A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5) (3 page)

“Hey!” said one.

“You can’t do that!” said the other.

“I can, and I did,” he said, pocketing the phones. “You’ll get them back after dinner.”

“I hate this stupid house,” said Melody, smacking both hands on the table. Or was it Harmony? “And I hate all of you. I don’t know why we have to keep coming here.”

Lucille glared at her. “The feeling is mutual.” Then she targeted me. “This is all your fault, Anastasia. I know you only keep inviting that imposter and his juvenile delinquents to annoy me.”

“That’s right,” said Mama. “The entire world revolves around the commie pinko.”

Isaac wadded up his napkin and hurled it at Lucille. It bounced off her head and landed in the middle of her mound of shrimp.

“How dare you!” Lucille picked the soggy napkin from her plate and glared at Isaac. Had he been sitting closer, I have no doubt she would have mashed it into his face. Luckily, he sat beyond her reach. Instead, she growled like her French bulldog Manifesto (AKA Mephisto or Devil Dog) as she dropped the napkin onto the table.

“You have no right to call us names,” said Isaac. “We’re not juvenile delinquents, you ugly old bitch.”

Lucille grabbed her cane and raised it in his direction.

“Go ahead,” Ira’s son taunted her. “Hit me. I’ll call the cops and have you arrested for child abuse. Then I’ll sue you for everything you’ve got.”

Mama laughed. “Don’t waste your time. She’s dead broke, thanks to her son.”

Lucille whipped her head around toward Mama. “You leave my son out of this!”

“Open your eyes, you Bolshevik cow. Karl was a lowlife scumbag who screwed you, his wife, and his kids.”

“Mama!”

Lucille thought the money she’d kept in shoeboxes under her bed (because she didn’t trust banks) had been lost when a fire reduced her apartment building to ashes. According to Ricardo, Karl’s loan shark and accomplice, my husband had deliberately set that fire—after he absconded with his mother’s life savings. I had never divulged this fact to anyone—especially not to Mama or Lucille. Had Mama somehow found out, or was she simply taking the opportunity to bait her arch nemesis?

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” she asked in a voice dripping with innocence.

“How dare you sully my son’s good name!” said Lucille.

“He sullied his own name long ago,” said Mama.

I ignored both my mother and mother-in-law, instead directing my comments to Isaac. “Eat your dinner. You’re not old enough to file a lawsuit.”

“You’re not a lawyer,” he said. “And you can’t tell me what to do.”

“Enough!” Lawrence pounded his fist onto the table. Plates rattled. Water sloshed around in glasses. “You kids can either behave yourselves or go sit in your father’s car until he’s ready to leave.”

He then turned to Mama, “Flora, dear, I suggest you and Anastasia’s mother-in-law bury the hatchet once and for all for everyone’s sake.”

Mama glared at Lucille. “She started it.”

I didn’t need to be a mind reader to see the thought bubble hovering above Mama’s strawberry blonde waves. She’d be happy to bury the hatchet—right in Lucille’s skull.

“Actually, dear,” said Lawrence, “you started it.”

Mama gasped. “You’re supposed to take my side, not that leftist pinko’s!”

Lawrence patted her hand. “Only when you’re right, Flora. Now I suggest we all calm down and finish our dinner.”

Mama looked as though Lawrence had slapped her across the face. Lucille smirked before turning her attention back to her mound of shrimp. I guess Ira’s kids enjoyed the Chinese food too much to give up dinner because the three of them remained at the table. By the time Ira returned to the dining room they all sat silently hunched over their plates while they gobbled down egg rolls and shoveled huge forkfuls of lo mein into their mouths.

“The police found Pablo,” said Ira.

“In Venezuela?” asked Mama.

“In a Dumpster in Camden. He was strangled with a bicycle lock.”

TWO

“Cool!” said Isaac. “Just like in
Breaking Bad
. Are there pictures?”

“Euw!” said one of his sisters.

