by Lois Winston
“How can you be sure?”
“Use your head. You grew up in the mob. You know how these guys operate.”
She sighed. “I suppose you’re right.”
“I know I’m right. However, that doesn’t mean whoever this mystery man is, he’s not dangerous, just potentially a different kind of dangerous.”
Although a mysterious suitor held an element of charm, the situation also might lead to Norman Bates type creepiness. If Erica rebuffed the man, would he turn psycho on her?
“So what do we do now?”
“We need to find out if there are other needlework shops relatively close to Oakmont.”
Erica shrugged. “I don’t do needlework. If they exist, they’re off my radar.”
“Where’s your computer?”
She led me upstairs to a small bedroom she used as an office, then left to make us some lunch. I sat down at the desk, fired up her laptop and began a search, not expecting to find much. Most independent needlework shops folded years ago, forced out of business by the big box stores and the craft chains, many of which no longer carried much in the way of needlework supplies. Nowadays, about the only place to buy cross stitch, needlepoint, and embroidery products was online or through a few remaining mail order catalogs.
The majority of hits that popped up from my Google search brought me to machine embroidery shops, the kind that personalize baseball caps, T-shirts, and tote bags. However, I did find a needlepoint shop located less than ten miles from Oakmont and two others more than an hour’s drive in opposite directions. Discounting those as too much of a stretch for a lovelorn stalker, I printed out directions to the first shop, then joined Erica in the kitchen.
~*~
When we finished our lunch, we set off in Erica’s red Prius for Shadyside, a Pittsburgh neighborhood not far from the campuses of both Carnegie Mellon and the University of Pittsburgh.
I remembered Erica driving a gas-guzzling Cadillac and wondered if that car had belonged to her father. Not to stereotype, but I didn’t think many Caddie drivers cared enough about the environment to trade their wheels in for a hybrid. However, given Erica’s earlier breakdown, I decided against bringing up the subject.
“This is where I met Darren,” she said as we drove past the University of Pittsburgh. “He’s an admissions counselor at Pitt.”
A definite improvement over a Mafia loan shark. I was beginning to feel better and better about Darren Applegate. “Are you taking courses?”
“I’m auditing a few classes to see if I want to go back to school. With all the government cutbacks, who knows how long I’ll have a job at the library?”
“Given the uncertainty of your job, I’m surprised you bought a house and put so much into renovations. Not to mention bribing me with three thousand dollars to help you find your stalker.”
Erica came to a stop at a red light and turned to face me. “The job isn’t about money, Anastasia. I have more money than I’ll ever need.”
I stared at her, waiting for an explanation. Finally, she grinned, then said. “Remember that scene in The Sopranos when Carmella helped herself to some of Tony’s stash, then opened up accounts in her name at several banks?”
“Weren’t you a little young for The Sopranos?”
“I caught the show in reruns.”
“Are you telling me you stole from your father?”
“Damn right. A hell of a lot more than Carmella took from Tony, too.”
“I’m betting WitSec doesn’t know.”
“Of course not. You think I’m crazy?”
Yes, I did, but I kept my mouth shut. Joey Milano had more than one reason for wanting his daughter dead. I’m guessing from Erica’s more money than I’ll ever need comment, he probably had at least a million reasons.
Even though I doubted her stalker had any connection to Ricardo or her father, Joey had probably put a hit out on Erica the moment he discovered both his money and his daughter missing. Hopefully, his gun-toting muscle men would never find their way to Oakmont, Pennsylvania.
Two minutes later, Erica pulled into a parking space on Walnut Street, Shadyside’s upscale commercial district. “The shop should be somewhere on the next block,” she said.
We exited the car and began walking. In the middle of the next block we found Needle Me, a needlepoint shop featuring hand-painted canvases and a finishing service.
Upon entering the store, I glanced around. Needlepoint canvases, both stitched and unstitched, covered most of the walls to my left and right. A framed needlepoint sign hanging on the back wall behind the counter advised of a custom design service specializing in needlepoint portraits of your home or pets.
A second framed needlepoint sign listed the prices for various forms of finishing. My eyes nearly bugged out of my head as I read. Finishing a needlepoint dollhouse carpet cost eighty-five dollars! And that didn’t include the price of the needlepoint canvas or yarn.
Maybe I should quit my editorial job and open a needlepoint shop. A glance at the canvas prices told me I should at least consider exploring the possibility of selling hand-painted canvases.
Unlike the women in Oakmont, the two saleswomen working in this shop ignored us as we walked around. Both were too busy waiting on paying customers eager to hand over their gold cards for hundreds of dollars worth of canvas and yarn.
“I don’t see anything similar to my pieces,” said Erica as we studied the merchandise.
“I didn’t expect to.”
“Then why are we here?”
Before I could answer her, a salesperson finally approached us. “May I help you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I collect old embroidery pieces. Would you know where I might find some?”
“This is a needlepoint shop,” she said. “We don’t handle embroidery.”
“I see that, but I thought you might know—”
She waved in the direction of the front door. “You can try a few of the antique shops in the area.” Then she abruptly walked away to wait on another customer.
