Sleuthing Women II

by Lois Winston

  “No.”

  “Darren seems serious, Erica. You need to discuss this with her.”

  She sighed again. “I know. I promise. As soon as we figure out who’s leaving me those notes and gifts. I can only deal with one crisis at a time.”

  “I think I have a plan.”

  SIX

  “We’re going to catch him in the act,” I said.

  “How? There doesn’t seem to be any pattern to when the gifts and cards arrive.”

  “But you said they’re appearing with more frequency lately, twice a day or more.”

  “That’s right.”

  “So chances are he’ll show up again at least once before I leave tomorrow. We’re going to be waiting for him the moment he steps onto your property.”

  I laid out my plan. “We’ll set an alarm to wake up before dawn. I’ll stake out the front of the house, and you’ll stake out the back. At some point he’ll show up, and we’ll have our answer.”

  “I hope it’s not Eldon,” said Erica.

  “I haven’t noticed anyone else other than Darren taking an interest in you.” Other than Eldon and Tilly Braunfelter, we hadn’t bumped into anyone who seemed to know Erica. I found that quite odd, especially considering she worked at the library. “Has any other man asked you out? Have you turned down a date with anyone?”

  “No one.”

  Another thought occurred to me, one I hope she didn’t confirm. “You haven’t signed up for any online dating sites or visited any chat rooms, have you?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Then you need to think about what you’ll say to Eldon because I’m betting he shows up here sometime tomorrow.”

  ~*~

  The alarm woke me at four-thirty the next morning. I peeled my eyelids open to the annoying chirping of waking birds and headed for the bathroom. Erica, already dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, met me in the hall. “I’ll start a pot of coffee,” she mumbled.

  “Don’t turn on any lights. If he thinks you’re awake, he might not leave anything.”

  “I hope he’s an early riser. I’d love to catch him, then go back to bed.”

  I yawned. “That makes two of us.”

  By the dim glow of the bathroom night light, I brushed my teeth and grabbed a quick shower. The sky had begun to lighten when I returned to the guest bedroom. Glancing out the window, I noticed a familiar figure jogging down the street, heading away from the house.

  I raced down the stairs, unlocked the front door, and flung it open. No package. No card. Nothing in front of the door, nothing sitting on either porch chair.

  “Who is it?” asked Erica, coming up behind me.

  “No one.” I closed and locked the door. “Is Eldon a runner?”

  “I don’t know. Why?”

  “I saw him jogging down the street.”

  “But he didn’t leave anything on the porch?”

  “No. Unless he went to the back door.”

  “I didn’t hear anyone.”

  We both headed for the kitchen. Erica unlocked and opened the kitchen door. Again, no package or envelope.

  “Maybe the jogger only looked like Eldon,” I said. After all, I’d met Eldon only once and had spent less than a minute with him.

  We both grabbed coffee and cereal bars and took up our stake-out positions. The sun rose; the street came alive. One by one families left to go to church. The morning dragged on without any sign of Eldon or anyone else bearing gifts for Erica.

  A little before eleven o’clock Erica called from the kitchen. “I made a fresh pot of coffee.”

  I grabbed my cup and headed for the kitchen. As Erica poured the coffee, we heard a knock on the front door.

  “That’s probably Darren,” she said.

  I followed her to the living room. When she opened the door, we found Horace Buckwalter standing on her porch. He held a bouquet of pink roses in his hands. Mr. Buckwalter offered Erica the flowers. “I’ve come a’courtin’, Rose.” Then seeing me, he tipped his hat and said, “With your permission, of course, ma’am.”

  ~*~

  Erica invited Mr. Buckwalter into her home and served him a cup of coffee and a plate of cookies. After several phone calls, she tracked down his daughter Ruth.

  Fifteen minutes later Ruth arrived to pick up her father. “I’m sorry he disturbed you,” she said. “My mother grew up in this house. Her name was Rose Salzwedel. In my father’s mind, he must have gone back to his youth when he and my mother first met and dated.”

