by Lois Winston
Lucille scowled at me. “You should teach those boys some respect. In my day children knew their place.”
“Don’t you speak to my daughter like that!”
Lucille scoffed. “Look who’s talking. A fine example you set.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” demanded Mama.
“Strumpet.” Lucille pounded her cane once for emphasis, then lumbered from the living room, Mephisto following at her heels. Lucille habitually pronounced judgment with a pounding of her cane, then departed.
“At least I’m getting some,” Mama called after her. “Unlike a certain jealous Bolshevik who hasn’t experienced an orgasm since Khrushchev ruled the Kremlin.”
“Mama!”
Nick and Alex grabbed their middles and doubled over in hysterics.
Mama brushed my indignation aside with a wave of her hand. “For heaven’s sake, Anastasia, I’m a grown woman.”
“Then act like one. Especially in front of your grandsons.”
She winked at the boys. “I thought I did. Besides, if they don’t know the facts of life by now, they’ve got a lot of catching up to do.”
I glanced at my sons, not sure how to interpret the sheepish expression on Alex’s face or the feigned innocence on Nick’s. After the initial shock of seeing their grandmother in the throws of passion, both seemed quite amused by the drama playing out in our living room. “They know all about the facts of life. What they don’t need is a graphic demonstration from their grandmother.”
The corners of Mama’s mouth dipped down. “Honestly, Anastasia, just because I’m over sixty doesn’t mean I’m ready for a hearse. When did you become such a stick-in-the-mud, dear?”
I suppose right around the time she morphed from Ms. Manners into Auntie Mame. Other sixty-five year old women might behave this way in front of their daughter and grandsons, but up until today, Mama wasn’t one of them. Was Poor Lou’s last name Svengali?
Alex spared me from defending myself. “So who’s the stranger dude, Grandma?”
“Lou isn’t a stranger. He’s my fiancé.”
“Your what?” Surely I hadn’t heard her correctly. Had some of that rafter dust settled in my ears? “What about Seamus, Mama?”
“Seamus?”
“Yes, Seamus. Remember him?”
Mama heaved one of those sighs reserved for children who need repeated instruction and explanation. “Seamus died, Anastasia. You know that.”
Of course I knew Seamus had died. He’d suffered a cerebral aneurysm while kissing the Blarney Stone. “But he just died. Three months ago.” Within days of losing my own husband, Mama had lost hers.
“Well, it’s not like we were married very long. He died on our six-month anniversary. Besides, I’m not Merlin. I don’t grow younger with each passing year.”
Ample justification for getting herself engaged to a total stranger, no doubt. “Where did you meet him?”
“On the cruise, of course.”
“So you’re engaged to a man you’ve known for all of one week?”
Mama shrugged. “Time is meaningless when soul mates connect.”
Soul mates? The now-departed Seamus had been soul mate Number Five for Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe. When Mama finally met her maker, she’d have a line of soul mates waiting for her at the Pearly Gates. She’d better hope St. Peter allowed polygamy up in Heaven.
“Besides,” continued Mama, “at my age, I have to grab happiness when it presents itself. Advice you’d do well to heed.” She glanced down the hallway toward the bedrooms. “Unless you want to wind up like her.”
“No, not that!” Nick grabbed his throat and made gagging noises. “Not my mom!”
Alex fell to his knees in front of Mama, his hands clasped in supplication. “Please, Grandma, save our mom!”
Comedians. I tossed them a mom-scowl. “If the two of you have so much time on your hands, you can vacuum and do a load of wash before dinner.” Nearly seven and I still had to prepare a meal, finish a project for a photo shoot tomorrow, and figure out a way to rob Peter to pay Paul before the bill collectors came knocking. Again.
Alex grabbed his backpack. “Sorry, Mom. Got an economics paper due tomorrow.”
“Bio test,” said Nick, retrieving his backpack from the floor.
“Dibs on the computer,” called Alex as he sped down the hall to the bedroom they now shared. The boys used to have their own computers, but Nick’s died last month. A replacement would have to wait until I won Mega Millions or Powerball.
Nick raced after Alex. Neither bothered with the baseball gear they’d dumped on the carpet. Apparently, it had become invisible to all but me.
I stooped to pick up the discarded duffels of sports paraphernalia. “I’m still in mourning.”
Mama snorted as she followed me into the kitchen. “For a no-good gambling addict who left you without two nickels to rub together?”
“Karl and I were married eighteen years,” I said softly as I hung the duffels on pegs in the mudroom off the kitchen. “He’s only dead three months.”
Mama regarded me with an expression that hovered somewhere between pity and skepticism. “You don’t still have feeling for him, do you?”
