by Lois Winston
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 whenever 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?”
“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.
A Note from the Author
Thanks so much for taking the time to read Crewel Intentions. I hope you enjoyed it. If so, please consider writing a review and also telling your friends about the book. I’d truly appreciate it.
If you’d like to learn of new Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery releases as well as other books by me and my Emma Carlyle alter-ego, you can sign up for my newsletter by clicking here: [email protected]. You have my word that you won’t be flooded with emails, nor will I ever share or sell your email address. You can also unsubscribe at any time.
Finally, typos and errors are the bane of every author’s existence. No matter how many times this book was proofed, one or two (hopefully no more!) may have slipped past me and those who helped edit this book. If you find a typo, please let me know. The beauty of e-books is that errors can be corrected very easily. You can email me at [email protected].
Happy reading!
Lois Winston
About the Author
Lois Winston is an award-winning author, crafts designer, and literary agent. She currently writes the critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series featuring magazine crafts editor and reluctant amateur sleuth Anastasia Pollack who Kirkus Reviews dubbed, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” Lois is also published in romance, romantic suspense, humorous women’s fiction, and non-fiction. As Emma Carlyle, she writes romance, romantic suspense, and chick lit. Visit Lois at http://www.loiswinston.com, visit Emma at http://www.emmacarlyle.com, and visit Anastasia at the Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers character blog, www.anastasiapollack.blogspot.com. Connect with Lois on Twitter: https://twitter.com/Anasleuth
Table of Contents
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
A Note from the Author
About the Author