A Stitch to Die For (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery Book 5) by Lois Winston
Authors: Lois Winston
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mouth dropped open and tears sprang to her eyes. She pushed her plate aside, rose to her feet, and began to walk away from the table.
“Flora, come back,” said Lawrence.
“Mama, please.”
She stopped and pivoted back toward the dining room. In a quivering voice she asked, “How could you, Lawrence?”
“How could I what? Sit down and finish your dinner.”
“I’ve lost my appetite. For both the food and you. See if you get any tonight.”
“Mama!”
“Slut,” said Lucille.
My sons bit down on their lips to avoid the guffaws threatening to erupt from their throats. They failed miserably. Nick, having just taken a sip of water, wound up spewing it across the table. His brother nearly gagged on a piece of pork. Even Spader found it hard to keep a straight face.
A moment later we heard a door slam. Mama had probably locked herself in the bathroom to sulk. Lawrence turned to me. “See? Talking to her only makes matters worse.”
Was he blaming me? “I can’t win,” I muttered.
With the intensity of someone hooked on soap operas, Spader had observed the scene playing out before him, his gaze moving from one player to the next. Then again, I suppose to an outsider my life out-soaped most soap operas. He cleared his throat. “I guess I’ll be going now.”
“About time,” said Lucille.
I rose to walk him to the door, but he waved me back into my seat. “Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”
~*~
Murder triggers insomnia in me. Ever since I’d walked into my cubicle nearly a year ago to discover the dead body of fashion editor Marlys Vandenburg glued to my desk chair, I’ve spent many a sleepless night trying to figure out whodunit and keep my family and me from becoming the killers’ next victims.
I pounded my pillow into submission, trying to work off my anxiety and fear. It didn’t help. I wished Zack were here. As much as I profess I can’t ever again allow myself to rely on a man, all I really wanted at the moment was to have Zachary Barnes wrap his protective arms around me and whisper that everything would be all right. Pathetic!
My sleep-deprived state then transferred my anger to Zack. He picked a fine time to fly off to Greece or wherever he really was, doing who-knows-what for who-knows-which alphabet agency in the guise of taking pictures of what may or may not be the tomb of Alexander the Great’s mother. The woman had been dead for over two millennia. Another woman, one who was alive this morning, had been murdered across the street from me. A coldblooded killer was on the loose. Damn Zack! He needed to get his priorities straight.
But then I remembered Zack knew nothing about Betty’s murder. How could he? I pulled the quilts over my head and laughed hysterically at my own irrationality. Lack of sleep was definitely taking a toll on my higher brain functions.
I flung back the quilts and shoved my arms into my flannel robe and my feet into my fleece-lined slippers. Then, as I had every hour since first settling into bed, I once more quietly padded my way through the house, checking the locks on every door and window and making certain the alarm was activated. Returning to my bed, I resumed my tossing and turning.
I never had to deal with killers before my not-so-dearly-departed husband dropped dead in Las Vegas, saddling me with both debt equal to the GNP of Uzbekistan and his curmudgeon of a mother. You’d think that would be enough crap for one person to juggle. But no, I now have to contend with stumbling over a constant queue of dead bodies. Maybe one had nothing to do with the other, but really, how many murders does the average middle-aged suburban mom come across in a lifetime, let alone in less than a year? Can this really be coincidence?
Workplace murders are bad enough, but this time a killer had struck right across the street from my home. I doubted I’d sleep another night until the cops nabbed the guy and the justice system locked him away for life—with
“Flora, come back,” said Lawrence.
“Mama, please.”
She stopped and pivoted back toward the dining room. In a quivering voice she asked, “How could you, Lawrence?”
“How could I what? Sit down and finish your dinner.”
“I’ve lost my appetite. For both the food and you. See if you get any tonight.”
“Mama!”
“Slut,” said Lucille.
My sons bit down on their lips to avoid the guffaws threatening to erupt from their throats. They failed miserably. Nick, having just taken a sip of water, wound up spewing it across the table. His brother nearly gagged on a piece of pork. Even Spader found it hard to keep a straight face.
A moment later we heard a door slam. Mama had probably locked herself in the bathroom to sulk. Lawrence turned to me. “See? Talking to her only makes matters worse.”
Was he blaming me? “I can’t win,” I muttered.
With the intensity of someone hooked on soap operas, Spader had observed the scene playing out before him, his gaze moving from one player to the next. Then again, I suppose to an outsider my life out-soaped most soap operas. He cleared his throat. “I guess I’ll be going now.”
“About time,” said Lucille.
I rose to walk him to the door, but he waved me back into my seat. “Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”
~*~
Murder triggers insomnia in me. Ever since I’d walked into my cubicle nearly a year ago to discover the dead body of fashion editor Marlys Vandenburg glued to my desk chair, I’ve spent many a sleepless night trying to figure out whodunit and keep my family and me from becoming the killers’ next victims.
I pounded my pillow into submission, trying to work off my anxiety and fear. It didn’t help. I wished Zack were here. As much as I profess I can’t ever again allow myself to rely on a man, all I really wanted at the moment was to have Zachary Barnes wrap his protective arms around me and whisper that everything would be all right. Pathetic!
My sleep-deprived state then transferred my anger to Zack. He picked a fine time to fly off to Greece or wherever he really was, doing who-knows-what for who-knows-which alphabet agency in the guise of taking pictures of what may or may not be the tomb of Alexander the Great’s mother. The woman had been dead for over two millennia. Another woman, one who was alive this morning, had been murdered across the street from me. A coldblooded killer was on the loose. Damn Zack! He needed to get his priorities straight.
But then I remembered Zack knew nothing about Betty’s murder. How could he? I pulled the quilts over my head and laughed hysterically at my own irrationality. Lack of sleep was definitely taking a toll on my higher brain functions.
I flung back the quilts and shoved my arms into my flannel robe and my feet into my fleece-lined slippers. Then, as I had every hour since first settling into bed, I once more quietly padded my way through the house, checking the locks on every door and window and making certain the alarm was activated. Returning to my bed, I resumed my tossing and turning.
I never had to deal with killers before my not-so-dearly-departed husband dropped dead in Las Vegas, saddling me with both debt equal to the GNP of Uzbekistan and his curmudgeon of a mother. You’d think that would be enough crap for one person to juggle. But no, I now have to contend with stumbling over a constant queue of dead bodies. Maybe one had nothing to do with the other, but really, how many murders does the average middle-aged suburban mom come across in a lifetime, let alone in less than a year? Can this really be coincidence?
Workplace murders are bad enough, but this time a killer had struck right across the street from my home. I doubted I’d sleep another night until the cops nabbed the guy and the justice system locked him away for life—with
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