Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries

Books 7-8

By Lois Winston

Table of Contents

Copyrights

Acclaim for the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries

About Drop Dead Ornaments

Drop Dead Ornaments

Dedication

Acknowledgments

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Anastasia’s No-Crafting-Talent-Required Glass Ball Christmas Ornaments

About Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide

Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide

Dedication

Acknowledgments

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

TWELVE

THIRTEEN

FOURTEEN

FIFTEEN

SIXTEEN

SEVENTEEN

EIGHTEEN

NINETEEN

TWENTY

TWENTY-ONE

TWENTY-TWO

TWENTY-THREE

EPILOGUE

Anastasia’s Repurposed Greeting Card Crafts

A Sew Deadly Cruise

A Note from the Author

About the Author

Books by Lois Winston

Copyrights

Drop Dead Ornaments copyright 2018 by Lois Winston. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide copyright 2019 by Lois Winston. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, locations, or events is coincidental or fictionalized.

Cover designs by L. Winston

Acclaim for the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries

Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun

“Crafty cozies don’t get any better than this hilarious confection...Anastasia is as deadpan droll as Tina Fey’s Liz Lemon, and readers can’t help cheering as she copes with caring for a host of colorful characters.” – Publishers Weekly (starred review)

“Winston has hit a homerun with this hilarious, laugh-until-your-sides-hurt tale. Oddball characters, uproariously funny situations, and a heroine with a strong sense of irony will delight fans of Janet Evanovich, Jess Lourey, and Kathleen Bacus. May this be the first of many in Winston’s Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series.” – Booklist (starred review)

“A comic tour de force...Lovers of funny mysteries, outrageous puns, self-deprecating humor, and light romance will all find something here.” – ForeWord Magazine (Book-of-the-Year nominee)

“North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum. Funny, gutsy, and determined, Anastasia has a bright future in the planned series.” – Kirkus Reviews

“...a delightful romp through the halls of who-done-it.” – The Star-Ledger

“Make way for Lois Winston’s promising new series...I’ll be eagerly awaiting the next installment in this thoroughly delightful series.” – Mystery Scene Magazine

“...once you read the first few pages of Lois Winston’s first-in-series whodunit, you’re hooked for the duration...” – Bookpage

“...madcap but tough-as-nails, no holds barred plot and main character...a step above the usual crafty cozy.” – The Mystery Reader

“...Anastasia is, above all, a JERSEY girl..., and never, ever mess with one of them. I can’t wait ‘til the next book in this series...” – Suspense Magazine

“Anastasia is as crafty as Martha Stewart, as feisty as Stephanie Plum, and as resourceful as Kinsey Millhone.” – Mary Kennedy, author of the Talk Radio Mysteries

“Fans of Stephanie Plum will love Lois Winston’s cast of quirky, laughable, and loveable characters. Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun is clever and thoroughly entertaining—a must read!” – Brenda Novak, New York Times best-selling author

“What a treat—I can’t stop laughing! Witty, wise, and delightfully clever, Anastasia is going to be your new best friend. Her mysterious adventures are irresistible—you’ll be glued to the page!” – Hank Phillippi Ryan, Agatha, Anthony, and Macavity award-winning author

“You think you’ve got trouble? Say hello to Anastasia Pollack, who also happens to be queen of the one-liners. Funny, funny, funny—this is a series you don’t want to miss!” – Kasey Michaels, USA Today best-selling author

Death by Killer Mop Doll

“Anastasia is a crafting Stephanie Plum, surrounded by characters sure to bring chuckles as she careens through the narrative, crossing paths with the detectives assigned to the case and snooping around to solve it.” – Booklist

“Several crafts projects, oodles of laughs and an older, more centered version of Stephanie Plum.” – Kirkus Reviews

“In Winston’s droll second cozy featuring crafts magazine editor Anastasia Pollack...readers who relish the offbeat will be rewarded.” – Publishers Weekly

“...a 30 Rock vibe...Winston turns out another lighthearted amateur sleuth investigation. Laden with one-liners, Anastasia’s second outing (after Assault With a Deadly Glue Gun) points to another successful series in the works.” – Library Journal

“Winston...plays for plenty of laughs...while letting Anastasia shine as a risk-taking investigator who doesn’t always know when to quit.” – Alfred Hitchcock Mystery Magazine

Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

“Winston peppers the twisty and slightly edgy plot with humor and plenty of craft patterns. Fans of craft mysteries will like this, of course, but so will those who enjoy the smart and snarky humor of Janet Evanovich, Laura Levine, and Laura DeSilverio.” – Booklist

“Winston’s entertaining third cozy plunges Anastasia into a surprisingly fraught stew of jealousy, greed, and sex...” and a “Sopranos-worthy lineup of eccentric character...” – Publishers Weekly

“Winston provides a long-suffering heroine, amusing characters, a...good mystery and a series of crafting projects featuring cloth yo-yos.” – Kirkus Reviews

“A fun addition to a series that keeps getting stronger.” – Romantic Times Magazine

“Chuckles begin on page one and the steady humor sustains a comedic crafts cozy, the third (after Death by Killer Mop Doll)... Recommend for Chris Grabenstein (“John Ceepak” series) and Jess Lourey readers.” – Library Journal

“You'll be both surprised and entertained by this terrific mystery. I can't wait to see what happens in the Pollack household next.” – Suspense Magazine

“The book has what a mystery should...It moves along at a good pace...Like all good sleuths, Anastasia pieces together what others don’t...The book has a fun twist...and it’s clear that Anastasia, the everyday woman who loves crafts and desserts, and has a complete hottie in pursuit, will return to solve another murder and offer more crafts tips...” – Star-Ledger

Decoupage Can Be Deadly

“Decoupage Can Be Deadly is the fourth in the Anastasia Pollock Crafting Mysteries by Lois Winston. And it’s the best one yet. More, please!” – Suspense Magazine

“What a great cozy mystery series. One of the reasons this series stands out for me as a great one is the absolutely great cast of characters. Every single character in these books is awesomely quirky and downright hilarious. This series is a true laugh out loud read!” – Books Are Life–Vita Libri

“This is one of these series that no matter what, I’m going to be laughing my way through a comedy of errors as our reluctant heroine sets a course of action to find a killer while contending with her eccentrically dysfunctional family. This adventure grabs you immediately delivering a fast-paced and action-filled drama that doesn’t let up from the first page to the surprising conclusion.” – Dru’s Book Musings

“Lois Winston’s reluctant amateur sleuth Anastasia Pollack is back in another wild romp.” – The Book Breeze

A Stitch to Die For

“A Stitch to Die For is the fifth in the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries by Lois Winston. If you’re a reader who enjoys a well-plotted mystery and loves to laugh, don’t miss this one!” – Suspense Magazine

Scrapbook of Murder

“This is one of the best books in this delightfully entertaining whodunit and I hope there are more stories in the future.” – Dru’s Book Musings

“Scrapbook of Murder is a perfect example of what mysteries are all about—deft plotting, believable characters, well-written dialogue, and a satisfying, logical ending. I loved it!” – Suspense Magazine

“I read an amazing book recently, y'all — Scrapbook of Murder by Lois Winston, #6 in the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mysteries. All six novels and three novellas in the series are Five Star reads.” – Jane Reads

“Well written, with interesting characters.” – Laura’s Interests

“…a quick read, with humour, a good mystery and very interesting characters!” – Verietats

Drop Dead Ornaments

“I always forget how much I love this series until I read the next one and I fall in love all over again...” – Dru’s Book Musings

“Drop Dead Ornaments is a delightful addition to the Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series. More, please!” – Suspense Magazine

“I love protagonist Anastasia Pollack. She’s witty and funny, and she can be sarcastic at times…A great whodunit, with riotous twists and turns, Drop Dead Ornaments was a fast, exciting read that really kept me on my toes.” – Lisa Ks Book reviews

“Drop Dead Ornaments is such a fantastic book…I adore Anastasia! She's clever, likable, fun to read about, and easy to root for.” – Jane Reads

“…readers will be laughing continually at the antics of Anastasia and clan in Drop Dead Ornaments.” – The Avid Reader

“I love this series! Not only is Anastasia a ‘crime magnet,’ she is hilarious and snarky, a delight to read about and a dedicated friend.” – Mallory Heart’s Cozies

“It is always a nice surprise when something I am reading has a tie in to actual news or events that are happening in the present moment. I don't want to spoil a major plot secret, but the timing could not have been better…Be prepared for a dysfunctional cast of quirky characters.” – Laura’s Interests 

“This is a Tour de Force of a Murder/Mystery.” – A Wytch’s Book Review

“A series worth checking out.” – The Ninja Librarian

“I flew through this book. Winston knows how to make a reader turn the page. It’s more than a puzzle to solve—I was rooting for people I cared about. Anastasia Pollack is easy to like, a good mother, a good friend, and in a healthy romantic relationship, the kind of person you’d want on your side in a difficult situation.” – Indies Who Publish Everywhere

“Lois Winston’s cozy craft mystery Drop Dead Ornaments is an enjoyable…roller-coaster ride, with secrets and clues tugging the reader this way and that, and gentle climbs and drops of suspense and revelation to keep them reading.” – Here’s How It Happened

“Anastasia is a take-charge woman with a heart for her family–even her ex-family members who don’t (in my opinion) deserve her kindness… What I like best about Anastasia is how she balances her quest for justice with the needs and fears of her family… I can’t wait to read more of her adventures and the progress of her relationship with her family and her boyfriend.” – The Self-Rescue Princess

“…a light-hearted cozy mystery with lots of energy and definitely lots of action and interaction between characters.” – Curling Up By the Fire

“I thought the plot was well thought out and the story flowed well. There were many twists and turns…and I enjoyed all the quirky characters. I was totally baffled as to who the killer was and was left guessing to the very end.” – Melina’s Book Blog

“(Anastasia’s) wit and sarcasm lend a bit of humor to this cozy, and the story kept me intrigued right up to the end.” – The Books the Thing

Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide

“Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide” is a laugh-out-loud, well plotted mystery, from a real pro! A ho-ho hoot!” – Suspense Magazine

“Merry Crises! Lois Winston has brought back Anastasia’s delightful first-person narrative of family, friends, dysfunction, and murder, and made it again very entertaining! Anastasia’s clever quips, fun stories, and well-deserved digs kept me smiling, and reading the many funny parts to my husband…does that count as two thumbs up in one? What a great journey!” – Kings River Life Magazine

“Once again, the author knows how to tell a story that immediately grabbed my attention and I couldn’t put this book down until the last page was read…. This was one of the best books in this delightfully lovable series and I can’t wait to see what exciting adventures await Anastasia and her friends.” – Dru’s Book Musings

“This was such a fun quick read. I can't wait to read more of this series.” – A Chick Who Reads

“The story had me on the edge of my seat the entire time.” – 5 Stars, Baroness Book Trove

“Christmas, cozy mystery, craft, how can I not love this book? Humor, twists and turns, adorable characters make this story truly engaging from the first to the last page.” – LibriAmoriMiei

Take a murder mystery, add some light-hearted humor and weird characters, sprinkle some snow and what you get is Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide—a perfect Christmas Cozy read. –5 stars, The Book Decoder

About Drop Dead Ornaments

An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery

By Lois Winston

Anastasia Pollack’s son Alex is dating Sophie Lambert, the new kid in town. For their community service project, the high school seniors have chosen to raise money for the county food bank. Anastasia taps her craft industry contacts to donate materials for the students to make Christmas ornaments they’ll sell at the town’s annual Holiday Crafts Fair.

At the fair Anastasia meets Sophie’s father, Shane Lambert, who strikes her as a man with secrets. She also notices a woman eavesdropping on their conversation. Later that evening when the woman turns up dead, Sophie’s father is arrested for her murder.

Alex and Sophie beg Anastasia to find the real killer, but Anastasia has had her fill of dead bodies. She’s also not convinced of Shane’s innocence. Besides, she’s promised younger son Nick she’ll stop risking her life. But how can she say no to Alex?

Drop Dead Ornaments

An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery

By Lois Winston

Dedication

I sometimes hear from readers who are dealing with difficult personal issues. They thank me for giving them a few hours of laughter to escape their troubles. I treasure those notes. They fill my heart with joy knowing that writing about Anastasia and her problems has enabled others to escape theirs, even if only for a brief time.

As I finished writing Drop Dead Ornaments, my world was rocked by news no one ever wants to hear regarding friends and loved ones. Hopefully, there will be happy endings all around—not only for my friends and family, but anyone who is struggling with life’s often-cruel challenges. 

This book is dedicated to all of them. 

Acknowledgments

Special thanks to Donnell Bell and Irene Peterson for their superb editorial skills.

ONE

I stared at my bandaged wrist before zeroing a sigh-punctuated scowl at my front door. “I can’t deal with them right now,” I told Zack. A moment ago we had pulled into my driveway and now sat with the engine running. Both my arm and my head throbbed—my arm due to the local anesthesia wearing off, my head undoubtedly from the stress of the last few hours.

Earlier today I’d found myself in a life-or-death struggle with a deranged killer. As we fought for possession of her gun, she’d sunk her teeth deep into my wrist, hitting bone. With any luck, Virginia Owens would spend the remainder of her life in an orange jumpsuit, not only for attempted murder but for several heinous crimes that spanned half a century.

After the police hauled Virginia away, Zack drove me to the hospital where I received a few dozen stitches and a tetanus shot. We had arrived back at my house to find Harriet Kleinhample’s VW minibus parked at the curb, which could mean only one thing: Lucille, the Communist mother-in-law from Hades, and her Daughter of the October Revolution sidekick had made bail. Both had spent the last two nights as guests of the county after Harriet was charged with hit-and-run and Lucille with assaulting an officer.

“You don’t have to,” said Zack. He turned off the engine. “Stay there.” He then came around to the passenger door and helped me from the car. With my woozy-from-painkillers body leaning against him, we made our way up the stairs to his apartment above my garage.

When life hands you lemons, you have two choices—either accept the sour turn of events or add sugar. Lucille was my lemon; Zachary Barnes was my sugar.

Zack walked into my life nearly a year ago when he rented the apartment over my garage. At the time I had no idea how instrumental he’d become in preserving my sanity and helping me survive the tsunami that had hit me head-on when Karl Marx Pollack, my duplicitous husband, dropped dead in a Las Vegas casino. In the blink of an eye my kids and I went from firmly entrenched in the middle class to one step away from residing in a cardboard box. To make matters so much worse, I was also now saddled with Karl’s mother, a woman who has never uttered a kind word to me, as a permanent houseguest.

My name is Anastasia Pollack, and I’ve had more than my fill of sour lemons—not to mention murders and near-death experiences—lately. I often ask the universe why it’s picking on me. So far, the universe has kept mum.

Although I must admit, the chaos has certainly moved the needle of my life from humdrum to way over-the-top. Personally, I’d settle for moderately interesting, especially if it meant fewer encounters with deadly weapons.

Once inside the apartment, Zack helped remove my coat, then settled me onto the sofa. I glanced longingly toward the kitchen cabinet that housed the adult beverages. “A glass of wine would definitely hit the spot right now,” I said.

He shook his head. “Bad idea.”

I sighed. “I know.” Along with the pain meds, the doctor had given me an antibiotic to ward off any possible infection. I wouldn’t be imbibing in anything stronger than coffee for the next week.

Zack placed a throw pillow behind my head. Then he removed my shoes, swung my legs up onto the sofa, and tossed an afghan over my body. “How about an omelet instead?”

~*~

I must not have answered Zack, let alone sampled even a single morsel of omelet, judging from the rumbling protests emanating from my stomach. With my good arm I leveraged myself into a seated position and glanced around the empty room. Moonlight played peek-a-boo through the clouds, intermittently streaming in from the window above the sink.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and yawned, wondering how long I’d slept. My purse sat on the coffee table. By the dim light I dug out my phone and checked the display. No wonder my stomach wouldn’t shut up. I hadn’t eaten anything since eight o’clock that morning—nearly twelve hours ago!

I blindly swept my feet across the floor in front of the sofa and under the coffee table until I found my shoes. Then I hunted around for my coat, which I found draped over the back of the sofa. After gingerly slipping my injured arm into one sleeve, I contorted my body in such a way as to shove my good arm into the remaining sleeve without the use of my mauled wrist. After a quick pitstop I opened the door and stepped onto the landing.

From my second-story perch I noticed red, white, green, blue, and yellow lights twinkling throughout the neighborhood. Stringing up the Christmas lights had been an item on today’s to-do list—before the homicidal maniac bit into my schedule.

With a death grip on the handrail, I carefully made my way down the exterior staircase. The temperature had dipped considerably since Zack and I arrived home, and a light dusting of flakes coated the steps. However, my body no longer wobbled, and I noted my head no longer throbbed. Too bad I couldn’t say the same for my wrist. If anything, it hurt more. One thing I knew with certainty—any woman who’d ever swooned over a sexy fictional vampire had never experienced the excruciating pain of a skin-puncturing bite.

When I opened the back door, I was greeted by a cacophony of teenage chatter fighting for dominance over the latest Imagine Dragons album. I followed the noise into the dining room. A half-dozen teens were spread out around my dining room table; another six sat in a sheet-covered circle on my living room floor. A plethora of craft materials and stacks of plastic boxes holding clear glass Christmas balls surrounded each group.

“Hey,” I said, slipping out of my coat.

“Mom!” Alex jumped up from his chair and raced around the table to greet me. He clasped my good hand in both of his and stared down at my bandaged wrist. Worry spread across his face. “Are you okay?”

“I will be. Zack told you what happened?”

He nodded. “Does it hurt?”

“Only if I play racquetball.”

He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “Good thing you don’t play racquetball.”

Someone lowered the volume on Imagine Dragons. The other kids had stopped chatting and were now listening in on our conversation. A girl I didn’t recognize, who resembled a curly-haired, petite Nicole Kidman, was the first to speak. Her eyes glued to my gauze-wrapped wrist, she asked, “What happened to you, Mrs. Pollack?”

Given the murders that had recently occurred on our street, I thought it best to downplay this morning’s events. I squeezed Alex’s hand, hoping he understood I didn’t want the gory details emerging. “I tripped in the foyer this morning and injured my wrist.”