  “That explains the gifts and cards,” said Erica.

  “He brought you gifts?”

  “I thought I had a stalker. Someone keeps leaving me cards and presents. Only I didn’t know my mystery suitor was your father until this morning.” Erica retrieved the box from the pantry and showed her the contents.

  Ruth recognized the embroideries at once. “My mother made these.”

  “That explains all the roses,” I said, “and signing the cards with a drawing of a rose.”

  “But why would your father secretly give me these gifts?” asked Erica.

  “Don’t you see?” I said. “He thought you were Rose. He was wooing his wife all over again, giving her—you—presents that would mean something to her.”

  “Oh.” Erica looked across the table to where Horace Buckwalter munched on a cookie. He stopped chewing and smiled at her. “You always did bake the best oatmeal raisin cookies, Rose.”

  No matter that Erica had served him from a bag of Oreos. In Horace’s mind, Rose had baked him oatmeal raisin cookies. Erica reached across the table and squeezed Horace’s hand. “I’m glad you’re enjoying them, Horace.”

  ~*~

  I left that evening knowing that for now, at least, Erica was safe. No one had stalked her, and no hit men had arrived in Oakmont to settle a score for her father.

  “Remember,” I said when she dropped me off at the airport, “you promised me you’ll tell your WitSec handler about Darren.”

  “I will.”

  I doubted she’d keep her promise.

  “We can’t have any further contact,” I said.

  “I know.”

  I gave her a hug before heading into the terminal. I had a feeling Erica wouldn’t keep that promise, either.

  ~*~

  Anastasia’s adventures continue in other books in the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries and the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mysteries.

  About the Author

  USA Today bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and non-fiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry.

  Connect with Lois at the following sites:

  Email: lois@loiswinston.com

  Website: http://www.loiswinston.com

  Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers Blog: http://www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com

  Pinterest: http://www.pinterest.com/anasleuth

  Twitter: https://twitter.com/Anasleuth

  Sign up for Lois’s newsletter at:

  https://app.mailerlite.com/webforms/landing/z1z1u5

  Books by Lois Winston

  Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Series

  Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun

  Death by Killer Mop Doll

  Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

  Decoupage Can Be Deadly

  A Stitch to Die For

  Scrapbook of Murder (coming soon)

  Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mysteries

  Crewel Intentions

  Mosaic Mayhem

  Patchwork Peril

  Crafty Crimes (a collection of all 3 Mini-Mysteries)


  Empty Nest Mystery Series

  Definitely Dead

  Literally Dead

  Romantic Suspense

  Love, Lies and a Double Shot of Deception

  Lost in Manhattan (writing as Emma Carlyle)

  Someone to Watch Over Me (writing as Emma Carlyle)

  Romance and Chick Lit

  Talk Gertie to Me

  Four Uncles and a Wedding (writing as Emma Carlyle)

  Hooking Mr. Right (writing as Emma Carlyle)

  Finding Hope (Writing as Emma Carlyle)

