A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5) (9 page)

Without the need for human models, the session took less time to shoot than it had to set up. Twenty minutes later I grabbed the pillows off the bed and returned to my cubicle.

“Good. You’re back,” said Cloris. “I found a connection.”

I dropped the pillows on my counter and darted into her cubicle. “What?”

“John Jr.’s son Trey moved to New Jersey shortly after his grandfather died.”

“Why?”

“Relocation to Fort Dix.”

“He’s in the army, too?”

“A sergeant. He served two tours of duty in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. Now he’s stateside, training recruits.”

“A guy like that would know how to creep up on someone and put a bullet in her head.” As far as I was concerned, I now had enough credible information to hand over to the police. “I’ll call Detective Spader.”

~*~

“How the hell did you find out about that?” asked Spader when I told him I thought Betty was really Belita Acosta Bentworth.

Not “where did you come up with such a crazy idea” or “your imagination is on overdrive” or even “leave the detective work to the professions, Mrs. Pollack.” No, Spader had said, “How the hell did you find out about
that
?”—as if he already knew that Betty was really Belita.

I told him how I’d put two and two together with a lot of help from the Internet. “But you already know this, don’t you? How?”

“We ran the vic’s prints. But I’m impressed. You never cease to amaze me, Mrs. Pollack.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment, Detective. So do you think Belita’s grandson killed her?”

“You know I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”

“Can you at least assure me that I don’t have a serial killer lurking in my neighborhood?”

“I don’t think you have to worry about any further murders on your street.”

“Good to know, Detective. I’ll let you get back to your detecting.”

“Have a nice day, Mrs. Pollack.” With that he hung up on me.

I crossed the corridor and told Cloris the news. “I suppose fingerprinting murder victims is standard operating procedure,” she said. “Spader probably knew about Belita before you even started looking into Betty’s background last night.”

“At least I know my tax dollars are paying for first-class police work.”

“I’m guessing Spader wouldn’t tell you whether he’s questioned Trey.”

“Mum’s the word with Spader. However, if Trey did kill his grandmother, why now?”

“Opportunity?”

“But why? All three children survived, and we haven’t found evidence that any of them suffered permanent damage from the salt poisoning. I can buy into one of her kids killing her but a grandchild who never knew her? Doesn’t that seem a bit of a stretch to you?”

“It does, but I’m sure we’ll eventually learn Trey’s motive after the police make an arrest.”

“Assuming Trey is the killer.”

“It seems likely, doesn’t it? Anyway, for now, you can hang up your magnifying glass, Sherlock.”

“With pleasure, Watson.” I’d reached my quota of dead bodies for the year.

Or so I thought.

SIX

“What do you mean there’s been another murder?” I stared in stunned disbelief at Spader as he stood in my foyer later that evening. He pulled a black and gray tweed knit cap off his head and shoved it into the pocket of his pea coat. “Who?”

“Carmen Cordova.”

Not sweet Mrs. Cordova!
My hands involuntarily clenched into two tight fists. I squeezed my eyes shut, forcing back tears as I fought to keep from pummeling the man for bringing me such horrific news. Instead, I verbally assaulted him with accusations. “You lied to me. You told me we didn’t have to worry about any more murders in the neighborhood. What the hell is going on, Detective?”

“Damned if I know,” he muttered. “This puts a whole new spin on the Bentworth case.”

My brain shifted to Betty. “Are you saying Carmen’s death eliminates any of Belita’s relatives as suspects in her murder? What if the killer targeted Carmen specifically to throw you off?”

Spader cleared his throat before he spoke. “Turns out all three of Belita’s kids have ironclad alibis with plenty of corroborating witnesses to back them up.”

“What about the grandchildren? What about Trey?”

“Trey was testifying at a court martial for a deserter at the time of the murder.”

“Alibis and witnesses can be bought.”

Spader shook his head. “Don’t be ridiculous, Mrs. Pollack. I personally drove down to Fort Dix this morning to question him.”

“There was no way he could have driven to Westfield after he testified yesterday?”

“None. Both the court transcripts and various witnesses place him in the courtroom during the time of the murder. Trey Bentworth didn’t kill his grandmother. He had no idea he even had a living grandmother.”

“What about Belita’s children?”

“We contacted both the military police in Guam and the Milwaukee P.D. John Jr. hasn’t left the island since returning from his father’s funeral two years ago.”

“And Michael? Mary?”

“According to the detectives who questioned them, they were both shocked to learn Susan wasn’t their real mother. Both insisted the detectives had them confused with some other Bentworths.”

“I suspect Susan has a lot of explaining to do.”

He shook his head. “Susan won’t be explaining anything to anyone. She’s in the advanced stages of Alzheimer’s.”

I motioned for Spader to follow me into the living room. My legs were about to turn into linguine. I needed to sit down before I collapsed onto my tiled foyer floor.

After offering Spader a seat in one of the two wing chairs flanking the picture window, I settled onto the sofa opposite him and pulled a cable knit lap blanket off the back of the sofa and onto my lap. Suddenly I felt very cold. “How did Mrs. Cordova die?”

Carmen Cordova lived at the opposite end of the street in one of the many mid-century split-level tract homes that dotted the neighborhood. A kind woman with a gregarious personality, you could spot her from a block away by her penchant for boldly colored floral dresses. In every way Carmen Cordova was the complete opposite of the drab and dour Betty Bentworth.

“She was attacked in her home,” said Spader.

“She lived alone. Who found her?”

“Her daughter. When Mrs. Cordova didn’t show up for her granddaughter’s birthday dinner this evening and didn’t answer her phone, the daughter drove over to the house. She found her mother in the bathroom.”

