A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5) (10 page)

I found my mother-in-law in the den,
The Real Housewives of New Jersey
blaring from the television, Mephisto clutched in her arms. Ever since I’d caught Lucille and her fellow Daughters of the October Revolution watching
Dancing With the Stars
last month, she hadn’t bothered to hide her obsession with reality TV.

She claimed she watched the shows for research, that she was writing a book on the detrimental effects of bourgeoisie culture on the minds of the American public, but I hadn’t once seen her take any notes, let alone sit down at a computer. Instead she glued herself to the television screen, consuming a steady diet of spoiled nouveau riche housewives from various states, assorted Little People, various Amish behaving badly, and of course, all those Kardashians.

I had to take some of the blame. A few weeks ago after dealing with Ira’s brats, I broke down and reinstalled basic cable. The phone company had made me an offer my kids convinced me I couldn’t afford to pass up. Alex and Nick now had their ESPN back, Lucille had her Bravo and E!, and I didn’t have to listen to snide remarks from Melody, Harmony, and Isaac on the state of my finances—all for the bargain price of only an additional $49.95 a month for the next two years.

Lucille ignored me when I entered the den. I had to stand in front of the television, blocking her view, in order to get her attention.

“Move,” she said. “I can’t see.”

“Pause it. I need to speak with you.”

“I’m busy.” She tightened her grip on Mephisto. The poor dog whined, beseeching me with woeful eyes, as if pleading for rescue from his mistress.

“Too bad.” I snatched the remote off the coffee table. Instead of pausing the show, I turned off the television. “There’s something you need to know. It’s important.”

Mephisto yelped as Lucille leaned forward, compressing her body against his while trying to grab the remote from my hand. The poor dog finally wriggled out of her grasp, jumped off her lap, and waddled from the room.

“Manifesto, come back to mother,” she called after him. When the dog ignored her, she graced me with one of her trademark scowls. “Now see what you’ve done! You’ve frightened him. The world revolves around you, doesn’t it, Anastasia?”

“That’s right, Lucille. It most certainly does, as evidenced by the fact that I live in the lap of luxury.” I waved my arms at the decades-old, threadbare furnishings that filled my den. Everything in the room had been purchased at secondhand shops when Karl and I first married and were saving all our pennies, nickels, and dimes to buy a house. Or maybe we were only saving what he didn’t gamble away. I had no way of knowing how far back in our marriage his affair with Lady Luck had started, and I never would. For all I knew, the gambling may have preceded our marriage. That part of Karl’s secret life died with him.

“Get on with it then,” said Lucille, crossing her arms over her sagging bosom.

I told her about Mrs. Cordova. “Perhaps you should arrange to stay with one of your friends until the police catch the killers,” I said.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you? Once you get me out of the house on some trumped up excuse, you won’t allow me back. I’m well aware you’ve been plotting a way to get rid of me from the moment I moved in.”

“Lucille, two elderly women on this street are dead. You could be next.”

“Not likely. I can take care of myself.” She reached out her hand. “Now give me the remote. This is my son’s home, and I’m not leaving.”

I’m not a petty person, really. However, Lucille tries my patience to the limit, and right now I’d not only reached that limit, I’d surpassed it. By at least a mile. Instead of handing her the remote—or even placing it on the coffee table—I deliberately set it on the television console, forcing her to haul herself off the sofa and walk across the room to retrieve it. I then exited the den without a backwards glance. The woman needed to exercise more anyway. How’s that for rationalizing my behavior?

I’d only made it halfway down the hall when my front door flew open, and Hurricane Flora burst inside.

SEVEN

“Anastasia! We just heard. Poor Mrs. Cordova! How did it happen?”

Lawrence followed Mama inside, closing the front door behind him but not before a flurry of dried leaves whirled their way into the foyer. Instead of bending to pick them up, he crushed several underfoot as he joined his wife. I stared down at the leaf crumbs, then up at Lawrence. “You’ll find a dust pan and broom hanging in the mudroom.”