  Novellas and Short Story Collections

  Elementary, My Dear Gertie

  Once Upon a Romance

  Finding Mr. Right

  Multi-Author Boxed Sets

  Sleuthing Women: 10 First-in-Series Mysteries

  Sleuthing Women II: 10 Mystery Novellas

  Romance Super Bundle

  Romance Super Bundle II, Second Chances

  Romance Super Bundle III, Always & Forever

  Romance Super Bundle IV, Endless Love

  Children’s Chapter Book

  The Magic Paintbrush

  Nonfiction

  House Unauthorized

  Bake, Love, Write

  We’d Rather Be Writing

  Top Ten Reasons Your Novel is Rejected

  NO QUARTER

  A Cleopatra Jones Mystery Novella

  Maggie Toussaint

  In this novella addition to the Cleopatra Jones series, accountant Cleopatra Jones wakes up in the hospital numb and afraid. Amnesia, the doctor says. A man claiming to be her ex-husband finds her. She recognizes him, better yet, she’s able to speak and move with the passage of hours. She feels stronger and remembers more, except for the incident that landed her in the hospital. Jack Martinez catches her case, and based on what her family tells him, goes to visit Cleo’s wealthy tax client. Only Mrs. Taylor is dead, and her money is gone. Cleo, a nosy neighbor, an imposter, and a granddaughter on the lam are the suspects. Cleo recovers from her hospitalization sure of what she wants. But will she have the chance to follow her dreams before the killer comes for her?

  ONE

  “Ma’am? Are you all right?”

  The voice sounded a million miles away. I barely caught the words. Didn’t matter though. I was too woozy to answer.

  The voice persisted. “Ma’am. What is your name?”

  Go away. Let me sleep.

  Fingers pried an eyelid open, and a light blinded me. Startled, I tried to rear back, only there was nowhere for my head to retreat. The light winked out, then it blazed into my other eye.

  Leave me alone. I tried to curl into a fetal position, only my arms and legs didn’t move. I was paralyzed! Icy fear shot through my bloodstream. I was in danger. Had to hide. Had to sleep.

  Painful tingles lanced my hands and feet. I groaned inwardly at the awful sensations. Why wouldn’t they leave me be? I felt like a slab of meat with people standing around and poking me.

  “She’s coming round,” the voice said.

  “Ma’am, can you hear me?” a deeper voice asked.

  “Yes,” I said, only my lips didn’t move. Cold. I was so cold. I shivered and trembled.

  “She’s going into shock,” the voice said.

  ~*~

  Joints ached. Head pounded. I squinted through slits of eyelids. White ceiling. White room. Where am I? What happened to me?

  My fingers curled, nails dug into my palms. I tried to lift my head, and pain sliced through me. Beeps sounded. Footsteps approached. My eyes opened wide with terror.

  A woman dressed in white beamed at me as if I’d won a prize. “There you are.” She punched a few buttons, and the noise ceased. The throbbing in my head lessened.

  “I’m Nurse Holly Ann, and you’re in the hospital,” she said in a perky voice. “We think you were in a car accident. Do you understand what I’m saying?”

  Car accident? No way. I’m a safe driver. I tried to tell her, but my words came out gibberish. My pulse thrummed in my ears.

  “Take it easy,” Nurse Holly Ann continued. “I’m going to check your vitals now.”

  Vital signs. I’m alive. That was good news. A cuff squeezed my arm, sending my heart rate into a gallop.

  The nurse stuck a device in my ear briefly. “Temp is ninety-seven. A little low, dear, but that’s to be expected.”

  Why was it expected?

  She must’ve read the question in my eyes. “Because of the cold weather. It’s January. You were wandering on a Christmas tree farm in northern Virginia. The farmer called an ambulance, and now you’re safe in the hospital. Sit tight, and I’ll get the doctor. He’ll tell you more.”

  A tree farm? This was all so confusing. What happened to me? I tried to remember, but static filled the void where my memory should be.

  “The charge nurse said you were awake,” a man said.

  I opened my eyes, tried to speak, and got gibberish again. So frustrating.

  “Ah, hello there. I’m Doctor Garwood. Good to see you’re conscious. You may be experiencing a headache. You have a concussion, and we’re monitoring you. Your CT scan came back fine, so there’s no internal bleeding. Blink twice if you have a headache. Blink once if you have no pain.”

  I blinked twice at the tall man in the white coat, and he smiled.

  “You’re doing fine,” he said. “You may experience temporary problems with speech and memory. That’s routine for your type of injury. Most cases like this resolve satisfactorily in twenty-four to forty-eight hours.”

  An injury? I had no memory of an accident or injury. Then I rewound more of what he’d said. Oh. Memory loss. The mental fog made sense now. Regardless, I wanted out of here. I wanted to go home. I blinked twice and waited. Home. Where was home?