Not a complete lie, although I hadn’t tripped as much as I’d launched myself at Virginia Owens, tackling her to the ground in an attempt to pry the gun from her hand. And technically, she was responsible for the injury to my wrist, not me.

My gaze darted around the living room and into the foyer. I found no signs of the struggle, not even the bullet holes in the walls. Someone (if I had any money, I’d bet on Zack) had puttied over the telltale evidence, swept up the plaster dust, and removed the shattered remains of a living room lamp felled by a bullet intended for Ralph, my Shakespeare-quoting African Grey parrot. I didn’t know if the crime scene unit had needed to dust for prints while we were at the hospital, but if so, Zack had cleaned those up as well.

I turned my attention back to the explosion of craft materials covering my living room and dining room, a perfect opening for changing the subject. “What’s going on? I thought you were finished with all the ornaments for your community service project.”

 The community service project was a high school graduation requirement. This year’s committee had decided to volunteer at and raise money for the county food bank. However, the students balked at the traditional fundraisers that placed a huge percentage of the profit from candy, candles, popcorn, or wrapping paper sales into the coffers of professional fundraising companies. Alex, as chairman of the committee, came up with the brilliant idea of enlisting the aid of a magazine crafts editor—otherwise known as his mother.

How could I say no?

I suggested the students make Christmas ornaments and created various projects easy enough for even the non-craftiest kid in the school to execute perfectly, yet elegant enough to hang on a professionally decorated tree. I then tapped my industry contacts to donate the necessary supplies. The kids would net one hundred percent of the profit from the sales.

On a Friday afternoon in late September I left work early to teach Ornaments 101 to a cafeteria filled with four hundred seniors. And because I believe in killing two birds with one craft project, I photographed the session for an article in next December’s issue of American Woman, thus also avoiding having to take half a vacation day.

The kids were disappointed to learn they’d have to wait a year to see themselves in the pages of the magazine, but production schedules are set months in advance. By late September I was already swimming in Easter chicks and bunnies. Right now I’m working on a Father’s Day spread. I did, however, arrange for some local press that should entice shoppers to stop in Westfield over the coming weeks for some of their holiday gifts.

Each of the students was responsible for making three ornaments. They set the price at ten dollars apiece. If all the ornaments sold, the seniors would make twelve thousand dollars, which would go a long way toward stocking the county food bank through the winter.

All the ornaments were completed and boxed up several weeks ago, some designated for this weekend’s Holiday Crafts Fair and Bazaar, others distributed to the various downtown shops and businesses that had agreed to display and sell them without taking a cut of the profits.

Mini-Nicole sidled up next to Alex. “My dad offered to match dollar-for-dollar whatever we raised from the ornament sales.”

“So we decided to make as many extra ornaments as we could with the leftover supplies,” added Alex. “This is Sophie Lambert, by the way, Mom. She moved here over the summer.”

Which explained why I didn’t recognize her. And judging from the smitten, puppy dog expression on my son’s face, I pegged her as the new girlfriend Alex’s younger brother Nick had mentioned the other day. According to Nick, she worked with Alex at Starbucks. Not that I had a clue when Alex found the time for a girlfriend between his studies, sports, and part-time job. I plastered a friendly smile on my face and said, “Nice to meet you, Sophie. That’s quite a generous offer.”

She shrugged. “Dad’s that kind of guy, always stepping up for a good cause.”

“We’re lucky we had so many glass balls left over,” said Alex.

I had requested fifteen hundred clear glass ornaments from the manufacturer, expecting a certain percentage of breakage as the kids handled them. After the committee had collected the finished ornaments, nearly a hundred unused glass balls remained. I scanned the two rooms once again. In various states of completion, the ornaments covered every available flat surface of my dining room and living room.

“How did sales go today?” I asked. The fair was a two-day event held at the National Guard Armory and included outside vendors.

“Great,” said Sophie. “We sold nearly all five hundred ornaments we’d designated for today’s sale. We’re hoping we’ll do even better tomorrow. That’s why we wanted to make more ornaments tonight.”

“I’d better let you get back to work, then,” I said before heading off in search of Zack and Nick. As I made my way toward the den, someone cranked Imagine Dragons back up to ear-piercing volume.

~*~

I found Zack and Nick engrossed in a chess match. Ralph sat perched on Zack’s shoulder, his parrot gaze locked on the chessboard, absorbing every move. Given his total recall of all things Shakespeare, I wondered if we’d soon be adding chess Grand Master to his list of talents. After all, if Watson, the IBM computer, can win a million dollars on Jeopardy, anything is possible. “Think we should enter Ralph is a few chess matches?”

Zack glanced up from the board. “Didn’t you see my note?”

“What note?”

“The one I left on the coffee table, telling you to text me when you woke up.”

“I never turned on a light.”

“I didn’t want you navigating the steps by yourself.”

“I’m fine.” I lifted my arm and scowled at my wrist. “Except for this.”

A loud doggie snore drew my attention to Manifesto—AKA Mephisto, AKA Devil Dog—my mother-in-law’s French bulldog, snoozing underneath the coffee table. That’s when I realized Casa Pollack was shy one family member. “Where’s Lucille?”

“She and her minion stormed out once Alex’s friends arrived,” said Nick.

“Before or after dinner?” I asked.

“What do you think?” asked Zack. He stood and waved me toward the sofa. “Sit down. I’ll heat up some dinner for you. I set some aside before Lucille and Harriet wolfed down every last crumb.”

Zack had had a busy day. He’d saved my life, cleaned up a crime scene, and judging from the telltale aromas of something Italian still lingering in the air, apparently cooked dinner for everyone.

After Karl, I probably would have built an impenetrable fortress around my heart if not for the universe dropping Zachary Barnes into my life at the most opportune moment. The guy was definitely a keeper.

I settled onto the sofa. Zack headed toward the kitchen, Ralph still on his shoulder, probably because he knew he could cajole a treat from his moveable perch once they entered the kitchen.

Nick moved the chessboard out of the way and curled up next to me, his head on my shoulder. “You scared me,” he said. “Stop doing that.”

I ran the fingers of my good hand through his shock of sandy-colored hair. “I didn’t do it on purpose.”

“None of this stuff ever happened before Dad died.”

“I know.”

“This is all his fault.”

I sighed. “Your father had nothing to do with what happened this morning.”

“He had everything to do with Ricardo trying to kill you.”

“True.” Ricardo had been Karl’s loan shark. When Karl gambled away all our money and left us with debt that rivaled the GNP of most Third World nations, he also left me to deal with Ricardo, who was nowhere near as understanding as the mortgage company or my other legitimate creditors.

“And it just keeps happening,” said Nick. “It’s like his death whisked us into some weird alternate universe where people are always trying to kill you.”

I couldn’t refute his observation. Our lives had certainly turned surreal in the aftermath of Karl’s death.

“I want our old life back,” said Nick.

Did I? My old life hadn’t included Zack. I wouldn’t mind going back in time to when I had no debt, no communist albatross of a mother-in-law around my neck, and no one trying to kill me, but that life was built on a foundation of lies. The debt was there; I just didn’t know it existed until Karl died and all the bricks came crashing down on me.

Along with losing my financial security, I’d lost any love I once had for my husband. I could never forgive him for what he had done to our kids and me, but I tried to keep my resentment and bitterness from Alex and Nick.

“Your father had an addiction he couldn’t control, Nick. Addiction is an illness. You can’t blame him for that.”

“Lots of people are addicts,” he said. “The smart ones seek help. I don’t blame Dad for his gambling addiction. I blame him for not getting help, for not telling us, for putting his need to gamble above his family and screwing up our lives.”

Hard to argue with that, as well. I felt the same way. “We’re managing, though, right? Life is better than it was last winter, isn’t it?”

“Thanks to Zack.”

“Yes. But also to you and your brother for the sacrifices you’ve made.”

“We didn’t have much choice, did we?”

“You had a choice of attitude, Nick. I’m extremely proud of how both you and your brother have handled the adverse changes to our lives.”

He wiggled out from under my arm and turned to face me. “So when are you and Zack going to get married?”

TWO

I answered Nick with a pointed Mom Look, no words necessary.

Sheepishness spread across his face. “Wrong question?”

“From you? Definitely.” As much as I loved Zack, given the outcome of my first marriage, I wasn’t sure I was ready to plunge back into matrimonial waters any time soon.

Perhaps, given my trust issues, I’d never be ready. Part of me was convinced Zack was far more than just a photojournalist, no matter how much he protested otherwise. Maybe I’d let my imagination run amok, but I couldn’t shake the suspicion that he hid a closely guarded secret. When I added two plus two, the answer I came up with was government operative.

I changed the subject. “So, I take it Sophie is Alex’s new girlfriend?”

Nick speared me with the classic Teenager Look.

“Wrong question?”

“Touché, Mom.”

At least his French was improving.

Zack returned with a steaming plate of spaghetti squash topped with mushrooms and turkey meatballs in a marinara sauce. I supped while he and Nick continued their game.

~*~

By the next morning Lucille hadn’t returned home. Since the police never called, I assumed she’d camped out overnight at Harriet Kleinhample’s apartment. As much as I enjoyed a Lucille-free breakfast—or any meal, for that matter—her absence left the rest of us with Mephisto duty.

“Why doesn’t she take her dog with her?” grumbled Nick, who drew the short straw and was in the process of bundling up to take Devil Dog for his morning walk while Zack and I prepared bacon and eggs.

“I don’t think Harriet’s apartment complex allows pets,” I said.

Alex paused from setting the table. “Since when does Grandmother Lucille care about rules and regulations? Heck, she doesn’t even obey the law most of the time.”

Ralph, perched atop the refrigerator, flapped his wings and squawked. “The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o’er a cold decree. The Merchant of Venice. Act One, Scene Two.”

“Good one, Ralph.” Zack broke off a small piece of eggshell, rinsed it clean, and offered it to the bird. He grabbed the shell with a claw and greedily stuffed it into his beak.

“It’s more convenient for her to leave us with taking care of her dog,” I said, answering Alex. “She doesn’t have to lug food and doggie dishes with her.” However, part of me would put up with Mephisto permanently if Harriet—or any of the other Daughters of the October Revolution—offered Lucille permanent residence. I think secretly they all agreed their fearless leader was a royal pain in the patootie.

Although politically simpatico, I suspected the other women could only tolerate my abrasive mother-in-law in small doses. Certainly none wanted her as a permanent roomie, even Harriet, who was Lucille’s staunchest defender.

Nick clipped a leash onto Mephisto’s collar. The moment the back door closed behind him, I heard the front door open. “So much for a Lucille-free breakfast,” I muttered.

However, it was Mama, not Lucille, who entered the kitchen. “Good morning, all,” she said.

“You’re extremely perky for so early in the morning,” I said as she eyed the activity at the stove. “I take it you haven’t eaten yet?”

“I thought I’d join you this morning.” She pointed to one of the frying pans as Zack poured egg batter into it. “Better add a few more eggs, Zachary, dear. I’m famished. What is it about cold weather that makes me so hungry?”

The cold weather didn’t stimulate Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe Tuttnauer’s appetite. It was the prospect of a free meal, but I held my tongue. I knew Mama was lonely since the arrest of her latest husband and her subsequent divorce. Truthfully, I’d rather put up with her unannounced mealtime visits than hear I was about to meet Stepfather Number Six. And for all her annoying habits, I’d take ten Mamas over one Lucille any day.

She stripped off her outerwear and handed her coat, gloves, scarf, and purse to Alex. “Would you mind, dear?”

As he headed for the hall closet, she settled herself at the kitchen table. I poured her a cup of coffee before pulling the bacon from the hot fat and placing the strips on a paper towel-covered plate.

Mama stirred some milk and sugar into her coffee. After taking a sip she said, “I thought we could do some Christmas shopping today, dear. Lord & Taylor is having a big sale.”

Mama has single-handedly kept Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor in business for years. At least it seems that way. The woman will spend hundreds of dollars on a dress she doesn’t need, only because it’s on sale for twenty percent off.

Her shopping addiction began when Harold Periwinkle, my father, drowned while scuba diving in the Yucatan on my parents’ twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. Retail therapy helped Mama deal with her grief. She immediately invested the modest nest egg Dad left her with the two retail gigolos and continues to spend. And spend. And spend. Which is why ever since Dad’s death she’s been on the prowl for a man who would provide her with the lifestyle she believes she deserves.

Unfortunately, her husbands’ financial shortfalls never come to light until after their untimely deaths. To date Mama has buried four additional husbands and divorced one. Lawrence Tuttnauer was the only husband with money, but the Feds seized every last dime of his ill-gotten gains before hauling his tush off to federal prison.

I placed the platter of bacon on the kitchen table. “The only shopping I’m doing today is at the holiday craft fair.”

Mama knit her brows together. “Anastasia, you earn a living designing crafts. Why would you buy items you’re quite capable of making yourself?”

“It’s for a good cause.”

Alex jumped in to explain the senior community service project to his grandmother.

“Well, in that case,” said Mama, “I’ll come with you and do my part to help. We can go to Lord & Taylor afterwards.”

No way Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor were getting a nickel of my paycheck, but I’ve learned to choose my battles when it comes to Mama. If she insisted on spending money she didn’t have, I couldn’t stop her, but I wouldn’t be party to her extravagances.

As soon as Nick returned from walking Mephisto, Zack served the eggs. Alex wolfed down his breakfast, finishing before I’d taken two bites. “Gotta run,” he said, bolting from the table. “I’m on set-up duty this morning.”

“We’ll see you there later,” I said.

~*~

Westfield’s annual Holiday Crafts Fair and Bazaar, sponsored by the Chamber of Commerce, featured more than a hundred local vendors and artisans selling everything from gourmet kettle corn to one-of-a-kind precious metals jewelry.

Because of their charitable project, the high school seniors had scored prime real estate in the center of the massive assembly hall. With the help of several handy parents and two faculty advisers, a group of students had designed and constructed an intricate latticework structure. They’d painted the display with shimmering white latex. Ropes of miniature LED lights wove around the perimeter. Additional lights ran along either side of the faux snow path that meandered through the display. Hundreds of handmade decorative glass ornaments hung from hooks inserted into the structure.

At the far end of the display Alex and several other students handled sales. He waved when he saw us, at the same time continuing to place sold ornaments into boxes.

“They’re packing in a huge crowd,” said Zack.

I glanced around the Armory. No other booth had anywhere near the number of customers that wandered through the kids’ display. “If the crowds continue, I wouldn’t be surprised to find them sold out by the end of the day.”

While Alex worked his hour-long shift in the booth, Mama, Zack, and I strolled up and down the aisles, checking out the various other vendors. I “window-shopped” while Mama did more than her share to spur on the economy, including purchasing ten of the glass ornaments. “You’re not buying anything, Anastasia?” she said as she handed over her credit card to purchase a rhinestone-studded winter white cashmere scarf, her voice more an accusatory statement than a question.

My mother took denial to new heights. She refused to accept that I no longer resided firmly in the realm of the middle class, no matter how much evidence to the contrary smacked her in the face. I’d given up trying to convince her. “I intend to buy some of the students’ ornaments as gifts for my co-workers, but I’ll wait until we’re ready to leave.”

I inwardly cringed at the expense. After all, I had designed those ornaments and taught the kids how to make them. I could easily whip up half a dozen without spending a penny. However, instead of wallowing in my financial quagmire, I consoled myself with the knowledge that the money would go to a good cause. Besides, I was managing to scrape by, thanks to a decent-paying job, a little unexpected luck, and the generosity of certain people who had recently entered my life. Other families weren’t nearly as lucky. Glass half full, I reminded myself.

With Mama’s latest purchase in hand, the three of us circled back toward the school display to meet up with Alex. As we rounded the corner, he approached hand-in-hand with Sophie, a man I didn’t recognize walking with them.

“This is Mr. Lambert, Sophie’s dad,” said Alex as they caught up with us. He proceeded to make introductions.

Mr. Lambert’s weathered face suggested he’d spent much of his adult life outdoors. With his blue-gray eyes, steel gray hair, and matching stubble, he reminded me of a cross between Daniel Craig and Hugh Laurie. When I offered him my hand, I received a firm handshake. “Sophie told us of your generous offer to match whatever the kids raised, Mr. Lambert.”

“Shane,” he said, releasing my hand. Then he shrugged. “My pleasure. I like to help when I can.”

“I love your attitude,” said Mama. “And where is Mrs. Lambert? Shopping?”

“I’m not married,” said Shane.

“Oh?” Mama’s husband-hunting antenna jumped to attention, no matter that she easily had at least fifteen years on Shane Lambert. When she first met Zack, she’d made a play for him as well.

Shane quickly changed the subject. Turning back to me, he said, “Alex tells me you’re responsible for much of what the kids have been able to accomplish here.”

I shrugged. “I pulled some strings and called in a few favors to get the materials donated.”

“And taught us how to make those gorgeous ornaments,” added Sophie. “We’re raising so much more money than if we’d sold popcorn or wrapping paper. Just look.” She waved toward the booth. “We’re nearly sold out, and the fair isn’t over for another four hours.”

Before we could check out the booth, someone called, “Mr. Lambert?”

“Yes?”

A man who looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of GQ approached us. He wore charcoal gray designer jeans and a pale gray cashmere pullover sporting a white Ralph Lauren polo pony logo. When he offered his right hand, the diamond encrusted gold Rolex on his wrist peeked out from under his cuff and flashed like a camera strobe. “I’m Trey Krause, board treasurer of the county food bank. I wanted to thank you personally for your extremely generous matching funds offer.”

Shane shook his hand. “You’re quite welcome.”

“You may not be aware of this, given that you’re new to the area, but we’re completely dependent on community donations. Your generosity means so much to so many struggling to get by.”

Smooth operator. I pegged the guy as either a Wall Street broker or a highly successful insurance agent in his day job, occupations that required skill in convincing people to spend large sums of money. Poor Shane. The guy makes a generous charitable donation out of the goodness of his heart, and he’s immediately set upon with guilt-trip appeals to donate more.