Looking totally oblivious, he didn’t say a word. Nor did he make any attempt to move toward the mudroom.

“Never mind about that now,” said Mama. She waved her hand, swatting away the idea that her husband should be responsible for cleaning up his own mess. Why should he? She never did. At least not while she lived under my roof.

“You can sweep up later, dear,” she said. “Now tell us what’s going on. And what are the police doing to ensure your safety?”

Yesterday Mama and Lawrence had arrived minutes after I discovered Betty’s body and called 911. Tonight Spader had already canvassed at least part of the neighborhood before they showed up. “Listening to the wrong bandwidth tonight?” I asked Lawrence.

Lucille had definitely brought out the worst in me. I really wasn’t in the mood to deal with Mama and Lawrence tonight. But at least, unlike last night, they’d arrived after dinner. I hope they didn’t expect me to serve them a late night snack.

“Really, Anastasia! Where are your manners? That’s no way to speak to your stepfather. We were worried about you and the boys.”

When is a grown woman old enough that her mother’s husbands don’t count as stepfathers? I heaved a sigh. “Mama, as you can see, I’m fine. The boys are fine. You should have called.”

“Well, excuse me for wanting to see for myself! Lawrence was gracious enough to drive me over here at this hour. You should appreciate that.”

I closed my eyes and rattled off a quick internal count to ten. Then I backtracked. “I’m sorry, Mama. Lawrence. It’s been a long day, and I’ve just had an altercation with Lucille—”

“I should have known that pinko had something to do with this. I raised you to have manners and respect your elders.”

“Yes, Mama, you did. Now, if you don’t mind, it’s late, and I’m very tired. I didn’t sleep last night. We can talk tomorrow.” Not that I’d get any sleep tonight now that I knew we had two killers in the neighborhood. I tried to usher Mama and Lawrence toward the door, but Mama refused to budge.

“But there’s a serial killer on the loose in your neighborhood! Do the police have any suspects?”

“I’m sure you know as much as I do, if not more, Mama.”

“How would I know more?”

“Your husband has a police scanner, doesn’t he? Isn’t that how you learned about both murders?”

I wondered why it had taken them so long to show up tonight. Spader said Mrs. Cordova’s daughter discovered her mother’s body a little after six o’clock, shortly after I’d arrived home from work this evening. It was now close to nine o’clock. I thought about asking but given how Mama and Lawrence spend a good deal of their time together, I bit my tongue. There are some things that registered too high on my TMI barometer.

Mama choked back a sob. “But this is the second murder in two days on your street. I’m worried. Maybe you and the boys should stay somewhere else until the police catch this killer.”

 
Killers.
But I refrained from mentioning that fact. I’d never get Mama and Lawrence to leave if Mama knew two separate killers had targeted my neighbors. Instead, bad daughter that I was, I clapped my hands together and responded with sarcasm. “What a great idea, Mama! I’ll book a suite at the Waldorf.”

“Really, Anastasia! There’s no need for sarcasm. I’m only trying to help.”

“Where do you expect us to go, Mama? Should we move in with you and Lawrence?”

“Of course not. We only have one bedroom. Where would we put you and the boys?”

“Then where do you suggest we go?”

“We thought you could move in with Ira temporarily. I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. He certainly has enough room for all of you.”

“Ira?” I burst out laughing.
“Ira?”
Not in a million years.

“What in the world is so funny?”

“Would you like to live in the same house with Ira and his bratty kids, Mama?”

“It would only be temporary. And you’d be safe.”

“One day would be a day too long. I’d rather take my chances with a couple of killers.”

“Killers?
Plural?
”

Oops!
“I mean killer. Two murders. I’m tired, Mama. I already told you I didn’t sleep last night.” Sidestepping my mother and Lawrence, I swung open the front door. Another wave of dried leaves rushed into my foyer. “I’ll call you tomorrow. I promise. Please don’t worry.”