I grabbed the leftover chicken and broccoli casserole from the fridge. There was barely enough left for four, let alone five people. “Not exactly,” I said, reaching for a box of mac and cheese to supplement the casserole. Not after what Karl Marx Pollack had done to his kids and me. I mourned for my former life. Before lies and deceit and death shattered the illusion of our perfect middle-class world.
I brushed my desperately-in-need-of-a-styling-but-can’t-afford-it hair out of my face and turned to confront Mama. “Besides, I don’t have time for romance. I’m too busy paying off Karl’s debts.”
Three months ago, my husband of eighteen years had permanently cashed in his chips at a Las Vegas roulette table—after also cashing in his sizable life insurance policy and 401(k), maxing out our home equity line-of-credit and numerous credit cards, and draining our teenage sons’ college accounts.
Besides the mountain of debt, my dearly departed had saddled me with both Ricardo The Loan Shark and Comrade Lucille, the communist mother-in-law from Hell. Karl had also stolen his mother’s life savings, thus leaving Lucille and Mephisto ensconced in Nick’s bedroom where they’d remain—short of an act of God. Considering Lucille didn’t believe in God and I had the luck of an excommunicated leprechaun, chances of her leaving any time soon were slim to none.
At least I no longer had to worry about Ricardo. He now resided at a federal facility. Permanently. No chance of parole, thanks to a trail of dead bodies three months earlier.
“A life without romance isn’t worth living,” said Mama. “Which reminds me, how’s that sexy tenant of yours?”
“Zack?” asked Nick, bounding into the kitchen. He opened the refrigerator and began to survey the contents. “He’s cool. Don’t you think he and Mom—”
I cut him off before he could finish his sentence. “I thought you had a test to study for.” I yanked his head out of the fridge and closed the door.
My sons shadowed Zachary Barnes like unweaned puppies. More often than not, I arrived home from work to find Zack sitting at my kitchen table, regaling Nick and Alex with his latest adventure. Lucky for me, the too-sexy-for-my-own-good photojournalist traveled frequently.
“I’m hungry.”
“You’ll have to wait until dinner.”
He glanced at the clock over the sink. “Jeez, Mom, it’s after seven. When are we going to eat?”
I tossed the box of mac and cheese at him. “If you’re so hungry, you can help.”
He tossed the box back. “Can’t. Have to study.” He snagged an apple from the bowl on the kitchen table and hustled out of the kitchen.
“So what’s with you and Zack?” asked Mama as I filled a pot of water and placed it on the stove.
When Mama first met Zack, she to
ssed her hair, batted her eyes, and preened in front of him like a svelte Miss Piggy trying to woo Kermit the Frog. When Zack didn’t take the bait, she decided I should have him. This all took place within days of both of us entering the ranks of widowhood.
I handed her a half-empty bag of carrots and a vegetable peeler. “Nothing.”
She raised an eyebrow as she began scraping carrots. “He’s a very handsome man, Anastasia. Unattached. Good job.”
“Forget Zack. Let’s talk about you. Why are you home three days early?”
Mama had a knack for marrying grasshoppers—men who lived life to the fullest without any regard for tomorrow. When they died, as each of them had, they left her with fond memories of a good time and little more than pocket change. So between husbands, she camped out at Chez Pollack. Although also a grasshopper, Seamus O’Keefe had had the foresight to purchase a small life insurance policy prior to his and Mama’s Irish sojourn—a life insurance policy Mama had discovered only by chance weeks after returning from Ireland. Behind my back she paid off twenty thousand dollars of my inherited debt, then treated herself to a post-Seamus first-class cruise with the remaining five thousand dollars.
Mama waved a raggedly peeled carrot in the air. She was as useless in the kitchen as the rest of my brood. “The ship had some sort of mechanical problem in Antigua. Since there were severe storm warnings, Lou and I decided to fly home before the storm hit.”
“And just who is this Lou?”
A dreamy look settled over her face. The corners of her mouth turned upward into a beatific smile as she exhaled a long sigh. “Lou? He’s the answer to my prayers. And yours.”
“Want to run that by me again?”
Mama rose from the table and tossed the carrot scrapings into the sink. “Lou is Louis Beaumont, Anastasia.”
I waited. And waited. I crossed my arms, tapped my foot, cocked my head, and waited some more. “And?”
Mama’s eyes grew wide. “Surely you’ve heard of Louis Beaumont.”
“Can’t say as I have.”
“He produces You Heard It Here First with Vince and Monica.”
That explained so much. I offered Mama a blank stare.
“The morning talk show with Vince Alto and Monica Rivers? Surely you’ve watched it.”
“Television?” I laughed. “Right. Every morning while I loll around at the spa. In the afternoon I sip champagne, eat bonbons, and watch the soaps.”