“Rude, wasn’t she?” asked Erica after we exited the shop. “She should only know who my father is.”
“Erica!”
“Just kidding.” She laughed. “You should see the look on your face.”
“You should remember who you are now and not breathe a word about your past. Especially in public.”
She sighed. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
She rooted in her purse for her iPhone and searched for the location of antiques shops in Shadyside. “I found five. Two on Walnut and three on a couple of the side streets.”
We headed for the closest one.
~*~
An unsuccessful hour and a half later, after stopping in a café for lattes, we settled into the car to head back to Erica’s house. One of the shops sold antique samplers stitched by schoolgirls in the nineteenth century. The rest had no needlework at all, and the shop owners knew of no one with a penchant for embroidering roses.
We arrived back in Oakmont to find two people sitting in a black Range Rover with New York plates, parked directly across the street from Erica’s house.
FIVE
Erica noticed the car first. After a short gasp, she continued to drive down the street instead of pulling into her driveway. Neither of us turned to look at the occupants in the Range Rover, but after we passed them, Erica glanced up at her rearview mirror.
“Do you recognize them?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Hard to tell. Two men. They’re both wearing sunglasses and ball caps.”
“Would your father’s goons be stupid enough to show up in a car with New York license plates?”
“Who knows? I’m not taking any chances. We’ll park on the next block, cut through my neighbor’s property, and enter my house through the back door.”
“Has this happened before?” I asked as we darted through the yard of the house that backed up onto her property.
“No.”
Her ans
wer scared the crap out of me. Erica had called me on a burner phone, but what if someone had bugged my phone and intercepted her call?
Ricardo had confessed, sparing me the need to testify in court. He then ratted out Erica’s father, hoping for a reduced sentence, but the prosecutor refused to cut him a deal. I guess he had more than enough evidence on Joey Milano from his daughter.
With Ricardo behind bars, I hadn’t worried about my own safety. No one suggested otherwise or offered the option of Witness Protection to me. But what if Joey Milano had been keeping tabs on me all along, hoping I’d eventually lead him to Erica? Which I may have done by agreeing to come here. “You need to contact your WitSec handler at once,” I said.
“I can’t. I’ll lose Darren.”
“You’re going to lose a lot more than a boyfriend if you don’t.” And what about me? If the guys in the Range Rover planned to carry out a hit on Erica, they weren’t going to leave me around as a witness.
“Grab a change of clothes,” I said after she unlocked the back door and we slipped into the house. “We’re not staying here.”
“Where will we go?”
“A hotel for now.”
She raced upstairs.
“Don’t turn on any lights, and keep away from the windows,” I called after her.
My overnight bag still sat at the foot of the stairs. I grabbed the strap and positioned myself off to the side of the living room window, giving me a view of the street without risk of being seen by anyone outside.
The minutes ticked by. What was taking her so long? “Hurry up!” I yelled. My life was flashing before my eyes, and I didn’t like the ending.
“I am!”
A minute later I heard the toilet flush. Finally, she ran back downstairs, a gym bag looped over her shoulder—just as a blue minivan pulled into the driveway of the house across the street.
The two men stepped from the Range Rover. One appeared to be in his forties, the other in his seventies. Neither carried a gun. They headed for the minivan as the side door slid open. Two young boys jumped out and raced into the men’s arms.
“False alarm.” I slid down the wall and collapsed onto the floor. Maybe by next Tuesday, if I were lucky, my blood pressure would return from the stratosphere.
Erica stared out the window at the happy family reunion. “I need a drink.”
“Make mine a triple.”
After a few drinks, Erica and I calmed down sufficiently not to arouse any suspicions regarding our harrowing, non-life-threatening escapade. Still, I’d feel much safer once my plane departed from the Pittsburgh airport the next evening, even though, once back in New Jersey, I now needed to make sure no electronic bugs lurked in either my house or my office. The thought of Joey Milano or one of his goons eavesdropping on my life left me totally freaked out. Been there, done that. And once had been one time too many.
~*~
Erica’s doorbell rang at six-thirty. She ran to the door and swung it open. “Darren—” In a split second her voice shifted from excited to horrified. “Where did you get those?”
As he stepped into the living room, I saw what had rattled her. In his hands he held a pale pink envelope and a small package wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with a pink ribbon.
“They were sitting at your door,” he said. He leaned over to peck her cheek. “Do I have competition?”
Erica recovered quickly, snatching the package and envelope from him. She forced a laugh. “Of course not. I forgot. They’re from my next door neighbor. I guess she left them while we were in the backyard earlier.”
“Why is your next door neighbor leaving you gifts?”
“It’s…uhm…a…a thank-you for some research I did for her at the library. For her mother. For a nursing home. She needs to find a nursing home for her mother.”
Poor Erica. She’d stroke out if we didn’t unmask her love-struck mystery man before I left tomorrow. I needed to set a trap to catch Eldon in the act.