Mama sniffed. “Don’t worry? How can I not worry? You’re the only daughter I have, and the boys are my only grandchildren. Of course, I’m going to worry, but I’d worry much less if I knew you were safe at Ira’s.”

“Nothing is going to happen to us, Mama. Now go home. Please.”

She stamped her foot. “Anastasia, as your mother I must insist. You’re not only putting your own life at risk, you’re risking the lives of your children.”

I turned to Lawrence, who up until this point had not said a word. “Would you please help me out here?”

Lawrence wrapped his arm around Mama’s shoulders. “Flora, I’m sure the police have set up patrols on the street and will be guarding all the residents. Besides, this killer seems intent on targeting elderly women. The only person in this house who has anything to worry about is Lucille.”

Mama let Lawrence’s words sink in for a moment. The worry lines on her forehead smoothed out, and I swear I saw her lips quirk slightly for the briefest of moments.

“That’s true, isn’t it?” she said, lifting her chin and gracing him with a smile. “Of course, you’re right, dear. I hadn’t thought of that. If anyone in this house is going to be attacked, it’s that Bolshevik pig, not Anastasia or the boys.”

Mama exhaled a sigh of relief, then turned to me. “That would certainly be a huge burden off your shoulders, wouldn’t it, dear?”

My mother makes no secret that she looks forward to the day she can dance on Lucille’s grave. Then again, I’m sure Lucille harbors similar fantasies about Mama. The truth, though, is that Mama is correct. My life—and my financial situation—would be much less burdensome without Lucille.

However, unlike Mama, I certainly don’t wish any harm to come to my mother-in-law, no matter how much of a pain in the butt she is. I just wish she lived under someone else’s roof.

The front door still stood ajar. A stiff wind blew into the house along with more dead oak and maple leaves. Mama and Lawrence hadn’t removed their coats, but I stood shivering in a long-sleeve T-shirt and jeans. I kissed my mother on the cheek. “Goodnight, Mama.” Then I nudged her toward the door. She finally took the hint. Looping her arm through Lawrence’s, she reluctantly stepped out onto the porch, turning once to look at me and sighing heavily as I closed the door behind them.

~*~

Somehow I managed to fall asleep that night, if only from sheer exhaustion. A nightmare startled me awake an hour before the alarm was set to go off. I bolted upright, my heart pounding so furiously that I thought I was having a coronary.

Slowly I became aware of my surroundings and realized a deranged psychopath wasn’t hot on my heels. As my heart, pulse, and breathing slowly returned from stratospheric levels, the details of the nightmare began to fade until I remembered little more than the panic of being chased down a darkened street.

Two hours later, while sitting in the Route 287 morning rush hour creep-along, I passed the time by directing a nonstop litany of prayers heavenward. Hopefully, my prayerful efforts—along with the police still processing the most recent crime scene—would dissuade any potential murderers and keep everyone on my street safe today and every day going forward. I didn’t want to come home from work tonight to find that a killer had struck down another one of neighbors.

When I arrived at work, I bypassed the break room and headed straight for Cloris’s cubicle. “What the hell is going on in your neighborhood?” she asked when I caught her up on the newest murder. “Westfield is supposed to be one the safest communities in the state. All of a sudden the town’s crime stats are vying with those of Newark and Camden.”

“Hardly.”

“Why don’t the police think the two murders are connected?”

“The M.O.’s are completely different.”

“You have to admit, though, it’s awfully coincidental. Two elderly women murdered a day apart on the same block? What are the odds?”

“Probably too high to calculate.”

“Have you thought about moving out until the killers are caught?”

“Don’t you start, too.” I told her about Mama’s demand that I move in with Ira and his bratty brood. “I’d wind up convicted of murder. Either that or carted off in a straight jacket.”

“Are his kids really that bad?”

“You have no idea.” I shook my head. “No, I’ll take my chances in my own home. If I thought the boys, Lucille, and I were in any danger, I wouldn’t hesitate to leave, but my gut tells me we’re safe.”