“There’s no need for sarcasm, dear. It’s a popular show. Even if you haven’t watched it, I’d expect you to know about it.”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, Mama. I’m a single parent. I’m juggling a full-time job, two teenage kids, a house, a parrot who thinks he’s the reincarnation of William Shakespeare, a semi-invalid mother-in-law, and her spawn of Satan dog.
“And when I’m not dealing with all of that, I’m trying to figure out ways to earn extra income because I’m up to my patootie in debt. I’ve never heard of Louis Beaumont. And you’ve heard that here first.”
“Well, you’d better make an effort to watch You Heard It Here First, dear, because you’re going to be a regular on the show.”
~*~
Want to know what happens next? Click here to buy Death By Killer Mop Doll.
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: [email protected]
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
Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mysteries
Crewel Intentions
Mosaic Mayhem
Patchwork Peril
Crafty Crimes (all 3 mini-mysteries in one collection)
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 Novelettes
Elementary, My Dear Gertie
Once Upon a Romance
Finding Mr. Right
Mom Squad
Multi-Author Boxed Sets
Happy Homicides
Romance Super Bundle
Romance Super Bundle II, Second Chances
Romance Super Bundle III, Always & Forever
Love, Valentine Style
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
Murder Among Neighbors
A Kate Austen Suburban Mystery, Book One
By Jonnie Jacobs
Abandoned by her husband who is traveling in Europe to “find himself,” Kate Austen is left to make a life for herself and her five-year-old daughter. When her socialite neighbor, Pepper Livingston, is murdered, Kate becomes involved in a sea of steamy secrets that bring her face to face with shocking truths—and the handsome detective Michael Stone.
ONE
Walnut Hills is your basic affluent suburban community—quiet, insulated and a tad self-righteous. Located over the hills, just east of Oakland and Berkeley, it’s close enough so that those of us who live there can easily hop in to buy freshly baked baguettes and Peet’s coffee, and on occasion even journey across the bay to San Francisco for an evening of opera and four-star dining. But distinctly remote enough from the exigencies of urban living that we don’t have to worry about some nut cases snatching our purses or our kids, or pulling knives on us for smiling at the wrong time.
There is plenty of free parking, a lovely bike trail—with an adjacent path for horses—and more city parks than stoplights. Our schools have service clubs rather than gangs, our local gas stations are trusting enough to let you pump before you pay, and the weekly crime report— printed in the local paper right next to the gossip column—typically logs nothing weightier than complaints of an after-hours party in the park or a call regarding some prepubescent kid trying to swipe a Bic lighter or can of Coke from the local 7-Eleven.
In other words, it’s not the sort of community where you’d expect to stumble over a murder. And Pepper Livingston was certainly the last person you’d ever expect to go and get herself murdered.
The Livingstons’ house is next-door to ours, although that isn’t the way it sounds. There’s over an acre of property separating the two houses—the Livingstons’ acre plus—so we don’t exactly call out to each other as we pick up the morning paper. In fact, from our front steps you ca
n see only the far comer of the Livingstons’ porch and a couple of upstairs windows. Densely planted rhododendrons and an orchard of walnut trees obscure almost everything else.
Ours is a modest house, the sort of place realtors love to call “quaint.” It was, in fact, originally the carriage house for the estate which later became the Livingstons’ local residence. Personally, I’ve never thought their place was all that attractive, though it certainly is impressive, with its lush grounds, wide circular drive and Georgian pillars. Pepper called it “comfortable.” But it wasn’t, she told me the day I met her, nearly as nice as their house in the Napa Valley. Andy and I had scrimped and saved to buy our place, and some months it was touch and go whether we’d be able to make the mortgage payment on time, so I couldn’t begin to understand the kind of money the Livingstons had.
I knew Pepper because we were neighbors—believe me, an acre or two between houses is nothing in this town—and because our daughters went to the same nursery school and sometimes played together. We shared a car pool and an occasional cup of coffee—rather, I had coffee; Pepper drank tea, herb tea—but we weren’t really close. Pepper was busy running the Benefit Guild and playing tennis at the country club, while I baked brownies for school parties and wiped messy noses on class field trips. I have been known to sneer at all that moneyed life, but the truth was, I would probably have changed places with her in a minute. Until the day she died, that is.
Pepper was killed sometime around midnight, so whether she died on the fifth or sixth of May no one knows for sure, but her body wasn’t discovered until the morning of the sixth. I had just dropped my daughter Anna off at nursery school, and as soon as I turned onto our street I saw the police cars—five of them—parked in a neat line at the far end of the Livingstons’ driveway. No sirens, no flashing lights, no half-open doors signaling a hasty exit.