Right now, though, I knew I’d better empty my brain of anything remotely connected to love-struck geeks, stalkers, and mob hit men until after my dinner with Erica and her boyfriend. I had an evening of lies ahead of me, thanks to Erica, and needed to concentrate on not screwing up.
Darren Applegate was not at all what I had pictured, given Erica’s only other romance, the gorilla-like Ricardo. At least ten years older than Erica, Darren shared no physical traits with apes and bore a striking resemblance to Jude Law, minus the receding hairline.
“I get that a lot,” he said when I mentioned the likeness. “Wish I earned his kind of money.”
After a few more pleasantries, the three of us left the house and piled into Darren’s SUV to head to the restaurant. Darren began peppering me with questions the moment he pulled out of Erica’s driveway. “Erica tells me you own an art gallery in Manhattan, but she hasn’t said much more about you, Anastasia. I didn’t even know she had any family until she mentioned your visit this weekend.”
“I’m all the family she has.” Then I used Erica’s tactic and turned the conversation around to him. “I understand you have children, Darren. Tell me about them.”
Didn’t all parents love to brag about their kids? Darren didn’t disappoint. Over the twenty-minute drive back to Shadyside, I heard more than I’d ever need to know about two- year-old Isabelle and three-year-old Edward.
The bragging finally ended when Darren parked the car. He’d chosen a small Italian bistro situated several doors down from Needle Me. The moment we stepped inside, I realized he’d most likely made the reservation before he knew of my visit.
Firenza’s featured linen tablecloths, soft lighting with candles on each table, and Andrea Bocelli piped through the sound system. A perfect restaurant for an intimate date, not for a couple dragging along a faux aunt. I would have apologized for ruining his plans, but even I didn’t know before yesterday that I’d be spending the weekend in Oakmont, Pennsylvania.
After we’d given the waitress our orders, I attempted to prolong the conversation about Darren’s kids. Anything to keep him talking rather than asking questions. “Given your children’s names, is their mother a big Twilight fan?”
“You have no idea,” he muttered.
“Candace wanted Darren to have his teeth filed into vampire points,” said Erica. “Can you imagine?”
“Only one of many reasons why we’re now divorced,” he said, “but let’s get back to you, Anastasia. What types of artwork do you show in your gallery?”
Damn! “Crafts, mainly. Erica mentioned you’re a college admissions counselor at Pitt?”
“That’s right. What’s the name of the gallery?”
Luckily, I’d anticipated having to supply a gallery name. “Creative Hearts & Hands.” The gallery did exist but in Hoboken, not Manhattan. And of course, I wasn’t the owner. “How long have you worked at the university?”
Darren frowned as he broke a breadstick in half. “Is this a genetic trait common to all Miller women? You’re exactly like Erica. Neither one of you is willing to talk much about yourself. Erica and I have dated for three months, yet I know next to nothing about her life before she moved to Oakmont. She doesn’t even have any family photos.”
Erica placed her hand on his forearm. “Darren, I told you I lost everything when my house flooded during Hurricane Irene.”
He ignored her and turned to me. “What about you, Anastasia? Did your house also flood during the hurricane?”
I hadn’t expected the conversation to veer in this direction. Good thing Erica provided a handy dodge for both of us. “Yes, as a matter of fact—”
He slammed his hands on the table, nearly toppling our wine glasses. “Why are you both so damn secretive?”
I shrugged. “I’d love to tell you, Darren, but then I’d have to kill you.”
He didn’t get the joke. His eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “You’re a government agent?”
I laughed. This must be how Zack feels whene
ver I question him about his frequent spur-of-the-moment trips to remote parts of the world.
Erica placed her hand over Darren’s. “Really, does Anastasia look like a government agent? You think she’s Jane Bond or something?”
“I can assure you,” I said, “that I’m not a spy.” At least that wasn’t a lie, unlike nearly everything else I’d told Darren so far this evening.
“I’m not sure what to think,” he said. “Something’s very odd about the way the two of you act. Like you’re hiding something.”
“Blame our reticence on our upbringing,” I said. “In our family talking about yourself was considered poor manners and frowned upon.”
I don’t think he bought into my explanation, but he gave up peppering me with questions once our dinners arrived.
~*~
“How exhausting!” I said after Darren dropped us off back at Erica’s house. “I don’t know how you manage hiding your past from everyone. How do you keep all the lies straight?”
Erica curled up on the couch and hugged one of the throw pillows to her chest. “It’s a full-time job. I have to think about everything I say before I say anything. On more than one occasion I’ve slipped and mentioned something I shouldn’t have said.”
“Like what?”
“A few weeks ago I told someone at work that I’d met Vittorio Versailles before he was murdered.”
“Erica!”
“I know. I caught myself in time and said it was part of a literacy fundraiser I’d attended in New York.”
“You need to be more careful.”
She sighed. “I’m trying. At least I haven’t mentioned anything about my family.”
“What about me?”
“My real family, I mean. But you saw how annoyed Darren got this evening. Eventually, I’m going to have to tell him something.”
“You need to discuss this with your WitSec handler.”
“I haven’t told her about Darren yet.”
“She doesn’t know you’re dating someone?”