“Gross!” said the other.

I stared at Ira, horrified that he’d permit a nine-year-old access to such a violent television series. Even though my kids are teenagers, I had refused to allow them to watch
Breaking Bad
during the original series run and still wouldn’t permit them to view it now that it was in reruns and on demand.

Noticing my appalled expression, Lawrence said, “It was a great show—superb writing, acting, and directing—even if it was a bit violent.”

“A
bit
violent?” Not from what I’d heard.

“Well, I suppose more than a bit.” Then he added, “but totally inappropriate for children.”

Color rose up Ira’s neck and into his cheeks. He averted his gaze, suddenly taking extreme interest in the mound of white rice heaped on his plate.

I glanced at my sons, curious to see their reactions. They both shook their heads and rolled their eyes. They’d come to realize Ira had little common sense when it came to his kids.

 
“He did it,” said Lucille, stabbing her fork in Ira’s direction. “Had them both killed. You’ll see. I told you not to trust him.” She then slid her empty plate toward the middle of the table and hoisted herself up from her chair.

“You watch out, Anastasia,” she said as she hobbled from the dining room. “That man just might murder you in your sleep, and it will serve you right for bringing him into this house.”

The flush of scarlet that had colored Ira’s face and neck quickly drained away, leaving in its place a ghostly pallor. His entire body shook. He dropped his fork on his plate and mumbled at his rice, “I…I had noth…nothing to do w…with Cynthia’s death.” Then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Or Pablo’s.”

Ira was either delivering an Oscar-worthy performance, or he was telling the truth. From everything I’d come to know about him, I held fast to my opinion that he was no cold-blooded killer.

“So Pablo was executed,” said Lawrence.

Apparently, Ira wasn’t the only person at the dinner table who lacked discretion. Ira’s kids had finished their dinner. I turned to my sons. “Why don’t you take Isaac and the twins into the den?”

“What about dessert?” asked Isaac.

“There are apples in a bowl on the kitchen table,” I said. “Help yourselves.”

“Fruit? That’s not dessert,” said one of the girls. “What about ice cream?”

“Or brownies?” asked Isaac.

“Unless you brought some with you, you’re out of luck,” I said.

“This house sucks,” said Isaac. “It’s like a prison. I want to leave. Now!”

“You’ll go home when you’re father’s ready to leave,” said Lawrence. He handed the girls back their phones. “Go into the den, or go sit in the car.”

“Dad,” whined one of the girls, “tell him to stop ordering us around.”

Ira glanced at his daughter, then at Lawrence. “Do as your grandfather says.”

“He’s not our grandfather!” said Isaac, stamping his foot. “He can’t tell us what to do.”

“I’m telling the three of you to listen to him,” said Ira. “Go into the den. Finish your homework, and we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.”

Having gotten the promise of dessert, Ira’s three kids grabbed the backpacks they’d dumped on my foyer floor and headed for the den.

“Do we have to babysit them?” asked Nick. “I’ve got homework.”

“Me, too,” said Alex.

And I had both a massive case of indigestion and a pounding headache. No matter how often I’d told Mama she couldn’t invite Ira and his brood to my home without first consulting me, she continued to do so. By her way of thinking, her need to annoy Lucille trumped my need for less conflict in my life.

I’d have to make it clear to Ira that no matter what Mama said, he needed to clear all invitations with me first—especially during the week. I shook my head. “No need. Go do your homework.”

Once all the kids had dispersed, Lawrence pumped Ira for more information concerning the call he’d received, “What else did the cops say?”

Ira absent-mindedly pushed some rice noodles around on his plate but made no effort to load his fork with any food. “They think it was gang-related. Probably a territorial dispute.”

Camden claimed the dubious distinction of ranking the highest of any city in the country—higher even than Newark or Detroit—for violent crime. Anyone with an ounce of common sense stays far away from what’s been dubbed the most dangerous city in America.