How many meals would a diamond encrusted Rolex buy?

“You receive no state or federal funding?” asked Shane.

“None. Your contribution will go a long way toward keeping us stocked throughout the winter.”

Shane reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to Krause. “We should talk. Give me a call.”

Krause palmed the card and smiled. “Thank you. I’ll be in touch.”

He nodded to the rest of us before taking his leave. “Sorry to interrupt. Enjoy the fair.”

“If you’re not careful, you’ll wind up as their primary benefactor,” I told Shane.

“I don’t mind.”

Mama’s ears perked up at that. I swear her pupils transformed into dollar signs. She turned to me. “Anastasia, you’d better grab what you want before all the ornaments are gone.”

Ah, Mama. She’s so transparent. Her ulterior motive was like a neon sign flashing over her head. “I’ll do that, Mama, but you behave yourself while I’m gone.”

“Really, dear! I have no idea what you mean.”

“I do,” muttered Alex under his breath. Luckily, the noise level in the Armory prevented his grandmother from hearing him.

I walked over to the display, quickly chose six ornaments, and got in line to pay. As I inched toward the register, I kept an eye on Mama. Although I couldn’t hear the conversation, her body language spoke volumes. She’d entered full-on flirting mode. I had to rely on Zack and Alex to keep the sixty-five-year-old siren in check until I returned.

But I also noticed something else—a platinum blonde hovering near Zack. She wore a crimson fashion model pout as she pretended to examine merchandise on a nearby table, but her eyes kept darting toward Zack. While Mama threw herself at a bemused Shane Lambert, the woman with curves in all the right places and legs that went on forever appeared to have set her sights on my guy.

I sighed. Women were always throwing themselves at Zack and for good reason. The man’s DNA had cavorted in the same primordial soup as Pierce Brosnan, George Clooney, Patrick Dempsey, and Antonio Banderas. No one ever saw me, a pear-shaped plain Jane, as competition—if they saw me at all. I watched as the woman sidled closer to Zack, pretending to be otherwise occupied as she eavesdropped on his conversation with Shane.

Finally, I arrived at the register, paid for my ornaments, and headed back to claim my man before the interloper pounced. Not that I needed to worry about Zack. He could take care of himself, but at times like these my insecurities got the better of me.

“Do you recognize that woman?” I whispered as I looped my arm through his and surreptitiously nodded in the direction of the eavesdropper who had stepped several feet away upon my return.

Not surreptitiously enough, though, because Sophie overheard me and immediately gave the woman the once-over. “She looks like a model.”

Maybe at one time but Westfield wasn’t exactly brimming with fashion models. We did have our share of trophy wives, though, and I pegged her as a member of that class, probably married to a hedge fund manager or investment banker, given her head-to-toe pricey designer duds.

When Zack turned to look at the woman, she quickly shifted her attention to a ceramic candy dish. “Never saw her before,” he said. “Why?”

“She seems very interested in you.”

He chuckled. “Are you sure? Maybe she’s eyeing Shane.”

Shane knit his brows together, turned to look at the woman, and shrugged. “Not my type.”

“Nor mine,” said Zack.

THREE

Something about the way that woman continued sniffing around caused my Spidey Senses to reach maximum tingle mode. Since Mama and I had completed our shopping, I suggested we leave. “We have Christmas lights to string,” I reminded Zack.

“We?” He pointed to my wrist.

“I can untangle, at least.”

“No need. I’m an expert at untangling.”

I raised both eyebrows. To my knowledge, members of the alphabet agencies often engaged in “untangling.”

Zack obviously read my mind because he quickly added, “Christmas lights.”

“I should leave as well,” said Shane. “I’ve got errands to run.”

“Sophie and I are going to hang around to help break down the display and pack up later,” said Alex.

Sophie tugged at her father’s sleeve. When he cocked his head toward her, she stood on tiptoe to whisper something in his ear. He nodded, then turned to us. “Why don’t you all join us at our home for a celebratory dinner later this evening?”

Mama placed her hand possessively on Shane’s sleeve, raised her chin, and batted her eyelashes. “How very sweet of you, Shane. We’d love to.” She turned to me. “Wouldn’t we, dear?”

Alex executed an eye roll. Sophie stifled a giggle. “Are you sure?” I asked Shane.

He responded with a wink. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Hopefully this meant he viewed Mama’s overt overtures with amusement. “What should we bring?” I asked.

“Just yourselves. I enjoy cooking.”

“A man after my own heart,” said Mama.

We all stared at her.

“Should be an entertaining evening,” said Zack.

If nothing else, Mama infused a certain amount of comic relief into our lives.

As we made our way toward the exit, I noticed the platinum blonde wandering into the kids’ display.

~*~

Shane’s dinner invitation gave Mama even more reason to take advantage of the sale at Lord & Taylor. “I’ll need a new outfit for this evening,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Really, Anastasia, I don’t understand you sometimes.”

And I’d never understand her.

Zack dropped Mama off at the store. “Phone when you’re ready to be picked up,” he said.

“No need. I’ll get an Uber.” She stepped from the car and waved to us as she headed into the store.

“Uber?” asked Zack as he pulled back into traffic. “Is Ira paying for that, as well?”

Ira Pollack was my husband’s long-lost half-brother, born several years after Lucille gave Isidore the heave-ho prior to Karl’s birth. Ira claims his father never knew about Karl.

Lucille insists Ira is an imposter, but when he walked into our lives last summer, he brought with him undeniable proof. Besides, genes don’t lie. Ira is a slightly younger and thinner spitting image of Karl.

Mama’s most recent husband was Ira’s now former father-in-law. Ira owns a string of car dealerships around the state and lives with his three super-spoiled kids in a home whose kitchen is larger than my entire house. For all his business success, the man is incredibly insecure, not to mention guilt-ridden when it comes to his personal life. He uses his wealth as a way to buy love, respect, and inclusion. Unfortunately, he’s too clueless to realize his generosity only makes him an easy mark for his manipulative kids and people like the unscrupulous Lawrence Tuttnauer.

Ira bought Mama and Lawrence a condo in Scotch Plains as a wedding present. Luckily for her, since he hadn’t transferred the title prior to Lawrence’s arrest, the condo wasn’t seized under New Jersey’s forfeiture law.

Mama now lives mortgage-free instead of sharing a bedroom with Lucille, which does alleviate a certain amount of tension within the walls of Casa Pollack, given that Mama claims descent from Russian nobility. I suspect Ira also pays most, if not all, of her other living expenses.

“For all I know, Ira may even pay Mama’s monthly Lord & Taylor credit card bill,” I said. “Nothing would surprise me.”

Ira introduced Mama to Lawrence and is consumed with guilt over the match that went dead wrong—literally. In addition to orchestrating the recent murders of some of my neighbors, Lawrence put out a hit on his own daughter, Ira’s trophy wife Cynthia. He also tried to kill me.

Family is everything to the Mafia—until you cross them.

~*~

Zack and I arrived home to find the exterior of the house ablaze in miniature white twinkling Christmas lights. Strings of lights ran along the roofline, around the perimeters of each window, and the sides and top of the front door. Net lights draped the shrubs in front of the house. Additional lights led from either side of the walkway from the house to the sidewalk. Another string wrapped around the light post at the end of the walkway. Even the garage was festooned in lights.

“I don’t own nearly this many strings of Christmas lights,” I said.

“Do you think Nick is responsible?” asked Zack.

“Doubtful.”

That left only one other person. “Ira,” we both said in unison.

I sighed. I’d tried nearly everything to discourage Ira’s need to shower us with unwanted gifts. “Short of a restraining order, how do I get him to stop?”

“Find him a new wife?”

“I’m not sure even that would work.” Ira held onto an unrealistic dream of the remaining Pollacks coming together as one big, happy family. Given that his kids hated us—me, especially—and Lucille couldn’t stand the sight of him, Hades would turn into a massive iceberg before that dream ever came true. Even then, odds were less than fifty/fifty. The more Ira pushed, the more everyone else pushed back.

Nick greeted us as we entered the house. “Uncle Ira strikes again.”

“We figured,” I said. “Did he do all of this himself?”

“Of course not. He sent over a crew from one of his dealerships.”

“I suppose I’ll have to call to thank him,” I said.

“He phoned earlier,” said Nick. “He’s stopping over later. Said he had some exciting news to share and wants to take us out to dinner to celebrate.”

“Not tonight,” I said. “We already have plans. Sophie’s father invited all of us to dinner.”

“Grandmother Lucille, too?” asked Nick, screwing up his face.

Did Shane even know about Lucille? “I didn’t think to ask.”

“Why don’t you text Alex?” suggested Zack. “He can have Sophie talk to her father.”

“Why don’t we just not mention it to Grandmother Lucille?” said Nick.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” said Zack. “Flora and her never-say-die pheromones will be enough for us to handle this evening.”

Nick appeared perplexed. “Huh?”

“Your grandmother is back in full-out husband-hunting mode,” I said.

His eyebrows arched toward his hairline. “With Sophie’s dad?” He pondered this for a moment. “So, if Alex and Sophie got married, Grandma would be both his mother-in-law and his grandmother? Yuck!”

My head began to pound at the thought of such a scenario. “No one’s getting married,” I said. “Not your grandmother and certainly not your seventeen-year-old brother.”

“If you say so,” said Nick, “but I don’t remember Grandma ever asking your permission with any of her other husbands.”

Now my wrist began to throb in sync with the crescendo drumbeat gathering steam in my skull. Time to down some Motrin. Then I needed to deal with Ira.

Within a minute I’d accomplished my first task, but that’s where my luck ran out. Zack entered the bedroom as I stepped from the bathroom. “Ira’s here.”

He couldn’t have waited until the Motrin worked its magic?

I masked the pain by pasting a phony smile on my face, took a deep breath, and stepped out into the hallway. We found Ira sitting in one of the living room chairs. Zack and I settled onto the sofa. “I was just about to call you, Ira. I wanted to thank you for the Christmas lights—”

“It was my pleasure.”

“—but I really wish you’d asked first.”

“I wanted to surprise you.”

“And you did, but you can’t keep showering us with gifts.”

“Why not? I have the money; you don’t, thanks to my brother.”

“Half-brother. A half-brother you never knew. Besides, my finances aren’t your problem.”

“I don’t see it as a problem; I see it as one family member helping another.”

Zack placed his hand on my knee, and squeezed gently, his way of silently telling me I should choose my battles. I was never going to win this argument with Ira.

I sighed. “Nick mentioned you had some exciting news and wanted to celebrate by taking us to dinner tonight. Unfortunately, we have previous plans.”

Crestfallen, Ira said, “I suppose we can postpone the celebration until tomorrow night.”

“Weeknights are always difficult. Besides, won’t your kids have homework?”

He nodded. “Of course. How about next Friday night?”

Could I come up with an excuse for Friday night? Short of contracting bubonic plague, I’d eventually run out of excuses, legitimate or otherwise. And even the plague was no guarantee. Ira would probably suggest we come dressed in hazmat suits.

Since I found myself at a loss for an excuse for next Friday, I punted by saying, “I’ll check our calendar and let you know.”

“Meanwhile, what would we be celebrating?” asked Zack.

Ira’s face brightened. “I decided the kids and I needed a change. The house in Hunterdon County holds too many unpleasant memories for us. We need to move on.”

Ira’s first wife had died of cancer in that house. His marriage to Cynthia ended in her murder—after she’d run off with the pool boy. But I had a sinking feeling this conversation was about to veer in a direction I wouldn’t like—one that led due East.

“Last week I put the house on the market,” he continued. “It sold yesterday. Today I put a deposit on a house in Westfield. We’re going to be neighbors!”

Sometimes I hate when I’m right.

FOUR

Clichés notwithstanding, my mouth really did literally drop open. Across the room Ira beamed as if he’d just won an Oscar. I, on the other hand, felt like Mr. Oscar had magically sprung to life and delivered a swift gold-plated kick to my stomach.

“Isn’t this great news, Anastasia?”

Oh. My. God. Please let me wake up to find this is a bad dream! Ira a forty-five-minute car ride away was Ira forty-five minutes too close, but Ira in the same small town? Which god had I pissed off to deserve this? “Why Westfield?” I finally managed to ask.

“To be closer to all of you, of course.”

Of course.

I finally got rid of Ira by using my wrist as an excuse, but that involved an explanation of how I’d sustained the injury. Zack stepped in with a plausible lie. Ira finally left after we assured him numerous times that I didn’t need him to assist at chores or run any errands for me.

“He means well,” said Zack, closing the front door on Ira’s departing back.

“So did Calamity Jane.”

~*~

Shane and Sophie Lambert lived in a Craftsman-inspired McMansion on the north side of town. During the latest housing boom, builders vied with one another to buy up the nineteen-fifties cape cods and nineteen-sixties ranchers and split levels that once dominated much of Westfield. After they bulldozed the properties, they erected new homes that sold for five to ten times their initial investment.

Even homes of modest size with one-car garages situated on small lots sold for nearly a million dollars. The larger homes, those with three-car garages on half an acre of land or more, went for as much as three million dollars. Luckily, Karl and I bought into Westfield back when real estate prices were reasonable. Even if Karl hadn’t gambled away all our money, an auto parts salesman and his magazine editor wife certainly couldn’t afford to buy into the town now.

“What a lovely house,” said Mama as Zack pulled up to the curb. We had picked Mama up at her condo before driving to the Lambert home.

As far as McMansions go, the Lambert house was relatively understated, unlike some of the more ornate, ostentatious homes that now dotted the Westfield landscape. Although large for two people, it was more a mini-McMansion than a McMansion, certainly nowhere near the size of Ira’s home—now ex-home—in Hunterdon County.

Sophie answered the door and ushered us inside after Zack rang the bell. Alex, who had gone home from the holiday crafts fair with Sophie, stood beside her, his arm around her waist. They looked like a young married couple welcoming guests to their home. Suddenly I realized my firstborn would fly the coop in the not-too-distant future, and I fought to contain the sadness that overwhelmed me.

Where had the years gone?

I swallowed down the lump welling up in my throat and cast my gaze around the foyer as I blinked away a few gathering tears. A gray, tan, and black Navajo area rug partially covered the dark gray hand-scraped hardwoods. White wainscoting wrapped the lower walls with the upper walls papered in a neutral-toned nubby tweed. To the left of the foyer behind a pair of French doors was an office, to the right a formal living room. A hallway to the left of the staircase led to the back of the house. A Mission oak console table set into an alcove under the staircase held a Frederic Remington bronze statue, a cowboy on a bucking bronco.

When we slipped out of our coats, I noticed Mama’s new outfit for the first time. A black crepe cocktail sheath with organza sleeves and satin piping, the dress was better suited for a romantic dinner with a lover than a home-cooked meal at the residence of her grandson’s girlfriend.

In contrast, I wore a pair of black tweed woolen trousers that I’d topped with a black, gray, and ivory Fair Isle sweater. Zack had dressed in a pair of black jeans with a gray button-down no-wale corduroy shirt, and Nick wore the same jeans and long-sleeve T-shirt he’d donned first thing this morning.

While Alex hung our coats in the foyer closet, Mama got right to work, asking Sophie, “Where is that handsome father of yours?”

“And she’s off,” Nick stage-whispered, but either Mama didn’t hear him, didn’t realize he referred to her, or chose to ignore him.

Sophie blushed. “In the kitchen.”

I grabbed Mama before she bolted down the hallway in search of her prey and pulled her aside. “Behave yourself,” I whispered. “The man is too young for you.”

“Age is merely a number, dear.”

I played my ace. “If you embarrass Alex in front of Sophie and her father, he’ll never forgive you.”

“Really, Anastasia!”

“Really, Mama. I mean it. Rein in your hormones.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that you suck all the fun out of life?”

“Only you, Mama.”

“You should listen to me. Mama knows best.”

“Not this time.”

“Why don’t we all join Dad in the kitchen?” said Sophie. “We’ve prepared some hors d’oeuvres.”

She led the way into a large open-concept great room, a combination of kitchen, dining room, and family room. Shane stood chopping romaine lettuce at one end of the marble-topped island. “Welcome,” he said, waving his chef’s knife in the direction of the family room. A platter of cheeses, a basket of crusty bread slices and a selection of beverages filled the reclaimed wood coffee table. “Help yourselves. I’ll join you momentarily.”

Zack placed the bottle of chilled pinot grigio we’d brought and a bottle of sparkling cider for Alex, Nick, and Sophie on the counter. Shane glanced at the wine label and gave a nod of approval. “That will go quite well with dinner. Thank you.”

“Our pleasure,” said Zack.

Sophie led us over to the overstuffed gray sectional sofa that surrounded the coffee table on three sides. I noted a second Remington on an end table and a third sitting on one of the shelves of the built-in bookcases that flanked the fireplace.

Before taking a seat, Mama looked around, assessing the room and its contents, which were straight out of the Pottery Barn catalogue. “What a lovely home you have, Shane. Did you furnish it yourself or hire a decorator?”

Sophie answered for him. “Dad and I picked out everything.”

“You both have excellent taste.”

And expensive—a fact not lost on my mother.

Sophie mumbled her thanks, then immediately turned away from Mama to speak to me. “Remember that woman at the crafts fair? The one we all thought looked like a model?”

I nodded. “What about her?”

“After all of you left she came into the display. The way she was skulking about I thought she might be a shoplifter. So, Alex and I decided to keep an eye on her.”

“Did you see her steal anything?” I asked.

“No,” said Alex. “But she started up a weird conversation with Sophie.”

“What?” Shane abandoned his salad prep. He hurried across the room. Grasping his daughter by the shoulders, he asked, “What did she say to you?”

“She said I was really pretty and asked if I’d ever thought about modeling.” Sophie rolled her eyes. “I told her I wasn’t interested and walked away.”

“Anything else?” asked Shane. I understood his concern. Too many child predators lurked in plain sight these days.

Sophie nodded. “She asked which ornaments I’d made. When I pointed them out, she wound up buying five.”

“That was very nice of her,” said Mama.

“I suppose, but she really creeped me out, especially since she didn’t buy any of the other students, just mine.”