  “We’ll get you squared away in no time,” he said. “Do you remember your name? Three blinks for yes, two for no.”

  My name. Somebody asked me my name earlier. It’s . . . what is it? I couldn’t remember. I blinked twice.

  “That’s what I thought, but your memory should return shortly. You have a bump on your head. Nothing broken and no other swelling, so you’re good there. Since you carried no identification, we sent your photo to area police departments.”

  Photo to the cops. Good. My family would find me. Wait. What was that about a bump on my head? I blinked three times in a row.

  He jotted notes on a chart, ignoring me. I tried to sit, but my stiffened joints protested.

  Dr. Garwood glanced over at my thrashing. “Be patient while your body reboots. We’re still waiting on your toxicology reports and hoping for a positive ID. Sit tight.”

  Sit tight. As if I could leave. I flexed my fingers again and then I tried my toes. They didn’t respond. Not good. I wanted to lift my head and see if they were still attached to my feet, but that would trigger alarms again, which would make my headache pound harder.

  With each passing moment, mental clarity strengthened. I tried to piece the facts together. Something happened to me, and I was in a hospital. It was January, and I’d been walking through a tree farm. The farmer hadn’t recognized me, the cops didn’t know me, so I must not be local. Why was I walking around someplace I didn’t belong in the middle of winter?

  I thought and thought until I gave up. Somebody must be searching for me. Somebody would come for me. My eyes drifted shut again.

  ~*~

  “Cleo!” a man said.

  He spoke the name again. A warm hand caressed mine. I opened my eyes and gazed into the concerned blue eyes of a man I recognized. Comfort flowed from his touch. Except for his illuminated, concerned face, the white room seemed drenched in shadows. Darkness filled the window behind him. Night must’ve fallen.

  “We’ve been so worried,” he said. “It’s so good to see you.” He paused a moment. “Can you understand me?”

  “Who? What?” I managed, proud that my efforts sounded like words.

  “I’m Charlie Jones. You’re Cleopatra Jones. We have two bea
utiful daughters together.”

  Charlie. The name felt right. The man felt right. Was this my husband? “Girls?”

  “The kids are fine. They’re home with your mom and Bud in Hogan’s Glen. That’s in Maryland.”

  The details sounded familiar, but I wouldn’t swear to anything right now. “Day?”

  “It’s still Monday, though it’s nearly midnight. We had a hard time convincing people you were missing, but Britt did a database search of missing persons once the first credit card call came in, and that’s how we found you.”

  I didn’t know who Britt was, but right now I didn’t care. “Credit card?” I was delighted to get out two more words that sounded normal. Yep, I was beating this.

  “Someone stole your identity, babe. Delilah and Bud are notifying your credit card companies of the theft. Once the first card company called about you vacationing in the south of France today, I knew something was up. That was on the joint card we use for the kids’ expenses.”

  I skipped over the names of Delilah and Bud, focusing on the financial difficulty. Good grief. Was someone trying to bankrupt me? At the deepened concern, my head pulsed and pounded so hard I cried out in pain.

  Tears leaked down my face. “Home. I wanna go home.”

  Charlie wiped my cheeks with his fingers. “Of course. And you will. But tomorrow. On Tuesday. Your job is to rest and get a good night’s sleep. Do you remember anything from this morning?”

  “No. Remember you and the girls. Charla and Lexy, right?”

  “Yeah. Good job. The girls are safe at home. I’ll spring you as soon as I can. You’ve never liked hospitals, not since your dad passed.”

  My father. He died in a hospital. I remembered. Why couldn’t I remember what happened this morning?

  “Once Britt saw a Jane Doe listed in this area, your mom mentioned you had a client over here. A Mrs. Taylor. I drove over and found you.”

  “Taxes,” I said automatically. Yes, I do taxes. I’m an accountant and my business is Sampson Accounting. My memory wasn’t fried.