“Where does that leave their investigation into Cynthia’s death?” asked Lawrence.

“They didn’t say.”

They never do. Over the last few months, thanks to my involvement in several other murder investigations, I’d often heard the standard cop non-answer of “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

At least now I no longer needed to ask Zack about his Venezuelan connections. However, unless the police could tie Pablo’s murder to Cynthia’s death, their only lead was now a dead end—literally. “Cynthia’s and Pablo’s deaths may not be connected,” I said.

“How can they not be?” asked Ira.

“Anastasia is right,” said Lawrence. “Cynthia wasn’t murdered. She died of an overdose. She probably fell into the canal, or Pablo panicked and dumped her body there after she died.”

“Unless someone wanted her death to look like an overdose,” I said.

“Like Pablo?” asked Mama.

Lawrence shook his head. “He had nothing to gain by murdering my daughter. No one did. I’m sure the police will eventually rule her death an accidental overdose. Pablo may have supplied her with drugs, but Cynthia was a victim of her own vices.”

“We don’t know that Pablo was Cynthia’s dealer,” I said. “He may not have had anything to do with her death.”

“You’re forgetting they checked into the inn together, and drugs were found in their room,” said Lawrence.

“What if they got into a fight?” I asked. “Pablo may have walked out on her before she overdosed.”

Lawrence laughed. “Be serious. She was his meal ticket. Why would he walk out on her?”

The answer seemed obvious to me if not to Lawrence. “She wasn’t much of a meal ticket once Ira cut off her credit cards. Why would he stay?”

“Anastasia’s right,” said Mama. “Listen to her. She knows all about solving murders. She’s had lots of experience.”

“She’s hardly a law enforcement professional,” said Lawrence, “just someone who’s repeatedly stuck her nose in places that got her in trouble.”

Hmm…I was beginning to sense Lawrence had as little love for me as I had for him.

Mama ignored his comment and turned to me. “Maybe you should offer your services to the police, dear.”

“I’m sure they’re handling things well enough without me, Mama. Anyway,” I continued, staring pointedly at Lawrence, “there are many possible scenarios. Right now all anyone has are assumptions based on circumstantial evidence. No proof of anything. I doubt the police are ready to close their investigation.”

“Well, I disagree,” said Lawrence. “I think it’s obvious what happened. My daughter overdosed on drugs supplied by Pablo. He panicked, dumped her body in the canal, and fled. As for what happened to him, he was probably trying to horn in on someone else’s territory.”

“What makes you so sure Pablo was a drug dealer?” I asked. “We have no proof of that.”

Lawrence sneered at me. “How could he not be? Cynthia had to get her drugs from someone.”

“Perhaps she had her own connections,” I said. “You told us she’d done drugs for years.” I turned to Ira. “How long has Pablo worked for you?”

Ira shrugged. “I have no idea. He worked for the pool service I contract with, but I don’t remember seeing him before this summer.”

“Which means he probably wasn’t her supplier,” I said. “Not if she’d been using drugs before and throughout her marriage to Ira.”

“Has the medical examiner released Cynthia’s body yet?” asked Mama, changing the subject slightly. “We’ll need to plan her funeral.”

“Last Wednesday,” said Ira. “I had her cremated the following day.”

“Then we’ll go with a memorial service,” said Mama, the Martha Stewart of funeral planning, thanks to her vast experience with spouses dying on her.

“We decided that under the circumstances a service would be inappropriate,” said Lawrence.

“When did you decide that?” asked Mama.

“Before you and I left for Paris.”

“What about Cynthia’s sister?” I asked. “Didn’t she want to pay her respects?”

“What sister?” asked Lawrence. “Cynthia was an only child.”

I suppose that explained why Cynthia’s sister was a no-show at Lawrence and Mama’s wedding. I’d assumed she’d stayed away from the nuptials in solidarity with Cynthia.

“Ira,” I said, “the day we met you told us Cynthia was out of town visiting her sister.”