Shane hadn’t taken his eyes off his daughter. His initial alarm now settled into a deep-seated frown. “Did she leave after that?”

“I think so. We didn’t see her again.”

At that point Mama decided it was time to change the subject and began peppering Shane with questions. “And what is it you do for a living, Shane?”

Before he could answer, I turned to him and said, “You don’t have to answer that.”

He chuckled. “I don’t mind. I’m a money manager, Flora.”

“How interesting,” said Mama, her face lighting up.

I glared at her, but she refused to make eye contact, continuing her interrogation as though she and Shane were the only two people in the room. “Are you from around here originally?”

“No, we’re transplants.”

“Really? From where?”

“Out west.”

“California?”

“No, not that far west.” Shane turned to Zack. “Alex tells me you’re a photojournalist for National Geographic.”

“Among other publications,” said Zack.

As the two men became engrossed in conversation, Mama tried to pump Sophie for more information. “Where out west?”

Instead of answering, Sophie jumped up and said, “Alex, we never finished setting the dinner table.” She grabbed his hand and waved to Nick to join them. The three of them practically ran toward the kitchen cabinets.

“Well, that was rude,” said Mama.

“So were your questions,” I muttered under my breath.

“I beg your pardon!” Mama spoke loudly enough that Zack and Shane paused their conversation for a moment to glance our way.

I continued through gritted teeth. “Some people don’t care to share the details of their lives with strangers.”

“We’re hardly strangers. We’re in their home about to have dinner with them.”

I rolled my eyes. “You only met Shane and Sophie several hours ago. That doesn’t entitle you to pry into their lives.”

“Honestly, Anastasia, I was merely making small talk. What’s the big deal about asking what someone does for a living or where they previously lived?”

“You want to make small talk? Try the weather.”

Mama huffed out what sounded like a growl. “I blame this on that commie mother-in-law of yours.”

“Lucille? She’s not even here, Mama.” Mama would blame Lucille for global warming if she thought people would believe her.

“That’s not the point. You were never like this before she moved in with you.”

“But you’re always like this when you’re on the prowl for a new husband.”

Mama jumped to her feet. “I need to powder my nose.”

“No snooping, Mama!”

If looks could kill, my mother would now be minus her only child. She stormed off in search of the powder room.

“First door on the left in the foyer,” Shane called after her. Then he chuckled.

“You caught all that?” I asked.

“Hard to miss,” said Shane. “But no worries. Alex told me earlier all about Flora.”

“You need to impress upon her that you’re not interested. Otherwise, she won’t stop. The woman is relentless.”

“So I gather, but I wouldn’t want to embarrass her.”

“You may have to.”

When Mama returned from euphemistically “powdering her nose” (I’m sure said nose had spent time poking inside the medicine cabinet rather than receiving the attention of a makeup brush), we all moved to the dining room table, where Shane served up a dinner of chicken Parmesan, grilled zucchini, linguini, and Cesar salad. Throughout the meal Mama continued to lob questions at Shane, which he deftly deflected.

Mama’s annoyance grew. “Why do you refuse to answer any questions about yourself? Are you in Witness Protection?”

“If I were, I certainly wouldn’t be able to tell you.”

Mama’s eyes widened. “Then you are!”

He laughed. “No, Flora, I’m not. I just don’t like to talk about myself.”

“Why not?”

“Mama, enough already!”

The conversation came to a halt when the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Sophie, obviously relieved to have an excuse to remove herself from the second coming of the Spanish Inquisition. She grabbed her napkin from her lap, tossed it on the table, and pushed back her chair.

A moment later Sophie returned with three very familiar faces—Detective Sam Spader, flanked by Westfield Officers Harley and Fogarty. The three men and I had history, all involving murder and mayhem. From their serious countenance, I knew they weren’t soliciting contributions to the Police Benevolent Fund.

Both Shane and Zack stood. Spader approached Shane. “Mr. Lambert?”

“Yes. Is there a problem?”

“We’d like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

“About?”

“An investigation.”

Shane’s brows knit together. “Of what?”

Spader glanced around the table, pausing for a few extra seconds when his gaze fell on Sophie. She quickly looked away, avoiding eye contact with him. Was Spader here because of Sophie? My heart sank. She seemed like such a nice kid. I glanced at Alex. My son knew right from wrong. I trusted him. But I also knew he was head-over-heels for this girl, and that had me worried.

Spader turned back to Shane. “Actually, sir, we’d prefer to have this conversation down at headquarters.”

“Why don’t we step into my office?” suggested Shane. “I’ll be happy to talk with you there, out of earshot of my dinner guests.”

Spader nodded to Harley and Fogarty who took up positions on either side of our host. My pulse skyrocketed into the stratosphere. I’d seen people hauled off by the police. Spader wasn’t interested in Sophie. He was after her father.

In a voice tight and measured the veteran detective said, “We’d like your cooperation, sir. The officers will escort you to the precinct.” Then Spader spoke to Harley and Fogarty. “I’ll follow shortly.”

Shane turned to us, his expression perplexed. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what’s going on here.”

“Best to go with them to clear things up,” said Zack, “but make sure you have an attorney present before you answer any questions.”

Shane nodded.

Spader shot Zack a dirty look. If I hadn’t already figured out something serious was going down, that look removed any doubt.

As Harley and Fogarty led Shane from the dining room, Sophie jumped up and shouted, “Why are you taking my dad? What’s going on?”

Shane pivoted. “Don’t worry, Sweetheart. I’ll be home shortly.” Then he turned to me and asked, “Would you take her home with you? I don’t want her here by herself.”

“Of course,” I said.

The moment the front door closed behind Harley, Fogarty, and Shane, Mama slapped her hand on the table. “I knew that man was hiding something.”

FIVE

“Mama, shut up!”

“I’m just saying I’m glad I didn’t get involved with him. That’s all.”

“Enough, Mama! This isn’t about you.”

Detective Spader focused on Mama, perhaps waiting for her to blurt out something more. When Mama remained silent, he addressed me. “We meet again, Mrs. Pollack.”

Sophie’s body shook with uncontrollable anger as a stream of tears cascaded down her cheeks. “My father is a good man. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“I never said he did, Miss Lambert. I simply want to ask him some questions.”

“Then why can’t you do that here?” She balled her fists. “I don’t believe you.” She then made a beeline toward Spader.

“Don’t, Sophie. This won’t help.” I grabbed her just in time to prevent her from assaulting him. Releasing my grip on her wrists, I cupped her face in my hands. “The police simply want your dad’s help with something.” I had no idea what that something was, but from Sophie’s reaction and the way Spader had zeroed in on her, I suspected she might.

“We’ll get everything sorted out,” I told her. “But right now you have to allow the police to do their job.” I shot Spader a questioning look. “Whatever that is.”

Spader had come to Union County by way of years in Homicide as a member of the Essex County Police Force. When I first met him, he looked like he was one cigarette and one beer away from a massive coronary. Working homicides in Union County had proven a healthy move for him. Now it would take at least a pack of cigarettes and a six-pack of beer to land him in ICU, but I lauded his effort.

I handed Sophie over to Alex. “Take Sophie to her room.” He wrapped his arms around her and led her away as she continued to sob. I turned to Nick. “Go with them.”

Once the kids were out of earshot, Spader asked, “What’s your connection to this guy, Mrs. Pollack?”

I first met the detective last summer when my mother-in-law was the prime suspect in the strangulation death of her roommate at the Westfield Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center. Since then, his initial animosity toward me has grown into a grudging admiration of my ability to solve murders, even if he’d never admit it to my face.

His parents had probably sealed the detective’s fate the day they named their bouncing baby boy. One of these days I’d work up the courage to ask him if the senior Spaders were fans of Dashiell Hammett.

“He’s Alex’s girlfriend’s father,” I said. “We first met today. What is this about, Detective?”

“Really, Mrs. Pollack, do I need to remind you yet again that I can’t divulge information regarding an ongoing investigation?”

 “So you think Shane Lambert is either involved in some sort of crime or has information concerning one?”

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.”

“I don’t suppose you’d be willing to share any details,” said Zack.

“You suppose correctly. Sorry to disturb your dinner, folks.” With that he turned and headed for the front door.

As soon as Spader left, Zack, Mama, and I quickly cleaned up the remnants of dinner. Then we gathered our coats and with Sophie clinging to Alex, departed the Lambert residence.

Given Sophie’s state of mind, I didn’t feel comfortable with Alex driving the two of them back to our house, even though it was only a mile and a half. I wanted my son concentrating on the road, not his distraught girlfriend. So while Zack, accompanied by Nick, drove Mama to her condo, I slid behind the wheel of Alex’s Jeep and chauffeured the two older teens back to my house.

Once home, I heated up some warm milk for Sophie and gave her a pair of my pajamas and a bathrobe to wear. The pajamas were at least two sizes too big for her petite frame, but the waist cinched closed with a drawstring, and she could roll the legs up to keep from tripping.

She stared at the pile of clothes. “Dad’s coming right back, isn’t he?”

“I’m sure he is, Sophie.” Although everything about Spader’s demeanor led me to doubt my own words. “But given how upset you are, I think you should lie down, and you’ll be more comfortable if you change.”

I don’t think she believed me, but she accepted the pajamas and robe, changing into them in the bathroom before I led her to the spare bed in Lucille’s room. Thankfully, the curmudgeonly commie was still AWOL. With any luck she’d stay away until all the drama was over and Sophie was safely back home in her own bed.

Sophie stopped at the entrance to the bedroom and stared at the curtain hanging in place of a door. “Why doesn’t this room have a door?”

Alex, hovering protectively beside her, answered before I had a chance. “When both my grandmothers lived here, Grandmother Lucille kept locking Grandma Flora out of the room. Zack came up with the brilliant idea of removing the door and hanging a curtain.”

“Why didn’t he just remove the lock?”

“Good question.” He turned to me. “Why didn’t he, Mom?”

I shrugged. “I guess he figured she might try to barricade the door with some of the furniture.”

Sophie chuckled. I saw that as a good sign. “Try to get some sleep,” I told her.

“I don’t think I can. I’m too worried about Dad. I don’t understand why the police needed to talk to him at the station. Why couldn’t they just ask him their questions at our house?”

“After Zack dropped off Nick, he drove to police headquarters to find out what’s going on.” I itched to question Sophie because I was certain she knew something about the reason for Spader’s visit, but I didn’t want to upset her further.

Her lower lip quivered, and she bit down on it as she fought back a fresh onslaught of tears. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and led her to the bed, sitting down beside her. “I’m sure Zack will return with your dad, and he’ll be able to explain everything once he’s here.”

Sophie curled up into a fetal position. “Can Alex stay with me?”

“We’ll both stay until you fall asleep.” Not that I didn’t trust my son, but why tempt fate?

“I’ll be right back,” said Alex. A minute later he returned with his desk chair, which he placed alongside the bed. Alex settled into the chair and reached for Sophie’s hand. I stood and moved over to Lucille’s bed, propping my back against the headboard.

Although Sophie insisted on staying awake, the emotional exhaustion, coupled with the sleep-inducing properties of the warm milk, took effect, and she fell into a restless sleep. I ushered my son from the room.

~*~

Two hours later Zack arrived home with Shane. The man appeared to have aged a decade in the hours since his encounter with the police. He made his way over to the living room sofa and literally collapsed onto the cushions, not even bothering to remove his coat.

“Did he say anything to you?” I whispered to Zack.

He shook his head. “Not a word, but something’s got him rattled. I’m going up to the apartment to get him something to drink.” Zack headed out the back door, returning shortly with a bottle of Maker’s Mark and a tumbler. Shane had remained silent the entire time, the boys and I quietly keeping him company.

Zack poured Shane two fingers of bourbon and handed him the glass. He downed the drink in one gulp. Then, staring into the empty tumbler, he said, “I feel like I fell down a rabbit hole. The idea that I would…I don’t understand why the police think…”

“Start from the beginning,” said Zack. “Why did the police want to question you?”

“Wait,” I said, holding up my hand. I turned to my sons. “Adults only, guys.”

“They can stay,” said Shane.

I shook my head. “Parental prerogative, if you don’t mind.” I pointed toward the foyer. “Let’s go, guys.” Alex and Nick reluctantly dragged themselves from the living room.

Zack and I took seats on either side of Shane and waited for him to continue. “When we arrived at the station, I was brought into a room for questioning. The first thing the detective asked was if I knew a Dawn Heathwood.”

“Do you?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Never heard of her. The detective pulled out a photograph and slapped it on the table in front of me.” Shane reached for the Maker’s Mark and poured another two fingers of bourbon, downing half before he continued. “Remember the woman hovering around us at the fair?”

I nodded, a bit puzzled by the change of subject. “What about her?”

“The photo showed me standing outside the Armory talking with her. Her name was Dawn Heathwood.”

“Was?” When speaking about a person, past tense was never a good sign.

“Someone strangled her.”

I inhaled sharply. Until this past year we’d gone for decades without a murder or attempted murder in town. Now they’re occurring on a regular basis. If that weren’t disturbing enough, I’ve found myself connected to each one of them. I was terrified to ask the obvious.

Zack beat me to it. “What does her death have to do with you?”

“The detective accused me of killing her.”

SIX

“What!”

We all turned at the sound of the loud gasp to find Sophie, still dressed in pajamas and robe, standing at the entrance to the living room. Alex and Nick flanked her.

“Sorry, Mom,” said Alex, his arm draped around Sophie’s shoulders. “She woke up and heard her dad.”

Shane stood, and Sophie ran into his arms. She lifted her chin and peered up at her father. “Why do the police think you killed a total stranger?”

“They did, but they don’t anymore.” He held his daughter in a tight hug and planted a kiss on the top of her head.

Shane walked Sophie back to the sofa. He lowered the two of them onto the cushions with Sophie squeezing in next to me. She clung to her father.

Zack stood and offered Alex his seat, moving to one of the living room chairs. My son first turned to me, silently begging me to allow him to stay. Since he’d already overheard the worst of Shane’s tale, I reluctantly nodded my agreement.

“What about me?” asked Nick.

I sighed. If I didn’t allow them to stay, they’d only learn the details from Sophie afterwards. “I suppose you can stay, too.”

“It was all a misunderstanding,” Shane continued. “I cleared everything up.”

“But you were gone so long. I was really scared.”

“I’m sorry, Sweetheart. I spent most of the time waiting for the lawyer to show up.”

“I don’t understand. If you didn’t do anything wrong, why did you need a lawyer?”

“It’s always a good idea to have an attorney present when being questioned by the police,” said Zack.

“But he’s innocent. You heard him. He said it was all a misunderstanding.”

“He’s right,” said Shane. He nodded toward Zack. “I should have taken your advice before answering any questions, but at that point I stopped talking and called the lawyer who handles my business affairs. He arranged for a defense attorney to meet me at the station. I waited until he arrived before I agreed to say anything else.”

“Why were you talking to that woman?” asked Sophie.

And why hadn’t Shane revealed this earlier in the evening when Sophie mentioned her own encounter with the woman?

“She was speaking to me.”

“Why?”

“She was thanking me.”

“For what?”

“For keeping her from getting hurt.”

“Sophie, why don’t you let your father explain from the beginning,” I said.

Shane mouthed his thanks over Sophie’s head. “Yes, everything will become clear once you hear the entire story.” 

Sophie heaved a deep sigh. “Okay.”

Shane drained his glass, placed it on the coffee table, and spoke directly to his daughter. “After I left the fair, I was halfway across the parking lot when I remembered I forgot to ask if you needed any money. I turned around and headed back into the building.”

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes. “Everything happened so fast after that. I’m not quite sure of the timeline. I heard a scream. A woman slammed into me. Or maybe she slammed into me, then screamed.”

He shook his head and opened his eyes. “I don’t know. I may have wrenched her arm when I broke her fall. She was shaken, but at least she didn’t hit her head on the concrete floor. I asked if she was hurt. She said she wasn’t, thanked me, and we parted ways. At that point it didn’t even register that she was the woman loitering near us. I had only given her a quick glance earlier.”

“I’m surprised the Armory has exterior surveillance but no cameras within the building,” said Zack.

“I asked about that,” said Shane. “Video of her tripping and me breaking her fall would have cleared everything up immediately. The detective said none of the cameras captured the incident. Too many people were milling around, blocking the camera’s view.”

“Great surveillance system,” I muttered.

“Anyway,” Shane continued, “she was outside smoking a cigarette when I left the second time. She approached me and thanked me again. I got in my car and drove off.”

“I still don’t understand why Spader suspected you,” I said.

“He suggested we arranged to hook up, that she followed me a short time after I left.”

“How did he connect her to the crafts fair?” asked Zack.

“The items she bought were found with her body. That led the detective to check out the security footage at the Armory.”

“How did Spader identify you?” asked Zack.

“By combing through all the surveillance footage. One of the cameras captured me speaking with the kids’ faculty advisor. She identified me.”

“So he believes you now?” asked Sophie.

“Yes.” He kissed the top of her head again. “Now he believes me.”

I knew Spader well enough to know he never took anyone’s word without proof. So what proof did he have to back up Shane’s story? Or maybe he had no proof of Shane’s innocence and was biding his time until he uncovered proof of his guilt.

“Was there surveillance of this Dawn Heathwood speaking to anyone else?” I asked.

“I don’t know. For the most part the detective asked, and I answered. He wasn’t in a sharing mood.”

“Typical Spader,” I said.

“If she did speak with anyone else, I’m sure he’s tracking down those people to question them as well.”

Outside brakes screeched, followed by a dull thud. Nick jumped up and ran to the window. “The Wandering Commie is back.”

Just what I didn’t need at the moment.

“My other grandmother,” Alex explained when he saw the puzzled expression on Shane’s face.

“I see.”

“Trust me,” I said. “You really don’t.” To which his expression grew even more puzzled.

“The good news is the tree’s still standing,” said Nick.

In the war between Harriet Kleinhample’s VW minibus and my oak tree, the minibus had yet to inflict a deadly blow, but it was only a matter of time. Harriet was incapable of parking at the curb, always driving over the curb and coming to a stop only after making contact with the oak. I don’t know how much more abuse the poor tree could endure.