“Was she also shot?”

“No, she’d been stabbed multiple times.”

Ralph, perched atop the bookcase, spread his wings and squawked. Spader nearly jumped out of his seat as Ralph added his Shakespearean two cents to the discussion: “
It may chance cost some of us our lives, for he will stab.
Henry the Fourth, Part II.
Act Two, Scene One.”

“Creepy,” muttered Spader, eyeing Ralph. “How’s he do that?”

“Photographic memory,” I answered automatically, hardly paying attention to the bird. My own mind had conjured up a graphic image of Mrs. Cordova’s last moments of life. I shuddered. No one deserved such a fate. At least Betty Bentworth never knew what hit her. “Do you think she surprised a burglar?”

“Possibly. The intruder may have thought the house was empty at the time.”

“I sense a
but
.”

“He overlooked quite a few valuables. Of course, something may have spooked him and caused him to flee in a hurry.”

“Carmen owned a lot of antique gold jewelry that looked more costume than real. He may not have realized the value of those pieces.”

“That’s definitely a possibility. I don’t think this guy was a professional burglar.”

“Why?”

“The haphazard way he ransacked the home. The items he overlooked. We’re probably dealing with a drug addict hoping to score items to fence quickly. That would also explain the way Mrs. Cordova was attacked.”

“What do you mean?”

“I think the killer was high at the time.”

Spader’s words sent a shudder coursing through my body as the implication set in. I took a deep breath and fought to keep my dinner in my stomach. “There are two killers on the loose,” I whispered.

He nodded, his mouth set in a tight, grim line. “Seems that way. Bentworth’s murder was a cold, calculated hit. Cordova’s killer appears to have been consumed with rage toward his victim. Whether that rage was drug-induced paranoia or set off by something else is pure speculation at this point. Do you know of anyone who had a grudge against Mrs. Cordova?”

The idea seemed ludicrous to me. As much as people hated Betty, they adored Carmen. “Everyone loved her.”

“Possibly not everyone.”

“You think someone targeted Carmen? That this wasn’t a burglary gone wrong?”

“I can’t rule anything out at this time.”

I shook my head. “I don’t ever remember anyone in the neighborhood having a problem with her. She was the unofficial block grandmother. She doted on her family, never had a mean word for anyone, and she made the best flan I’ve ever tasted.”

Spader raised an eyebrow.

“Over the years she occasionally organized block parties. I think she missed the type of old-world neighborhood atmosphere of her childhood.”

“Was she successful?”

“To some extent but you know how hectic life is these days—working parents, kids in extracurricular activities, the parents pulled in a million different directions all the time. People came when they could. The only person who never showed up was Mrs. Bentworth, but no one ever expected her to accept an invitation. Although, I believe Mrs. Cordova always invited her. She was that kind of woman.”

“I see.” Spader rose. “If you think of anything—”

I tossed aside the lap blanket and stood. “I know where to reach you, Detective.”

As I accompanied Spader to the door, I asked, “You’re sure there’s no connection between the two murders?” I found it hard to believe we had two different killers preying on elderly residents of my small street. What were the odds?

“If there is, I’m not seeing it. Other than both victims being elderly women, nothing about the two cases matches up. The M.O.’s of the killers are completely different.”

“There is one other connection that links Carmen and Betty.”

“What’s that?”

“They were both Latinas. Although she was born here, Betty’s family came from Spain. Carmen was born in Cuba. She fled with her parents and siblings when Castro overthrew Batista’s government in 1959.”

“I think that’s most likely just a coincidence.”

“Can you be absolutely certain?”

Spader ran his hands through what was left of his hair before removing his knit cap from his pocket and pulling it over his head. “Damned if I can be certain of anything at this moment.”

Not the comforting answer I wanted to hear.

Once Spader departed, I headed down the hall to tell my sons about the latest murder on our street. “I need to speak with both of you,” I said, perching myself on the edge of Nick’s desk.

They both pulled their noses out of their textbooks. Their faces filled with concern. “What’s up?” asked Alex. When I told them about Mrs. Cordova, he said, “Jeez, Mom! It’s like we’re all of a sudden living in Newark or Camden.”

“Or we’ve been sucked into some weird video game where the bad guy targets old ladies,” said Nick. “What’s going on? Why is someone all of a sudden gunning down people on our street?”

I didn’t tell him Mrs. Cordova wasn’t shot. The boys didn’t need to hear the graphic details of her death. “I wish I knew,” I said. “The police are baffled.”

“Two old ladies on our street are killed less than a day apart,” said Alex. “Doesn’t that seem awfully coincidental to you, Mom?”

“Yes, it does,” I said.

“The cops must be looking at some suspects, right?” asked Nick.

I shook my head. “Detective Spader had what he thought was a solid lead in Mrs. Bentworth’s murder, but it didn’t pan out.” I paused and took a deep breath. Now for the hardest part. “He doesn’t think the two deaths are connected.”

“So we’ve got
two
killers on the loose?” asked Nick, the color draining from his face.

“Strange as it sounds, yes. Which is why I want both of you to be super careful.”

“This would be a terrific time to take a vacation,” said Nick.

“Yeah, if only Dad hadn’t gambled away all our money,” said Alex.

As if I didn’t have a long enough list of items to blame on Karl Marx Pollack, I could now add placing his sons in harm’s way—for the second time.

“Are you going to tell Grandmother Lucille?” asked Nick.

“My next stop,” I said. “I wanted to talk to both of you first.” Before leaving their room I gave each of my sons a long hug.