack plopped next to him on the leather sofa and commenced with some ritualistic Y-chromosome bonding that included commiserating over the disappointment of a certain New York draft pick and the recent injury of a particular tight end. Neither name meant anything to me. My kids were Giants fans. As far as I knew, so was Zack, given that he spent many a Sunday watching the Giants—never the Jets—with Alex and Nick, which made his knowledge of Jets players all the more mind-boggling to me. Then again, Zack constantly amazed me.

  I seized upon the opportunity, pulling Mama into the kitchen in order to be out of earshot of Lawrence. Not that he would have cared. Nothing less than an earthquake registering at least an eight on the Richter scale could have torn him from the television and even then, only had it resulted in a power outage.

  However, I had to maintain my ruse. Speaking only slightly above a whisper, I said, “Mama, why don’t you and I go out for a cup of coffee and some dessert while the guys watch football?”

  “Why go out? And why are you whispering? I can brew up a fresh pot, and we have some brownies left over from dinner if you’re hungry.”

  “But the diner over on Route 22 has your favorite strawberry-rhubarb pie. Besides, I have something I’d like to discuss with you in private.”

  Her brows knit together as she zeroed in on my belly. Then her eyes widened, and her face lit up. She clapped her hands together and bounced on the balls of her feet. “You’re pregnant, aren’t you? I knew it! Does Zack know? He’d better do the right thing by you.”

  I swear I could see the wedding planning wheels spinning behind her eyes. “I’m not pregnant.”

  The wheels ground to a screeching halt. The light faded from her eyes as sadness settled across her features and her shoulders sagged. She expelled one of her Drama Mama sighs. “Maybe next time.”

  I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Mama, I’m forty-two years old, nearly forty-three. I’m way too old to go back into maternity clothes. You’re just going to have to settle for the two grandchildren you already have.”

  “Lots of women are having babies at your age.”

  “Good for them, but I have no desire to join their ranks. I can barely afford the two kids I’ve got.”

  “But if you and Zack were to marry—”

  “Mama!”

  She twisted away from me and held up her hands in defeat. “All right. All right. What is it you want to talk about?”

  “Not here.”

  Her eyebrows knit back together, but this time worry clouded her eyes. “All this cloak and dagger. You’re not in any trouble are you?”

  “Of course not. Why would you ask that?”

  “Considering the last few months, can you blame me? With what you’ve been getting tangled up in lately—murders, kidnappings, and Lord kn
ows whatever else you’ve kept from me—what am I supposed to think?”

  “I’m not in any trouble.”

  “Then what in the world is going on? For heaven’s sake, dear, spit it out already.”

  Hadn’t I been trying to do just that? “It’s a female thing, Mama. I don’t want Zack or Lawrence in on the conversation.”

  “Well, why didn’t you say so in the first place, dear?”

  She grabbed her purse off the kitchen counter. As we headed toward the front door, she called out, “Anastasia and I are off for some mother-daughter time. You boys behave yourselves.”

  “Enjoy,” said Zack.

  Mama received no response from Lawrence who was too busy cursing a Jets turnover that resulted in a San Diego touchdown.

  My mother began to cross-examine me the moment the door closed behind us, but I held her off, explaining that I needed to concentrate on my driving. “I’ve never driven Zack’s car before and haven’t driven a stick shift since Dad’s Mustang. Let’s wait until we arrive at the diner, okay?”

  “If you insist,” she agreed, but curiosity overwhelmed her to the point she fidgeted the entire half-mile drive.

  Other than struggling to shift the Boxster into reverse to back out of the parking spot in front of the condo, I managed to transport us to the diner without destroying Zack’s transmission. Hopefully, my luck would hold for the return trip.

  We found the Scotchwood Diner nearly empty and settled into a red vinyl booth toward the back. Once we had placed our orders for pie and coffee, Mama reached across the table, grabbing both of my hands in hers, and resumed her cross-examination. “Is something wrong, Anastasia? Are you ill? Have you seen a doctor?”

  I pulled my hands from her vice-like grip and held them up to stop her rapid-fire questions. “I’m fine, Mama. I just wanted to know some family medical history.”

  “Why would you need to know family medical history if you’re not concerned about something?”

  I heaved a sigh. Here goes. “Because I think I might be entering menopause.”

  “Oh!”