A short time later the front door flew open. Lucille stomped into the house, followed by her Mini-Me minion. Without so much as a nod of greeting, the two women marched down the hall to Lucille’s bedroom. I held my breath, awaiting the expected outburst. I didn’t have long to wait.

With her minion in tow, Lucille stormed into the living room, her cane pounding out an angry cadence, muffled by the carpet once she transitioned from the tiled foyer. “Who’s been in my room?”

“I allowed Sophie to rest on the spare bed,” I said.

My mother-in-law glared at Sophie, then turned her wrath on me. “You have no right to allow anyone to invade my privacy.”

“That’s Lucille’s bedroom,” said Harriet. The diminutive minion compensated for her lack of stature with a booming voice and a misplaced sense of righteousness.

“Technically, it’s my bedroom,” said Nick, matching Harriet’s hostility attitude-for-attitude. He’d been forced to give up his room and double up with his brother when Lucille moved in with us.

Scarlet rage suffused Lucille’s neck, spreading across her cheeks and up toward her steel gray hairline to disappear under her cropped utilitarian cut. She lifted her cane and jabbed it in the air in Nick’s direction. “If my son were still alive, you’d never get away with such insolent behavior.”

“But he’s not,” said Nick, raising his voice. “He ruined our lives, then dropped dead. And to top it off, we’re now stuck with you.”

I knew I should say something mom-like, but I couldn’t force the words out of my mouth. My art degree hadn’t included courses in psychology, but my gut told me Nick finally unleashing his anger at his grandmother was preferable to keeping it simmering inside. His father’s betrayal, coupled with his grandmother’s intolerable behavior toward us, had Nick itching for this confrontation for a year now.

I’d fought that same urge, but as the responsible grownup of the family, I’d bitten my tongue each time the urge threatened to overtake me. I just wished Nick hadn’t chosen to vent in front of Shane and Sophie, especially given the events of this evening.

“How dare you!” Lucille transformed into an apoplectic purple volcano of rage, the color so perfectly matching her polyester pantsuit that it was hard to determine where the fabric ended and her skin began.

“Enough!” said Zack, rising from his chair.

Lucille shot him the evil eye, but his menacing stance would have cowered Genghis Khan. She turned her back on us and without another word, pounded her way out of the living room and down the hall. Harriet followed in her wake.

“Good riddance,” muttered Nick.

Moments later the den television blared at ear-deafening volume.

For decades my mother-in-law had turned her commie nose up at the television, which she lumped in with religion as the “opiates of the masses.” However, recently she’d commandeered the remote with more and more frequency, binge-watching reality TV shows. At first her tastes ran to Dancing with the Stars and The Bachelor, but she’d recently segued to the most bizarre offerings on cable TV—everything from shows about gypsy weddings to hoarders to polygamists.

I failed to understand Lucille’s sudden addiction to reality TV, considering we were stuck in the middle of our own version of reality TV for the past year. Her doctors had said she sustained no permanent brain damage from her stroke last summer, but this new behavior was so out of character that as far as I was concerned, it couldn’t be anything but brain damage.

However, Lucille’s choice of programming didn’t bother me as much as the noise that invaded every corner of the house. Neither she nor Harriet was hard of hearing, so I could only assume she chose the deafening decibel level out of spite to annoy me and the other members of our household, including her own dog and poor Ralph.

Given my new reality, perhaps I should consider inviting a camera crew inside Casa Pollack. Monetizing my life would help pay down my debt. Of course, my kids would probably put out a hit on me if I suggested such a scheme.

I voiced none of these thoughts, though. Instead, I turned to Shane and offered a lame explanation. “My mother-in-law has issues with us. And unfortunately, as Nick so indelicately put it, we’re stuck with her.”

“No need to apologize,” he said, his words in direct contrast to the discomfort evident on his face. “But we should get going. The kids have school tomorrow. Thank you for taking such good care of my little girl.”

“Little? Dad, I’m seventeen!” Sophie wiggled out from under her father’s arm and stood.

“You’ll always be my little girl, Soph.”

 She replied with the universal teen eye roll. “I’ll go change.”

Alex jumped up. “I’ll drive you both home.”

“No,” I said. “Zack and I will drive Shane and Sophie home.” I turned to Nick. “Go walk Mephisto.”

“Why me? She’s home now. Why can’t she walk her own dog?”

“Because you need time to cool off. Besides, Mephisto has taken a shine to you lately.”

“He likes you better.”

I pointed toward the back door. “Go. Now.”

~*~

No one spoke much on the short ride back to Shane’s house, but once we’d dropped off our passengers, Zack asked, “Do you believe him?”

“I don’t know. I get the feeling we haven’t heard the full story.”

“That makes two of us.”

Not what I wanted to hear. If Zachary Barnes, a man I suspected of being a government spy—no matter how often he denied it—had suspicions regarding Shane Lambert, that upped my worry-meter a hundredfold.

SEVEN

I cashed in some of my comp time to leave work early the following evening. I couldn’t afford to get stuck in rush hour traffic and risk arriving home late. We needed to eat an early dinner in order to show up at the high school on time for the winter concert. Both Alex and Nick were scheduled to perform in the Select Choir.

To my amazement, my sons could not only carry a tune, they both possessed perfect pitch—or so I’m told. I’ve got two tin ears and wouldn’t know a C-sharp from an E-flat if my life depended on it. So they certainly didn’t inherit their musical gifts from me. I never once remember hearing Karl sing. If he had any musical talent, he took that secret to the grave with him.

When Alex first joined the choir his freshman year, the school music director had presented the students with a long list of foods and beverages they were not allowed to eat prior to a performance. Who knew certain foods were bad for the vocal cords? The list hung prominently on our refrigerator and limited the choir members to a diet consisting only of bland baked or broiled chicken or fish, a selection of veggies and fresh fruits, and room temperature water.

Before leaving for work this morning, I had arranged two cut-up chickens in a large casserole dish, covered it with foil, and placed it in the fridge, ready for whichever boy arrived home first to set it in the oven. I’d also prepared a salad.

On my way out the door I had left a note for Lucille on the kitchen table: Under no circumstances was she to cook the chicken and serve tonight’s dinner to her Bolshevik sisterhood, should they pop in, as they often did, for a free lunch.

I picked up Mama, who was attending the concert with us, on my way home. The aroma of baked chicken greeted us as we stepped into the house. I didn’t realize until that moment that I’d proverbially held my breath throughout the day in anticipation of arriving home to nothing but chicken bones and an empty salad bowl.

Then again, I had entered a Lucille-free Casa Pollack. As much as I loved the peace and quiet that filled the house whenever she was gone, I couldn’t shake the feeling my mother-in-law was up to something. And when Lucille was up to something, it usually resulted in a confrontation with the police.

“I should warn Harley and Fogarty,” I told Zack as we quickly cleaned up the dinner dishes. The boys had already departed, needing to be at the school an hour before the scheduled performance.

“About what?” he asked.

“Lucille. She’s plotting something.”

“She’s always plotting something,” said Mama. “They should lock that traitor up and toss away the key.”

“Mama!”

“You know you feel the same way, Anastasia.”

True, but I wouldn’t give my mother the satisfaction of agreeing with her. With Lucille locked up, I’d not only be rid of the communist albatross around my neck, I’d also no longer have to deal with constant invasions of the mooching Daughters of the October Revolution.

A girl can dream, can’t she?

~*~

We bumped into Shane Lambert in the high school parking lot. Sophie was also performing in the choir. We invited him to sit with us.

Mama not only didn’t flirt with Shane, she even refused to acknowledge his greeting when he said hello to her.

“Does this mean the wedding’s off?” he asked Zack.

“Consider yourself lucky.”

Once again, Mama either didn’t hear the exchange or chose to ignore the two men. After we entered the auditorium, she maneuvered the seating arrangements so that Zack and I were positioned between her and Shane.

“You don’t have to be rude to the man,” I whispered to her after we had taken our seats.

“Really, Anastasia, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You most certainly do, Mama.”

“Fine. One lawbreaking husband was one too many as far as I’m concerned. I have no desire to encourage that man.”

When Mama embarks on a husband hunt, she becomes laser focused on snaring her chosen man—whether he wants to be caught or not. “He hasn’t broken any laws, Mama. Besides, he was never interested in you.”

“A woman always knows when a man is interested, and believe me, that man was interested.”

“That man is about fifteen years younger than you.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “So? Anyway, it doesn’t matter now. I have no desire to strike up a relationship with a jailbird.”

At that moment the lights dimmed, thankfully putting an end to the conversation.

~*~

We were standing in the school vestibule waiting for the kids to join us when I noticed Detective Spader, accompanied by Harley and Fogarty, enter the school. The three men scanned the crowded lobby. When Harley and I made eye contact, he tapped Spader on the shoulder and pointed in our direction.

“I knew Lucille was up to something,” I whispered to Zack. He followed my gaze, and we both waited for the detective to approach. But Spader bypassed us and stopped directly in front of Shane. “Mr. Lambert,” he said.

“Yes?”

“Or should I call you Mr. Arnold?”

“Who?” My head swiveled back and forth as I focused first on Spader, then Shane.

A crowd of parents and students had gathered around our little group, curious to see why the police had entered the school. A few kids pulled out their cell phones and began recording the encounter.

“Lambert is my legal name,” said Shane.

“Either way,” said Spader. “You’re under arrest for the murder of Tammy Arnold.”

Mama gasped. She tugged at my sleeve and said, “Now do you believe me?”

“My ex-wife? That’s impossible,” said Shane. “I haven’t seen Tammy since our divorce seventeen years ago.”

Spader snorted. “Until yesterday when you strangled her.”

Shane’s mouth dropped open. “What? You can’t be serious! That woman wasn’t Tammy, and I had nothing to do with…with…” He sputtered, unable to force the words out. Finally, he said, “I didn’t strangle her. I barely exchanged two words with her. I told you that yesterday.”

“Now you’ll have a chance to tell your story to a jury and see if they believe you,” said Spader. He nodded to Harley and Fogarty. “Cuff him, read him his rights, and get him out of here.”

Shane cast pleading eyes toward Zack and me. “I don’t understand what’s going on. I didn’t kill that woman. You have to believe me.”

I didn’t know what to believe. Zack and I had both sensed Shane hadn’t been completely truthful with us, but I never expected a bombshell like this.

“Please,” he continued, “can I impose on you again to take Sophie?”

I nodded. “Of course.”

Sophie, Alex, and Nick arrived as Harley and Fogarty led a handcuffed Shane toward the exit.

“No!” Sophie screamed and rushed toward her father.

Spader intercepted her. For a guy carrying an excess of a hundred pounds, he was surprisingly agile. “Don’t,” he said, holding her firmly as she tried to wiggle out of his grasp.

Shane twisted his head to look over his shoulder as the police continued to march him to the door. He called to her. “Everything will be okay, Sophie. I promise. Go with Mrs. Pollack.”

Harley and Fogarty had reached the school doors and pushed them open. A blast of frigid December air rushed into the lobby as Shane was led out into the cold night.

When the doors closed behind them, Sophie let out a blood-curdling scream. “No! You can’t do this!” She kicked wildly at Spader as he held her with her arms pinned to her body. “You’re making a big mistake.”

Spader had dealt with some of the most hardened criminals in the state during his tenure as a Newark detective, but he looked completely out of his element here. His eyes beseeched me to intervene. “I don’t want to have to arrest her for assault,” he said.

In my opinion, no child should ever have to witness her father being dragged away in handcuffs, no matter how egregious the crime. Spader could have handled the situation better—not to mention in a more private setting than a crowded high school lobby.

I had to bite my tongue to keep from giving him a piece of my mind, but that tongue wouldn’t remain trapped between my teeth forever. At some point I’d let loose and tell him exactly what I thought of his tactics. Now was not the time, though.

I stepped over to him, placed my hands on Sophie’s shoulders, and leaned my head against hers. “Sophie, this isn’t going to help. You need to come with me now.”

Her body went limp, and she began to whimper. I drew her away from Spader and wrapped her in my arms. “I promise we’ll do whatever we can to help your father.”

For the second time in two days I drove Sophie and Alex back to the house in Alex’s Jeep while Zack first drove Mama home, then dropped Nick off before heading over to the police station.

Sophie was in a state of shock. She silently accepted another pair of pajamas and without any urging on my part, climbed into the spare bed in Lucille’s room. However, this time she didn’t want anyone to stay with her, not even Alex.

“What’s going to happen to her dad?” asked Alex after we returned to the living room.

I shook my head. “Hopefully we’ll know more after Zack returns.”

“Do you think he killed that woman, Mom?”

I didn’t know what to think, but I couldn’t bring myself to say that to my son, not with his girlfriend curled up in a fetal position on one of our beds. “I don’t know why the police would think he killed a total stranger.”

Or was she a total stranger? Spader insisted the woman he’d called Dawn Heathwood yesterday was actually Tammy Arnold, Shane’s ex-wife.

Even after a period of seventeen years, I thought it strange that Shane wouldn’t recognize the woman he’d married. But I also knew that Spader wouldn’t make such a rookie error. He’d been at this for decades, for most of his career as a homicide cop, dealing with murders on an almost daily basis. If Spader insisted the woman was Tammy Arnold, he must have some rock-solid proof to back up that assertion.

And why were Shane and Sophie living under assumed surnames, even if, as Shane had insisted, their new names were legal? Maybe Mama wasn’t entirely off base when she suggested Shane and Sophie were in Witness Protection.

Or perhaps Shane had an Order of Protection against his ex-wife, and that’s why he had changed his and Sophie’s name. Had his ex harmed Sophie in some way?

However, Shane had denied having seen Tammy Arnold since their divorce. Had he lied to Spader when he said he hadn’t seen her in seventeen years or did he lie about not recognizing her yesterday? Maybe he had recognized her and killed her to protect Sophie. I hoped that wasn’t the case, but something definitely wasn’t adding up. Either way, the situation didn’t look good for Shane.

EIGHT

Zack didn’t return from the police station until after midnight, and when he finally walked into the house, he entered alone.

 “Are they charging him?” I asked.

He nodded. “They’ll arraign him first thing tomorrow morning. I convinced the D.A. to request bail.”

I wondered what sort of pull my photojournalist boyfriend, a man with no deep ties to Union County, had over our district attorney. I knew that sometimes murder defendants were allowed to post bail, but Shane Lambert had no strong ties to the community and as such, would probably be considered a flight risk. “How did you manage that?”

“I played on his sympathies for a young girl new to the area and with no other relatives to care for her.”

I raised an eyebrow. “And he bought that?”

“He didn’t like the idea of having to put Sophie into foster care.”

I didn’t buy it. I’m guessing Zack called in a favor or two from one of the alphabet agencies he swears he has no connection to, but I kept my mouth shut. We’d been down that road too many times, and the story never changed.

“The judge has final say, but the D.A. had no objections as long as Shane can come up with the money, agrees to house arrest, and turns over his and Sophie’s passports.”

“How much money?”

“Three million cash bond.”

“I suppose that means Shane stays behind bars for the foreseeable future.”

“You’d think so, but Shane said the money wasn’t a problem.”

Now both my eyebrows shot up toward my hairline. “Curiouser and curiouser.”

“I’ll say. How’s Sophie?”

“Borderline catatonic but she finally fell asleep about an hour ago. With any luck, she won’t wake until morning.”

“We should get a few hours shuteye.” He laced his fingers through mine and led me toward the bedroom.

I left the bedroom door ajar and listened all night, expecting Sophie to wake at some point. At least I needn’t worry about Lucille returning at this late hour and causing a fuss over Sophie asleep in the spare bed. By now Lucille would be deep in snore mode—most likely at Harriet Kleinhample’s apartment.

I couldn’t imagine any of the other Daughters of the October Revolution allowing her to spend the night. As far as I knew, none had previously extended an invitation. Then again, I found it hard to believe even Minion Number One would put up with Lucille’s nocturnal noise. At Casa Pollack earplugs often made the difference between a sleepless night and one of sound sleep.

~*~

At five I heard Sophie stir. After a few minutes she shuffled down the hall to the bathroom. Not wanting to startle her, I waited until she returned to the bedroom before slipping out of bed.

 Zack rolled over and propped himself up on an elbow. “Did you get any sleep?”

“Not a wink. I’m going to check on Sophie.”

“I’ll start a pot of coffee.”

After a quick trip to the bathroom, I made my way down the hall to Lucille’s room. I called quietly from the other side of the curtain, “Sophie?”

When she didn’t answer, I swept the curtain aside, discovering an empty room. Had she crawled into bed with Alex? I dreaded finding her in the boys’ room. Taking the cowardly way out, I decided to check the other rooms first and found her curled up on the couch in the den. Mephisto sprawled next to her, his head resting on her thigh as he exhaled doggie snores.

“I thought I heard my dad, but…” She stroked the dog’s back. “I didn’t know dogs snore. I’ve never had one.” Her lower lip quivered, and tears swam in her eyes. “Dad’s in jail, isn’t he?”

At the sound of her voice, Devil Dog raised his head, opened one sleep eye, and snorted at the interruption. Not noticing anything of interest, he settled back down on Sophie’s leg and fell back to sleep.

The heat hadn’t kicked on yet, and a chill filled the house. I grabbed a crocheted afghan from the back of the sofa and draped it across our laps, taking care not to cover Mephisto’s snout, as I joined her. “Your father has to go before a judge later this morning.”

Her voice brightened with hope. “Then he’ll come home?”

“If the judge agrees to release him on bail.”

“He didn’t kill that woman. My Dad wouldn’t kill anyone.” She beseeched me with her red-rimmed eyes. “You believe me, don’t you?”

I cupped both of her hands in mine. I wanted to believe her. Whether I did or not, didn’t matter. Right now Sophie needed reassurance that her world wasn’t falling apart around her. “Of course.” My brain swam with a myriad of questions about Shane Lambert, but I kept them from his daughter.

For one thing, Sophie had no idea the police believed the dead woman was Shane’s ex-wife. She and the boys joined us in the school lobby after Spader had dropped that bombshell.

