A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5) by Lois Winston Read Free Book Online

don’t know. Maybe she inadvertently witnessed something.”
    “And someone wanted to make sure she didn’t talk? Not a bad theory, Mrs. Pollack. But where was she, and what did she see?”
    “That’s your job to figure out, isn’t it, Detective?”
    Spader flipped his notebook closed and shoved it in his breast pocket. Then he reached into his pants pocket, pulled out a card, and handed it to me. “If you think of anything else, call me.”
    As I accepted the card, he added, “One other thing. Do you have any security cameras on your property?”
    “One at each door.” After several break-ins last winter, Zack had insisted on installing an alarm system and cameras under the guise of protecting the expensive photographic equipment he kept in his apartment above my detached garage. He claimed the added cost to include the house was negligible. Although I didn’t believe him, I hardly put up an argument. As much as I never again wanted to rely on a man, finding my family trussed up with duct-taped and tossed into the bathtub was incentive enough to accept all the help I could get to ward off attacks from any future bad guys.
    “Mind if I look at the tape in a little while?” asked Spader.
    “Not at all. Stop by when you’re ready.”
    By this time I had lost the battle to keep my eyes from tearing, my nose from running, and my teeth from chattering. As Spader headed back into Betty’s house, I raced across the street. Through my closed front door, I heard Lucille and Mama squaring off in the living room.

 
     
     
     
    FOUR
     
    “You’re nothing but a vapid, worthless excuse for a human being!”
    “You should talk, you traitorous pinko pig!”
    So intent on hurling venomous insults at each other, neither Mama nor Lucille noticed me when I stepped into the foyer. Ralph, my Shakespeare-quoting African Grey parrot, sat atop the bookcase, his head swiveling back and forth as he followed the verbal fisticuffs. “ Braaawwk! ” he squawked. “ Mortal revenge upon these traitorous Goths. And see their blood, or die with this reproach. Titus Andronicus. Act Four, Scene One.”
    “Déjà vu all over again,” I muttered under my breath, choosing a more modern-day quote from New Jersey’s favorite son Yogi Berra. I walked past Mama and Lucille and headed into the kitchen where I grabbed the leftover Chinese food from the refrigerator, emptied the containers into casserole dishes, and popped them into the oven.
    My sons waylaid me as I passed the den on my way to my bedroom. “Mom,” said Alex. “Lawrence said someone shot Batty Bentworth.”
    “Right here on our street,” added Nick.
    I stepped into the den. Lawrence sat on the couch watching the news, apparently totally oblivious to his wife and my mother-in-law setting off World War III in my living room. Or maybe he was deliberately tuning out the battle.
    “As scary as it is to know someone on our street was murdered,” I reassured my sons, “I don’t think we need to worry. It appears Mrs. Bentworth was deliberately targeted.”
    “I guess she pissed off the wrong person this time,” said Nick. He turned to his brother. “Maybe Mom’s right.”
    “About what?” I asked.
    “You’re always saying if you don’t have something nice to say, don’t say anything. That woman was despicable.”
    “And now she’s dead,” said Alex.
    “That’s a pretty drastic example.” Inwardly, though, I patted myself on the back, glad my sons listened to me and appreciated my parenting skills.
    “Maybe someone should tell Grandmother Lucille there’s a serial killer on the loose, and he’s stalking disagreeable old crones,” suggested Nick.
    “You think it would help?” asked Alex.
    Nick shrugged. “Couldn’t hurt.”
    I glanced down the hall. “One of these days those two might just harangue each other to death.”
    “If they don’t come to physical blows first,” said Lawrence, pulling himself away from a newscast about an earthquake in