Was Dawn Heathwood, aka Tammy Arnold, also Sophie’s mother? According to Shane’s timeline, that made sense. And if so, it certainly wasn’t my place to break the news of her mother’s death to Sophie. Whether Shane had killed her or not, I didn’t envy him that conversation.

Zack entered the den carrying two steaming mugs. He handed me a cup of coffee and gave Sophie a cup of cocoa. “I’m going to start breakfast,” he said.

“I’ve decided to call in sick today and also let the kids stay home.”

He nodded as he headed back to the kitchen.

“What about me?” asked Sophie.

“What about you?”

“Do I have to go to school today?”

“No, of course not.”

She released a shuddering sigh before placing the mug to her lips and taking a tentative sip. Poor kid. Did she really think I’d force her to go to school after her father’s arrest last night?

When she finished her cocoa, I said, “Why don’t you try to get some more sleep?”

She tossed the afghan from her lap and stood. “I’ll try.”

~*~

A few hours later Zack was about to leave for the courthouse when Sophie ran into the kitchen. Alex followed behind her. “I want to go with you,” she said.

Zack shook his head. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“Please! You have to take me!”

I had no idea if a seventeen-year-old would be allowed in the courtroom during an arraignment, but I suspected Sophie would be barred from the proceedings. Besides, given her emotional state, her presence might do her father more harm than good. What if she blurted out something the prosecution could use against him?

“They won’t allow a minor in the courtroom during the proceedings,” I said. Sophie didn’t have to know I was winging it.

“But I could see Dad before or after, couldn’t I?”

“No, not unless he’s released on bail.”

“And if that’s the case,” said Zack, “I’ll bring him right home to you.”

“I could wait in the car,” she said.

“Sophie, you need to stay here. Zack will call as soon as we know what the judge decides.”

She stared at both of us for the longest time, her hands clasped in front of her, silently begging us to reconsider. But neither Zack nor I would cave. Finally, Sophie’s shoulders slumped and her head bowed. I nodded to Alex, and he gently coaxed her from the room.

~*~

Zack called from the courthouse later that morning. “The judge allowed bail. They’re fitting Shane with an ankle monitor now. We’ll leave shortly.”

“Should I meet you there with Sophie?”

“No, we’ll pick her up but not for a few hours.”

“I thought Shane was under house arrest.”

“He is, but because he’s a single parent, he’s confined to within the town limits.”

“You said you were leaving shortly. Why the delay in picking her up?”

“The cops had a warrant for the house. Sophie’s traumatized enough. She doesn’t need to walk in on the aftermath of a police search. I’m going to give Shane a hand straightening up first.”

“Should I come help?” 

“No, stay with Sophie. I’ll call when we’re finished. How’s she doing?”

“About to jump out of her skin but the boys and I are handling it.”

I hung up from Zack, turned to leave the room, and nearly collided with Sophie. She bounced up and down on her toes. “I heard the phone ring. Was it Zack? Is my Dad coming home?”

 “Yes and yes.”

Joy filled her face. “I’ll get my coat.” She turned to rush out of the room.

I grabbed for her hand. “Hold on.”

“Why? What’s wrong? You said he’s coming home.”

“He’s going to pick you up here but not for several hours.”

Joy segued into worry. “Why?”

“Paperwork. Lots of legal paperwork.” It wasn’t exactly a lie, merely a manipulation of the timeline. Unfortunately, I’m incapable of fibbing with a straight face. I crossed my fingers and hoped Sophie interpreted the smile on my face as one of happiness over her father’s release. “Zack said he’d call as soon as they’re on their way home.”

~*~

When Zack finally called to say he and Shane were on their way, Sophie took up a position in front of the window. The moment Zack pulled into the driveway, she shot out of the house, not even bothering with a coat, and launched herself at her father as he stepped from the car. Father and daughter clung to each other, neither moving for the longest time.

Zack left them alone and joined me in the house. “How’s Shane holding up?”

“Not good. He wants to speak with us before he tells Sophie about her mother.”

“He doesn’t intend to tell her in front of us, does he?”

“I don’t think he’s in a state of mind to do it on his own. The man is falling apart.”

“Did he tell you anything else?”

Zack shook his head. “He said he’d tell us everything once we got here.”

Still wrapped arm-in-arm, Shane and Sophie joined us in the house. “Why don’t the two of you go into the living room? I’ll make some coffee and hot cocoa.”

Shane had other ideas. He placed his hands on either side of his daughter’s face and in a voice filled with forced lightheartedness, said, “Why don’t you find Alex, Soph? I’d like to speak to Zack and Anastasia alone for a few minutes.”

Sophie’s brows knit together. “But—”

“Please, Sophie. Only for a few minutes. I promise.”

She nodded. “Okay, Dad.” Reluctantly she pivoted and exited the kitchen.

Shane removed his coat, draped it over the back of a chair, and took a seat at the kitchen table. He lowered his head into his hands. Zack sat opposite him and waited patiently, not pressuring him to talk, while I made a pot of coffee.

When the coffee finished brewing, I poured three cups and brought them to the table. After grabbing milk from the fridge, I settled next to Zack.

Shane wrapped his hands around the warm mug. He inhaled a deep breath, releasing it slowly, as if giving himself time to fit together a complex jigsaw puzzle in his mind before offering up any words. After taking a sip of coffee, he started to speak but immediately faltered. He uttered a few words, stopped abruptly, then tried again. “I’m sorry,” he finally said. “This is complicated. I’m not sure where to start.”

“How about with Dawn Heathwood?” I said. “How could you not recognize your ex-wife? Or did you?”

He stared at me from across the table and shook his head. “I was telling the truth—to both of you and Detective Spader when he interrogated me Sunday night.”

 “Interrogated?” My eyes widened at the mention of the word. “I thought they just wanted to ask you a few questions at that point.”

“In hindsight it was certainly more an interrogation than a friendly Q and A. Especially after he showed me the photo of the two of us together and suggested I had something to do with her death. You can’t imagine my shock when he told me last night that Dawn was Tammy. I swear that woman didn’t look anything like Tammy. I told him he’d made a huge mistake.”

“How did Spader find out?” asked Zack.

“He realized the ID identifying his victim as Dawn Heathwood was bogus. So he ran her prints, and Tammy’s name popped up.”

“Tammy has a record?” I asked.

“Not necessarily,” said Zack. “More and more companies require their employees to submit to fingerprinting. She could work for the government or in education or any one of a number of other professions.”

“But that’s not the case,” said Shane. “Apparently Tammy racked up quite a rap sheet over the years, mostly petty crimes like shoplifting, but she was also convicted of embezzlement and spent three years in federal prison.”

“To prison with her!” squawked Ralph, flying into the kitchen and coming to roost on his favorite spot atop of the refrigerator. “Measure for Measure. Act Five, Scene One.

The color drained from Shane’s face as he stared wide-eyed and mouth agape at Ralph. “That bird…he—”

“Quotes Shakespeare,” I said, thinking back to Shane’s earlier visit and realizing he hadn’t come in contact with Ralph Sunday night.

“How is that possible?”

“African Greys are quite intelligent,” said Zack. He walked over to the refrigerator and offered Ralph his arm. When Ralph hopped on, Zack returned to the table, pulled a sunflower seed from his pocket, and offered it to the bird. Ralph grabbed the seed with his beak.

Shane continued to watch in fascination as Zack fed Ralph from his pocket stash. “But Shakespeare?”

“Ralph spent decades listening to my great-aunt’s college lectures,” I said. “I suspect he knows every line from every play by heart.”

“Fascinating. Have you had him tested?”

Was Shane stalling, or was he deliberately trying to change the subject? I decided the time had come to redirect the conversation back to the more pressing issue. “No, but getting back to Tammy, you knew nothing about her run-ins with the law?”

“I haven’t seen or heard from Tammy since she walked out on us.”

“How did Spader learn you were living under an assumed name?” asked Zack.

“I’m not. I legally changed my name and Sophie’s.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Mostly to protect my daughter.”

“From her mother?”

Shane shook his head. “No, Tammy was out of our lives.”

“Then from whom?” I asked.

“Others.” He turned to Zack. “To answer your question, when Tammy stumbled against me, she dropped her purse. The contents spilled out. I helped her retrieve the items.”

“You didn’t mention that earlier,” I said. “Did you tell Spader about this when he first interviewed you?”

Shane lowered his head. “I didn’t think it was important at the time.”

“So Spader figured you were hiding something from him.”

He sighed. “Big mistake on my part. Tammy’s purse was found with her body. My prints were all over the purse and its contents. I’m a former teacher. My prints are in the system. I also had to be fingerprinted again for the name change. When the detective ran the prints, I came up as both Shane Lambert and Shane Arnold. That’s all he needed for an arrest warrant.”

A chill of foreboding skittered up my spine. This did not look good.

“Even if Sophie never had a relationship with her mother, you have to tell her Tammy is dead,” I said. “You don’t want her finding out from someone else.” Tammy’s murder had all the earmarks of making national news. If the media hadn’t already gotten wind of the case, they soon would. It was only a matter of time before the vultures set up camp on Shane’s front lawn.

“I know.” He stared directly at me. “But I need your help.”

“It’s not my place to tell your daughter her mother is dead.”

“No, of course not, but I’ve overheard some conversations between Alex and Sophie.”

“Meaning?” I had no idea how much Alex had told Sophie about Karl’s death and its aftermath, but apparently, he’d told her enough.

“How did you handle telling your kids about their father when he died?”

“Anastasia’s husband wasn’t murdered,” said Zack. “He suffered a massive heart attack.”

“I know.”

“He wasn’t estranged from his sons,” I said. “He loved Alex and Nick and was very much a part of their lives.” Only he didn’t love them as much as he loved Lady Luck. However, I didn’t want to discuss Dead Louse of a Spouse with Shane. Karl’s deceit had no bearing on Shane’s situation.

Shane raked his fingers through his hair, then lowered his head into his hands again. “Please, just tell me what to say to her. I don’t know how to do this.”

If Shane was guilty of his ex-wife’s murder, he played the wrongly accused quite well. I wanted to believe him, for Alex’s sake more than anything. I’d already dealt with a murderous stepfather. The thought of my son involved with a girl whose father might be a cold-blooded killer sent my protective Mama Bear instincts into overdrive.

My gut told me Shane Lambert was a good guy, but could I trust my gut? After all, even good guys sometimes make really bad decisions in the heat of the moment. Is that what had happened between Shane and Tammy on Sunday? I barely knew the man. Maybe it was time to learn more about him. “Tell me about your relationship with Tammy. How did the two of you meet?”

With his head still lowered, he said, “We were in high school together. It’s your typical cliché story—mix one senior quarterback and one head cheerleader. Crown them king and queen of the prom. Celebrate with a combination of contraband vodka and raging hormones.”

He lifted his head and stared directly at me, his jaw set tightly.

“If you’re worried about Sophie and Alex—” I began.

“I hope we have nothing to worry about. I don’t want those two making the same mistake Tammy and I made.”

Neither did I.

“Anyway,” he continued, “the next thing I knew Tammy announced she was pregnant. She never considered abortion. I manned up and did the right thing. We married a week after graduation. Sophie was born nearly eight months later.”

Upon first meeting Shane, I pegged him at around fifty, but given his timeline, he couldn’t be older than thirty-five or thirty-six. “How long did the marriage last?”

“Not long. I think Tammy had starry-eyed expectations about marriage and motherhood. She quickly realized the reality didn’t match her dream. She chafed at being tied down to a husband and baby.”

“She never tried to contact you in all these years?” asked Zack.

“Not once.”

“And never showed up out of the blue?”

“Never. When we divorced, Tammy made it clear she wanted nothing to do with either Sophie or me.”

Tammy may have felt that way at eighteen, but who hasn’t regretted a decision from our teen years? At some point she may have had second thoughts about leaving Sophie, especially if someone had pressured her into that decision. “Was she coerced into giving up her parental rights?”

Shane barked out an ironic laugh. “Not only didn’t I coerce her, she freely offered. I didn’t even have to ask.” He shook his head and heaved a loud sigh. “That’s why none of this makes any sense. As I said earlier, Dawn Heathwood looked nothing like Tammy. But even if I had recognized her, what possible reason would I have for killing my ex-wife?”

“That woman was my mother?”

NINE

Sophie, flanked by Alex and Nick, stood wide-eyed in the doorway. Hands on hips, she stared at her father.

In a tight, measured voice Shane said, “Sophie, I asked to speak privately with Anastasia and Zack. How long have you been eavesdropping?”

“Long enough to learn the truth. Were you going to tell me?”

“Of course. I was asking Anastasia for advice on how to do that.”

“Too late. What was she doing here? How did she find us?”

“I have no idea, Soph. Maybe she hired a private investigator to track us down.”

Zack and I both stared at Shane. “Track you down?” asked Zack.

“It’s nothing cloak and dagger,” he said. “Just more about maintaining our privacy and protecting Sophie.”

“You said that was the reason for the name change,” I said. “Protecting Sophie from what? If you haven’t heard from Tammy since the divorce, what were you afraid of?”

Sophie folded her arms across her chest. “Tell them, Dad.”

She walked over to the table and plopped onto the chair next to her father. She stared intently at him, her expression seeming to dare him to divulge a secret they shared.

I turned my attention to Alex. He avoided eye contact with me, quickly pivoting toward the refrigerator. Whatever their secret, Alex knew about it.

I glanced at Nick. His expression showed no evidence of collusion, but he quickly followed his brother to the fridge. After scanning the contents, he walked over to the pantry and pulled out a bag of cookies. “Yo,” he said to his brother, indicating the Oreos.

Alex nodded and closed the fridge.

“Try again,” I said, aiming a Mom Look at both of them.

Alex returned to the refrigerator and retrieved a bowl of apples while Nick substituted the cookies for a jar of peanut butter, grabbing a cutting board and two knives before the two of them settled into the two remaining kitchen chairs. They busied themselves cutting apple slices and spreading them with the peanut butter, pretending a lack of interest in the conversation. They failed miserably in their lame attempt to fool me.

I wasn’t pleased with my sons’ involvement in the Lambert family drama, but if I didn’t allow them to stay, they’d only hear everything later from Sophie. I glanced over at Alex. He definitely knew far more than I did at this point.

Shane nodded in agreement with his daughter. He then turned his attention to Zack and me. “After Tammy and I split, Sophie and I moved back in with my parents. During the day I worked in construction, attending classes at night. Teaching seemed the logical profession because Sophie and I would have similar schedules.”

This certainly explained why he looked so much older than he was. Rugged good looks only went so far. A physical life working outdoors and burning the proverbial candle at both ends had taken their toll, prematurely aging him.

“As you can imagine,” he continued, “it took quite a few years, but I finally graduated. Once certified, I secured a position teaching history and economics at a high school in a neighboring town.”

“Where was Tammy all this time?” I asked.

Shane shrugged. “I have no idea. Like I said, as soon as the divorce was final, she left town.”

“What about her family?” I asked. “She never returned to visit them?”

“Her folks had died in a car crash our junior year. A local minister and his wife took her in, but I think they were relieved when we married. Tammy didn’t exactly follow their rules—or anyone else’s rules.”

“And she had no other family? Grandparents? Aunts and uncles?”

“Not that she ever mentioned.”

“You said you were protecting Sophie,” said Zack. “What did you mean?”

“I was getting to that,” said Shane. He stood and walked to the coffee maker to pour himself another cup before continuing. “Years ago I’d gotten in the habit of buying a lottery ticket once a week. Never won more than a few dollars until last summer when I hit it big.”

“Wow!” said Nick, practically jumping out of his chair. “How much did you win?”

“Nick!”

He flashed me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Mom, but aren’t you curious?”

Sophie bowed her head to avoid eye contact with anyone and nibbled on a wedge of apple. “Really, really big,” she mumbled.

My assessment of Shane immediately skyrocketed. Here’s a guy who scored a huge lottery windfall, yet his teenage daughter worked part-time at Starbucks. According to Alex, Sophie was saving to buy a car. Shane Lambert definitely understood the finer points of parenting.

Too many parents—Ira being a prime example—give their children everything on a platinum platter and wind up creating spoiled offspring with huge senses of entitlement. I had no doubt that the day Ira’s twins Melody and Harmony turned sixteen, they’d each get their learner’s permits and their own cars.

“Were you worried about someone kidnapping Sophie?” asked Zack.

Shane returned to his seat. “Exactly. Don’t ever let anyone tell you the day you win the lottery your worries are over.”

The guy had obviously never faced the prospect of setting up housekeeping in a cardboard box. A lottery windfall would certainly solve my financial problems. I’d considered the risk worth taking—if only I could afford to play.

“We had moved to North Dakota a few years earlier,” Shane continued, “after both my folks passed. Sophie took their deaths hard, especially my mom’s. She was diagnosed with cancer. Her death was slow and painful.”

“She was the only mother I’ve ever known,” said Sophie.

Alex reached for Sophie’s hand. They exchanged sympathetic smiles.

“Even though North Dakota is one of the few states where winners can remain anonymous,” said Shane, “word quickly spread in the small town where we lived.”

“I think it was the owner of the luncheonette where Dad bought the ticket,” said Sophie. “He knew he sold the winning ticket. He probably scanned his video surveillance and compared it with his lottery sales for the week.”

“Or it could have been someone at the lottery commission,” said Shane. “Or the law office where I set up a trust for Sophie and established a charitable foundation with the proceeds. There’s no way to know how the information got out.”

“So much for remaining anonymous,” said Alex.

“All of a sudden the phone didn’t stop ringing,” said Shane. “Day and night. Strangers with sob stories, scammers with investment deals, people claiming to be long-lost relatives, even the parents of some of my students—everyone wanted a piece of my winnings. But that wasn’t the worst of it. I started receiving anonymous threats against Sophie.”

“That’s why you moved here?” I asked.

“We packed up a few things in the middle of the night and left without telling anyone,” said Sophie. “We even smashed our cell phones and tossed them into a Dumpster. Dad was afraid some hacker would track us. He bought us new phones with new numbers once we stopped in Minneapolis.”

“Is that why you’re not on any social media?” asked Nick.

“And she won’t be,” said Shane. “Ever.”

Sophie turned to Nick. “You looked me up?”

“Hey, you’re dating my brother. I was curious about you.”

“Dad made me delete all my accounts.”

“That’s also why I changed our names,” said Shane. “We established residency in Minnesota while I dealt with that. A legal name change now involves far more time and red tape than it once did. Then we headed east. I wanted to put as much distance as possible between our old life and our new life.”

“And yet Tammy found you,” I said.

“My guess is she somehow got wind of my lottery winnings and hired someone to find me.”

“Why?” asked Nick.

“Probably to worm her way back into our lives so she could get her hands on the money.”

Zack and I quickly exchanged a knowing look. Shane claimed he had no reason to kill Tammy, but that sure sounded like motive to me.

Shane must have caught our quick exchange. “I would have gladly given Tammy money had she asked.”

“Why?” asked Sophie.

“Because I’m responsible for screwing up your mother’s life.”

I inwardly scoffed. Tammy screwed up her own life. Yes, Shane’s sperm cavorted with one of her eggs and produced Sophie, but Tammy was complicit in that act and also responsible for every decision she’d made afterwards. No one forced her into a life of crime.

“It’s only money,” said Shane. “We have more than we’ll ever need. Although…” He grew thoughtful.

“What?” I asked.

“Maybe money wasn’t the reason Tammy showed up. Given her physical transformation, she spent a fortune on plastic surgery.” He paused again before adding, “That costs megabucks, right?”

“Unless she went broke from all those surgeries,” I said. “Insurance wouldn’t have covered any of it.”

Sophie turned to her dad. “What was different about her?”

“You’ve never even seen a photo of your mother?” I asked.

She shrugged. “Dad kept a few pictures in case I ever asked about her, but I ripped them up when I was in kindergarten.”

“Why?” asked Nick.

She shrugged. “I really don’t remember. I guess I was angry with her for leaving me. All my friends had mothers. I only had a grandmother.”

Shane frowned. “You didn’t just rip them up; you systematically tore them into smaller and smaller pieces until there was nothing left but a mound of confetti.”

“Did I?”

“You don’t remember?”

Sophie shook her head.

Shane turned to me. “Sophie had anger issues back then, but we worked through them.”

Given my own sons’ reactions to their father’s duplicity, I certainly understood. At least Alex and Nick were older at the time and could voice their anger. I may not have taken any psychology courses in college, but I knew enough about the subject to realize at such a young age Sophie may even have subconsciously blamed herself for Tammy’s desertion.

“Whatever,” said Sophie. “So, if my mother didn’t look anything like the dead woman, what did she look like?”

Shane squinted up at the ceiling as if trying to remember. “Your mother was small-breasted with an athletic build. No curves. And she never had high cheekbones or pouty lips like the woman at the crafts fair. You can change hair color for a few dollars with a box from the drug store, but if that was Tammy, she underwent a total reconstruction from her face down to her butt.”

Alex had sat silently listening throughout the conversation, probably because he already knew so much, but now he said, “Just because she turned out to be Sophie’s mom doesn’t mean her dad killed her.”

On the surface Shane’s story made sense. However, no one knew why Tammy had shown up after so many years, and that was a huge missing element. In addition, why had she kept her identity from Shane? Or had she? We only had Shane’s word that she merely thanked him once again for breaking her fall, then left.

In my non-expert opinion, either Detective Spader had more evidence against Shane and was keeping mum about it, or he had an extremely weak case. Knowing Spader, I doubted he’d make an arrest based on an extremely weak case.

“Someone out there is going to get away with murder, and Sophie’s dad will go to prison unless we find the real killer,” said Alex.

“We?” I stared at my son.

“Alex told me you’d solved some murders, Mrs. Pollack. Would you help prove dad’s innocence?”

“Please, Mom,” said Alex. “You have to help.”

“Mom,” said Nick, “you promised!”

Alex turned to his brother. “Promised what?”

“That she’d stop putting herself in danger.”

“Nick is right,” said Zack. “This is a matter for the police.”

“But that man is going to put Dad in prison, and he didn’t do anything wrong,” said Sophie. Tears began streaming down her face again. “You have to help him!”

“Sophie,” said Shane. He leaned over and wrapped his arm around his daughter. “Listen to me. I’ve hired a very good defense attorney with a staff of experts at his disposal. They’ll find a way to prove my innocence. We don’t need to get Anastasia or anyone else involved.”

“No, Dad!” She slammed her palms onto the table, startling Ralph. He squawked once, flapped his wings and took flight, heading into the dining room.

“Sorry,” said Sophie. “I didn’t mean to startle him.”

“Ralph is used to sudden outburst,” I said. “Don’t worry about it.”

She nodded. “But innocent people do go to prison, don’t they?”

I ached for Sophie, but I had to think of my own kids. If I kept sticking my nose where it didn’t belong, at some point my luck would run out, and I’d leave them orphaned.

I looked down at my bandaged wrist. If Zack hadn’t come home when he did Saturday, my family would be planning my funeral right now. “I don’t know that there’s anything I can do to help, Sophie.”

“Mom,” said Alex.

“Mom,” said Nick.

Both boys pleaded with me for opposing reasons. I turned to Zack. “Is there anything you can do?”

“I’ll make a few calls first thing tomorrow morning.”

“I don’t understand,” said Shane. “What can you do? You’re a photographer.”

“Zack has certain connections,” I said.

“What sort of connections?” asked Shane.

“Ones he doesn’t talk about.”

Making eye contact with me, Zack shook his head. “You never give up, do you?”

I shrugged. “Someone’s jumping to conclusions. I was thinking of Patricia.” Patricia Tierney was Zack’s ex-wife. Like Shane and Tammy, they’d married too young and quickly split. However, unlike Shane and Tammy, they never had children and have continued to maintain a friendly relationship. Patricia’s twins even call Zack Uncle Zacky.

Zack shot me a wry smile. “Sure you were.”

Busted. But I simply smiled back at him. He’d never convince me he didn’t have a side gig as one of the good guys on the government’s payroll. Or perhaps photojournalism was the side gig—AKA his cover.

Truthfully, I’d love to believe him. Every time he jetted off on assignment I worried I’d never see him again. Zack spent far too much time in remote Third World nations filled with drug lords, terrorists, or civil unrest—often all three. The needle on my Skepticism Meter had frozen permanently in the red zone, and no matter how often he denied living a clandestine life, that needle refused to budge.

“How can this Patricia person help?” asked Shane.

“She’s an assistant DA in Manhattan,” said Zack. “And I don’t know that she can, but she has connections on this side of the Hudson River. She may be able to learn why Spader has his sights set on you.”

“I doubt she’d find something my lawyer’s people won’t find,” said Shane.

“You might be surprised,” I said, but as the words tumbled from my mouth, another thought struck me. “We’ve overlooked something,” I said.

Everyone stared at me. “What?” asked Shane.

“You assumed Tammy had tripped and fallen into you. Given the circumstances, doesn’t that seem far too coincidental to be believable?”

“Now that you mention it,” said Shane. “What are the odds?”

“Exactly. What if you were set up?

TEN

“You may be onto something,” said Zack.

“Set me up for what?” asked Shane.

“What if Tammy never intended to divulge her identity to you?” I suggested. “What if her plan was to have you fall for Dawn Heathwood?”

“And marry her?” asked Shane. “I’m not following you. She had her chance and walked away.”

“Million of dollars might have made her reconsider,” I said.

“It’s one possibility,” said Zack. “Maybe that’s also why she was lurking near us at the Armory and why she later struck up a conversation with Sophie. She was laying the groundwork for establishing a relationship.”

“She may have deliberately tripped and fallen into you,” I said. “It’s the classic ‘cute meet’ that happens all the time in romantic comedies.”

“Only her scheme wouldn’t have worked,” said Shane.

“Never underestimate the power of a woman on a mission,” said Zack.

Was that a dig over my refusal to believe Zack had no secret life as a government operative? I glanced in his direction; he offered me a catbird smile. Yup, definitely a dig.

I turned back to Shane. “What makes you so sure her plan would fail?”

“The Tammy I remember looked like the girl next door, even if her rule-breaking personality didn’t match that wholesome image. I’m not into plastic Barbies. Besides, if she showed up after all these years to try to get her hands on my money, she’d have been sorely disappointed.”

“I’m confused,” I said. “Didn’t you say you would have been happy to give her some?”

“Enough to help her out, but the bulk of the estate is tied up in a trust for Sophie and a charitable foundation I administer. I can’t touch the principal of either.”

“If she was after your money,” said Zack, “she wouldn’t have settled for a token handout. She’d keep coming back for more.”

“Marrying you would have given her far more access to a steady income stream,” I said.

“True,” said Shane. “I hadn’t thought of that.”

Or had he? Reluctantly, I took a baby step toward Slater’s camp. Maybe he knew something I didn’t. What if Shane had lied about not realizing Dawn was Tammy? He may have offered her money, only to have her demand far more.

I studied Shane. I wanted to believe him, but doubt blasted me from all angles. What did we really know about the man? Next to nothing other than what he’d told us, and we had no way of knowing how much of that was true.

However, as his ex-wife, Tammy knew about Shane’s past. Did skeletons lurk in his closet? Had she tried to blackmail him? Is that what got her killed?

I kept these thoughts to myself for now, preferring to believe in the man until concrete evidence proved otherwise.

“So who killed her?” asked Alex.

“And why?” added Sophie.

“That’s the multi-million-dollar question,” I said, no pun intended. “We don’t know where she went after leaving the Armory. She may have hooked up with the wrong person Sunday evening or been the victim of a random mugging gone wrong.”

Anything could have happened to Tammy after she left the Armory, another reason why I suspected either Detective Spader had jumped to the wrong conclusion, or he had additional evidence leading him to zero in on Shane to the exclusion of all other suspects. Too many unanswered questions moved me back to straddling the line between Spader and Shane.

Not only didn’t we know Tammy’s true motive, we knew nothing of her whereabouts prior to showing up at the holiday crafts fair. When had she arrived in the area? Had she come alone or with someone? Was that someone an accomplice in her scheme or simply a means to an end? Where was she living? Had she rented an apartment, or was she staying at a local hotel?

I looked around the table. None of us had any answers, only questions, and the more we pondered over the situation, the more questions arose. A man’s life hung in the balance. His daughter was devastated. My sons were pulling me in opposite directions.

Someone had to do something. Since Spader didn’t seem inclined to delve elsewhere, how could I uncover the truth while appeasing both of my sons and keeping all my body parts safe and sound?

And what if the truth led me to agree with Spader?

Before I had a chance to dwell on that disturbing thought for too long, the doorbell rang. Lucille wouldn’t ring the bell. Neither would Mama. Besides, she’d never pop in at this hour of the day. She’d expect me to be at work. “I’ll get it,” I said, foreboding churning in my belly.

As I left the kitchen, I held my breath, hoping I’d find a gaggle of proselytizing pamphleteers standing on the other side of my front door rather than my not-so-friendly neighborhood detective. On my way through the living room, I glanced out the front window and breathed a sigh of relief when I didn’t see Spader’s unmarked police car at my curb. Instead I saw a black Mercedes SUV with dealer plates parked at the end of my driveway.

I knew only one person who drove vehicles with dealer plates—Ira. Worse yet, he wasn’t alone. Wearing huge scowls of utter disdain, Melody, Harmony, and Isaac stood several feet behind their father.

What in the world were they doing here this time of day? I thought back to my last conversation with Ira. Not only do I distinctly remember telling him I’d let him know about his plan for a celebratory dinner, I definitely remember telling him weeknights were out of the question.

I didn’t realize I’d groaned out loud until Zack came to investigate. “What’s wrong?”

“Ira and his kids are here. Any chance we can all sneak out the back door and hide in your apartment?”

Zack speared me with the kind of look I usually reserve for my kids when I’m not pleased with them—in other words, a Mom Look. Since Zack has never had kids, he apparently picked up the look from me. Sometimes I’m not a very good influence.

“He knows we’re home. Our cars are parked in the driveway in front of his.”

“I suppose that’s as obvious as a flashing neon sign.”

“Pretty much.”

By this time Nick, Alex, Shane, and Sophie had joined us at the window. “Why are they all here?” asked Nick.

There was only one way to find out. I stepped into the foyer, tried to force the annoyance from my features, and swung open the front door.

A huge smile filled Ira’s face. “Anastasia, how wonderful! I didn’t expect to find you home.”

“What are you doing here, Ira?” When his expression of happy surprise morphed into a frown of concern, I realized I’d failed miserably at masking my annoyance.

Ira being Ira, he pasted a smile back on his face and stepped inside without being invited. “I brought the kids to see the new house.” He motioned for them to follow him. “I thought if Alex and Nick were home, they might like to join us. This is great. You can come, too, and we’ll all go out to dinner afterwards.”

“Do they have to?” asked Melody, her arms crossed over her chest. Or maybe it was Harmony. I can’t tell the two of them apart. Whichever twin it was, she speared me with an evil eye that rivaled any I’d ever received from my mother-in-law or her cohorts. Her sister and brother joined her in a triple whammy glare.

“Of course, they do,” said Ira. “Don’t be rude.” He pulled his phone from his pocket. “I’ll call Flora. We’ll pick her up on the way.”

“Wait.” I placed my hand over his phone to prevent him from making the call. “Tonight is not going to work out, Ira. I told you on Sunday that weeknights aren’t good for us.”

“But you’re home, and the twins and Isaac did their homework in the car on the way over. So there’s no problem. Although, we’ll have to take two cars. Mine only holds seven people. What do you feel like eating?”

“Ira, we’re busy this evening,” said Zack, stepping into the foyer.

Ira turned to face him. That’s when he noticed Shane and Sophie standing in the living room with Alex and Nick. Ira immediately broke into car dealer mode and strode past Zack toward Shane. He extended his hand. “Hello, I’m Ira Pollack, Anastasia’s brother-in-law.”

“Half-brother-in-law,” I said, following him.

Shane accepted Ira’s hand and forced a smile, his discomfort obvious to everyone except Ira.

“And you are?” he asked Shane, ignoring my comment.

Before Shane could answer, Zack placed his hand on Ira’s upper arm and drew him away from Shane. “He’s a neighbor.”

“Well then,” said Ira. “That makes us neighbors as well. My kids and I are moving to Westfield. I recently bought a home on Prospect Street.”

Prospect Street? Ira hadn’t previously mentioned the location of his new house. Shane and Sophie lived on Prospect Street. And a sold sign was stuck in the lawn of the newly constructed McMansion next door to them. The last thing Shane Lambert and his daughter needed right now was Ira Pollack and his three brats as next-door neighbors.

 Alex apparently had a similar thought. His features clouded with worry as he wrapped a protective arm around Sophie’s shoulders. “Where on Prospect Street?”

“Near the border with Scotch Plains,” said Ira.

Alex exhaled his relief. Ira’s new home was more than a mile from Shane and Sophie.

“Would you like to come with us to see it?” asked Ira.

“Can’t,” said Alex. “We’re sort of in the middle of something right now.”

Ira turned to Nick. “What about you, Nick?”

“I’m right in the middle of that something along with Alex.”

“Now can we get out of here?” asked Harmony. Or Melody.

“Yeah, I’m bored,” said Isaac. “Let’s go already.”

Perfect timing. I placed my hand on Ira’s arm. “Go show your kids their new home. And please, next time call first before dropping by. We really need to continue what we were doing before you arrived.”

Ira shifted his gaze between Shane, Zack, and me. I could tell he was dying to know what was going on, but it was none of his business. Besides, I really resented him barging in on us.

“I didn’t call because I wasn’t expecting you to be home, Anastasia. What if I take the twins and Isaac to see the house and come back to pick you all up for dinner?”

“Not tonight,” I said, urging him toward the front door.

“I could order something in, then.”

I shook my head. “Not tonight,” I repeated more forcefully.

He looked like I’d just informed him Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny, and the Tooth Fairy don’t exist. His kids had the exact opposite reaction. Isaac opened the front door, and the three of them raced outside.

“Another time, then?” asked Ira, pausing at the door.

“Another time. But please, call first.”

His shoulders slumped as he stepped outside and walked toward his car, glancing back once as I shut the door.

As always, when it comes to Ira, I’m conflicted. One part of me feels sorry for him, but the other part of me is growing increasingly angry from the way he tries to insert himself into my life. “Why is it that every time I turn him down,” I asked Zack, “I feel like I’ve kicked a puppy?”

“Ira isn’t as pathetic as he appears. He’s a master of manipulation. It’s probably what makes him such a successful salesman.”

“People buy cars from him because they feel sorry for him?”

“He plays on their sympathies.”

“But I turned him down.”

“This time. He knows he’ll get his way eventually. You’re a soft touch.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“Didn’t you open your home to a woman who’s never had a kind word for you in two decades?”

I sighed. “Point taken. Maybe I need to grow a backbone.”

He kissed the top of my head. “No need. Your big heart more than compensates.”

“Hey, Mom,” said Nick. “Any chance of cooking dinner before things get too mushy?”

Dinner! I reached for Zack’s wrist to check the time.

“We should get going,” said Shane. “It’s been a long day, but we’ll need a lift home.”

“Stay,” said Zack. “We’ll order in.”

“Only if you let me pay,” said Shane.

~*~

After dinner Alex offered to drive Shane and Sophie home while Nick, Zack, and I cleaned up. Not that there was much to clean up after a dinner of take-out Thai. I was once seventeen, too, but all I said was, “Don’t stay too long. It’s a school night.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave me a peck on the cheek and grabbed his coat and keys, happy to play chauffeur to his girlfriend and her father.

“I’ll kick him out by nine-thirty,” said Shane. Then he added, “Thank you both…for everything. I don’t know how Sophie and I would get through this on our own. Your kindness means so much to both of us right now.”

Before leaving, Sophie hugged both Zack and me, then Nick. “Thank you for believing in my dad,” she said.

But did I? I mentally crossed all my digits and smiled, hoping my eyes didn’t betray me.

Ten minutes later while Nick walked Mephisto and Zack lugged the trashcans to the curb for the morning pick-up, my phone rang. When I checked the display, my heart plummeted to my stomach.

Is it just me, or are all mothers genetically conditioned to worry from the moment their children leave the womb? Each time my son gets behind the wheel, I live in fear that he won’t arrive home in one piece. I told myself that if Alex was well enough to place a call, whatever had happened couldn’t be that bad. But just in case, I also sent up a quick prayer to the God of Worrywart Mothers and their Seventeen-Year-Old-Sons-With-Drivers-Licenses before I answered the call.

“Just tell me you’re okay,” I said without so much as a hello.

“I’m fine, Mom. And so is the car if that’s your next question.”

I exhaled a huge sigh of relief. “But?”

“Sophie and her dad were robbed.”

ELEVEN

“The place looks trashed,” said Alex.

“Get out of the house now, Alex!”

“Relax, Mom. We’re not in the house.” 

Relax? My son may have walked into a home where armed robbers were lurking, and he’s telling me to relax? I don’t think so. “Where are you?”

“In the car. As soon as Sophie’s dad opened the door and saw what happened, he wouldn’t let us in. He said the robbers might still be inside. He even made me move the car off the driveway and park it across the street and down a few doors.”

“Good. Did Shane call the police?”

“He’s on the phone with them now.”

“Lock the car doors. We’re on our way.”

I grabbed my coat and spun Zack around the moment he walked back into the house, leaving the door unlocked for Nick. I knew his dog-walking route. We’d pull up alongside him on our way and let him know what had happened. As we drove down the street, the first snowflakes began to fall. “Are we supposed to get a storm tonight?”

“Not unless the forecast changed,” said Zack. “Last I heard, the prediction called for only a light dusting.”

“Do you think the break-in is a coincidence?”

He shrugged. “Possibly, but I doubt it.”

“That makes two of us.” At least a break-in, if connected to Tammy’s murder, lent credibility to Shane’s story. He’d spent last night in jail. Once released on bail, Zack had helped him clean up the mess from the police search of his home. He had no opportunity to stage a robbery in order to redirect Spader onto a wild goose chase hunting for a phony suspect.

“One thing puzzles me, though,” he said.

“Only one thing?”

“Shane has an alarm system, and I remember him setting it as we left the house earlier.”

“You saw him punch in the code?”

“I stood right next to him. The alarm was definitely enabled when we left the house.”

“Then why didn’t it go off and notify the security company?”

“Good question.”

We arrived to find two squad cars, their lights flashing, parked in front of Shane’s house. Detective Spader’s black unmarked sedan idled behind them. Two officers walked the property, sweeping the area with powerful Maglites, catching snowflakes in their beams. Under normal circumstances, I might have remarked on the dancing fairies imagery. Not tonight.

Spader stood on the sidewalk speaking with Shane. Alex and Sophie hovered nearby. Curious neighbors had gathered across the street. This was a part of town where residents viewed police activity on their street as a threat to their property values.

As we approached, two other officers exited the house. “All clear, Detective. No sign of anyone inside.”

Spader nodded and said, “Canvas the neighborhood.”

One officer headed across the street to speak with the neighbors while the other hopped into his squad car and slowly drove down the street in search of suspects. Spader turned back to Shane. “Come with me, Mr. Lambert. We’re going to do a walk-through. I want you to tell me what you notice missing.”

The wind picked up and the temperature dipped as Zack, Alex, Sophie, and I waited on the sidewalk. Icy flakes stung my cheeks; snow swirls whipped around our feet. None of us wore hats or boots, and I’d rushed out of the house without gloves. “Let’s wait in the car,” I said.

Zack and I had driven over in his Boxster, so the four of us piled into Alex’s Jeep. He turned on the engine and cranked up the heat. “How bad did it look in the house?” I asked.

“Hard to tell,” said Alex. “We only made it as far as the foyer when we saw the mess in Mr. Lambert’s office.”

“Papers everywhere,” said Sophie. “The file cabinet and desk drawers were pulled out and dumped. Dad rushed us out of the house.”

“Someone was looking for something,” said Zack.

“Well, if they’re looking for money, they’re out of luck,” said Sophie. “Dad doesn’t keep very much in the house.”

“The intruder wouldn’t know that,” I said.

Sophie shuddered. “Still cold?” asked Alex. He reached over and cranked up the heat another notch.

She shook her head. “No, it’s just…” She turned around to face Zack and me. “What if whoever broke into our house is the person who killed my…killed Tammy?”

Although I had my doubts about the random nature of the break-in, I didn’t want to add to Sophie’s mounting fears. “Most robberies that occur in town are kids looking to steal prescription pain killers or small items they can easily pawn to buy drugs. The cops catch them very quickly.”

Sophie looked skeptical. “But what if it wasn’t? He could come back.”

“Let’s wait until we learn what was taken,” said Zack. “That will give us better insight into the culprit’s identity.”

Twenty minutes later Shane emerged from the house. When Alex flashed the Jeep’s lights to let him know our location, he waved to us, indicating we should join him. The four of us exited the Jeep, hurried across the street, and entered the house. Spader stood in the foyer.

“Nothing of value is missing,” said Shane.

“Nothing?” asked Sophie. “Somebody just decided to break in and trash our house for the fun of it?”

“It happens occasionally,” said Spader. “Juvenile delinquents mostly but sometimes drug addicts.”

Or psychotic Mafia loan sharks out to make a point. However, Ricardo, the Mafioso who had not only trashed my house but nearly killed me last winter, now cooled his heels in an out-of-state federal prison and would remain locked up for life. Same for Lawrence Tuttnauer, my mother’s ex. If either had orchestrated revenge from behind bars, they’d target me directly. Or worse yet, they’d go after my loved ones, inflicting a pain far greater than any physical harm they could cause me. As I looked at my son, I fought to suppress the shudder of fear threatening to course through my body.

Shane and Sophie weren’t family. Besides, I’d only met them several days ago. Neither Ricardo nor Lawrence would know or care about Shane and Sophie.

“When they don’t find alcohol, drugs, or money,” continued Spader, “they get angry and make a mess before they leave. This is minor compared to some damage I’ve seen. The crime scene unit is on their way to dust for prints.”

Shane ran his hands through his hair. “I can’t believe I forgot to set the alarm.”

“You didn’t forget,” said Zack. “I saw you set it.”

That caught Spader’s attention. “Are you sure?”

“Positive.”

Spader frowned. He turned to Shane. “Did you change the password from the default setting? Too many homeowners don’t.”

“I’m not one of them.”

Spader grimaced. “Then I doubt we’ll find any fingerprints or other evidence of the intruder’s identity.”

“Why?” asked Sophie.

“Our alarm is state-of-the-art,” said Shane. “The only way to disable it is by hacking into the system.”

“And anyone skilled enough to do that,” said Zack, “isn’t going to be dumb enough not to wear gloves.”

“Which means we’re not dealing with a random break-in,” said Spader. “The perp only hit a couple of rooms, and he didn’t take any valuables. At first, I thought maybe something spooked him, and he fled before he finished. But in light of this information about the alarm, it’s obvious the guy was looking for something specific. Any idea what that something might be, Mr. Lambert?”

We all turned to face Shane. He held his arms akimbo and shook his head. “I don’t have a clue.”

“Then it could have been the same person who killed Tammy,” said Sophie.

Spader opened his mouth to say something, but when I glared at him, he pursed his lips into a tight line.

Sophie took a step toward him. Hands on her hips, she bristled. “This proves my dad didn’t kill Tammy. I told you, but you wouldn’t believe me.”

Shane drew Sophie back. “The detective has to do his job, Sweetheart.”

Tears welled in Sophie’s eyes and spilled onto her cheeks. “Then he sucks at his job. The real killer is still out there, and now he’s coming after us.”

“Out of the mouths of babes,” I muttered.

Now it was Spader’s turn to glare at me. “You have something to say, Mrs. Pollack?”

“Don’t,” said Zack under his breath.

He was right. No good would come from antagonizing Detective Spader. Instead of going on the offensive, I calmly suggested a possible alternate theory. “If the intruder wasn’t interested in money, drugs, jewelry, or electronics, is it possible he was searching for information? Maybe a computer file? Can you log on and check the history?”

“No,” said Shane.

“Why not?”

“Detective Spader is currently in possession of all our computers.”

“What!” Sophie’s voice climbed several octaves. She glared at Spader. “You took my computer?”

Shane placed his hand on her shoulder to restrain her, but she shrugged it off and moved well into Spader’s personal space. “I don’t believe this. How am I supposed to do my schoolwork?”

“You’ll get the computer back as soon as forensics is done with it,” said Spader.

Sophie stamped her foot. “Not good enough. I have three papers due before Christmas break. All my research and notes are on my computer.”

“I’ll see what I can do about speeding up the process.”

“While you’re at it, you can also see about dropping the charges against my dad and go find the real killer.”

Shane grabbed her arm and pulled her away from Spader. “That’s enough, Sophie. This isn’t helping.”

She jabbed a finger in Spader’s direction. “Neither is anything he’s doing.”

~*~

For the second time in two days the crime scene unit descended on Shane’s house, but they kept their search to the two rooms where the intruder had rifled through Shane’s possessions—his office and the master bedroom.

At first we waited in the foyer with Detective Spader, but as the snow continued to fall, I grew antsy. The earlier light dusting of flakes had morphed into wet, heavy snow. The increasing winds suggested an impending blizzard that the weather report had failed to note. Alex had experienced limited driving during snowy conditions. My protective Mom Gene kicked in. “We need to leave before the weather gets worse,” I said.

Sophie reached for Alex’s hand. Her eyes, filled with fear, darted between her father and me. “What if the burglar comes back while we’re asleep?”

“I’ll change the password on the alarm,” said Shane. “You don’t need to worry, Soph. We’ll be safe.”

Sophie wasn’t convinced. “But what if he hacked in without needing the password? He could do it again.”

A far more disturbing thought grabbed hold of me. While Shane continued to calm his daughter, I surreptitiously indicated to Spader that I’d like a private one-on-one.

He nodded before pointing toward the kitchen and saying, “Mrs. Pollack, a word? The rest of you wait here.”

Zack wrinkled his brow and was about to say something, but I shook my head and held up my hand to stop him from objecting. Then I followed Spader.

When we arrived in the kitchen, he heaved himself onto one of the bar stools at the island. After running his hand over the five o’clock shadow—now grown to nine o’clock—covering his jaw, he indicated I should take a seat. I deliberately placed an empty stool between us to avoid any thigh fraternization. Although Spader had lost some weight recently, shrinking his triple chin to double, he hadn’t lost enough to prevent excess poundage from spilling over the edges of the stool.

“What’s on your mind, Mrs. Pollack?”

“How likely is it that a burglar would have the tech skills to bypass a state-of-the-art alarm system?”

He raised an eyebrow. “You don’t think it was a burglary, do you?”

“Are you aware that Shane received threats against Sophie prior to moving here?”

He nodded. “After he won the lottery. He claims that’s why he changed their last name and moved east.”

“You don’t believe him?”

“I never said that. Where are you going with this?”

“Suppose the intruder wasn’t after information?”

“You think he wanted to kidnap the kid?”

“Isn’t it possible? Maybe he trashed the house out of frustration when he found no one home.”

“If that were the case, why didn’t he wreak havoc? Topple furniture? Break things?” Spader shook his head. “No, he was definitely after something specific, something he suspected he’d find in a file, either paper or digital. I figure he didn’t expect not to find any computers in the house. That’s why he ransacked the file cabinet and desk drawers. On the surface it might look like he trashed the place, but I’m guessing he executed a methodical search.”

“Then why would he leave evidence of his search?” I asked. “Especially if he came up empty?”

“To send a message? Scare the crap out of Lambert?”

“So you agree with me?”

“It’s a working theory, Mrs. Pollack. I won’t dismiss it, but I like mine better. Lambert’s hiding something. I think he knows what the guy was after but isn’t saying.”

“I have another working theory.”

He sighed. “I’m not surprised. You don’t think the guy’s guilty of murder, do you?”

“I don’t.”

“The evidence points to him.”

“But it’s all circumstantial, easily explained.”

“Except for the eyewitness.”

TWELVE

Good thing I was sitting because at that moment my legs never would have supported my body. “What eyewitness?”

“The one who places Lambert near where the body was found.”

“Meaning Tammy was killed someplace other than where her body was discovered?”

“I didn’t say that.”

So far Spader had managed to keep a lid on his investigation. Even the news media hadn’t yet picked up the story. As far as I knew, Shane wasn’t told the location of Tammy’s body, let alone the existence of an eyewitness that placed him near the scene. Or maybe he was told, and if so, why had he failed to share that information with us?

Spader eyed me for a moment, scowled, then shrugged. “You might as well know. The story will be all over the eleven o’clock news tonight. I held a press conference earlier.”

“I don’t suppose you thought of Sophie and what that would do to her?”

“That’s where you’re wrong. I feel for the kid, but once Lambert was arraigned, I had no choice.”

“And?”

“The body was found in a wooded area off Route 22, behind the motel where the deceased was last seen with the suspect.”

“Which explains your theory of a planned rendezvous between Shane and Tammy.”

“It does.”

“Was Tammy staying at that motel?”

“She checked in two days earlier.”

“Alone?”

“Alone.”

This didn’t bode well for Shane. “How credible an eyewitness?”

“He had no reason to lie.”

“Unless he did. Have you considered your eyewitness might be your killer?”

“I didn’t attend the Acme School of Detecting, Mrs. Pollack. We checked out the guy’s alibi. It’s solid.”

“I wasn’t accusing you of sloppy investigating.”

“Really? Forgive my skepticism.”

“This is New Jersey, Detective. You know as well as I do that alibis can be bought.”

“Fair enough. But not this time.”

“Why is that?”

“The guy was from out of state, here for a job interview and staying in the room next door. My men canvassed the motel guests. He picked Lambert out from a photo array. Said he saw him walking into the motel room with the victim.”

“Was Tammy killed at the motel?”

“We have no conclusive evidence one way or the other. Nothing to indicate a scuffle.”

“And no evidence of Shane having been in the room?”

“Nothing other than the eyewitness account.”

“No video surveillance?”

“Only at the front door and inside the office.”

“Isn’t that unusual these days?” Cameras are everywhere. Pick your nose, and you run the risk of becoming the next YouTube sensation.

“Not really. It’s the kind of motel known for protecting their customers’ privacy.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“They offer hourly rates.”

“Oh.” This definitely fell under the heading of TMI. I suddenly had an overwhelming urge to jump into a scalding hot shower. “Why would a man here for a job interview book a room at such a place?”

Spader answered with a shrug. “Like I said, he’s from out of town.”

“Did he hear Tammy scream? Call for help?”

He shook his head. “He was leaving his room as they arrived at hers.”

“So he only saw the man for a second or two?”

“Correct.”

“I have one word for you, Detective.”

“What’s that?”

“Rashomon.”

His eyebrows drew together as the corners of his mouth dipped down. “The movie?”

“Exactly. The one where four people witness a murder and no two accounts are the same. Surely you learned about the Rashomon Effect in detective school.” After all, I’d heard of it, and I’ve never gone to detective school.

“Yeah, I know about it. Your point?”

“You’re basing your entire case against Shane on one eyewitness who briefly saw a man and a woman enter a motel room.”

“Not entirely.”

“You have additional evidence against Shane? What?”

“I can’t share that with you.”

There it was, Spader’s standard ongoing investigation disclaimer. Maybe he’d be more forthcoming about something else. “How did you find out about the body?”

“Anonymous tip.”

“Forgive my skepticism, Detective.”

He shrugged. “Happens all the time. People are civic-minded, up to a point. They’ll report a crime but don’t want to get involved beyond tipping us off. You can’t blame them. They worry about their own safety. The caller was out walking his dog.”

“On Route 22? Who walks a dog on one of the busiest highways in the state?”

“Probably no one, but there’s an apartment complex on the other side of the woods. The dog picked up the scent of the body.”

“So your theory is Shane killed Tammy and dragged her body into the woods behind the motel without anyone seeing him?”

“More likely he killed her in the woods.”

“Because couples always go for a stroll in the woods in freezing temperatures after having sex?”

“I never said they had sex. He could have forced her into the woods.”

“But even if Shane did follow Tammy to the motel—and I don’t believe for one moment that he did—she could have been killed by someone else after he left.”

“You missed your calling, Mrs. Pollack.”

“How so?”

“You’d have made one heck of a defense attorney. What makes you so damn sure he’s innocent? You said yourself you barely know the guy.”

“Call it feminine intuition. What makes you so damn sure he’s guilty?”

“Call it decades of experience.”

“Meaning?”

“Ninety-nine percent of the time the most likely suspect turns out to be the killer.” 

“But not always?”

“No, not always.” As reluctant an admission as I’d ever heard but an admission, nonetheless. He nodded toward the front of the house. “Didn’t you want to get home before the snow got worse?”

“Is that your way of saying this conversation is over?”

Spader hoisted himself off the stool. “It is.” He swept his hand in front of him to indicate I should precede him back to where the others waited.

When we arrived in the foyer, I noticed Sophie maintained a two-fisted death grip on Alex’s hand. I turned to face Spader. With a slight tilt of my head to indicate the teens, I asked, “Can you post a patrol car in front of the house?”

He approached Sophie. Foregoing his usual gruff tone, he said, “We’ll keep you and your father safe tonight, Miss Lambert.”

Sophie stared at Spader, as if weighing the truthfulness of his words. “Promise?”

When he nodded, she loosened her grip on Alex. Shane wrapped his arm around her shoulders and drew her close to him. “We’re in good hands, Soph.”

She twisted her neck to make eye contact with him. “Really, Dad? There’s a killer out there, and those good hands want to lock you up for a murder someone else committed.”

“Don’t worry, Sophie,” said Alex. “My mom’s going to find the real killer.”

Five pairs of eyes stared at me. Three conveyed hope, one conveyed fear, and one—belonging to the detective—shot me an angry don’t-you-dare-go-there warning.

~*~

In near blizzard conditions that no one predicted and with only a few feet of visibility in front of me, I inched home in Alex’s Jeep. Zack followed in his Boxster.

Alex flipped on the radio in time to catch the weather reporter saying, “Our bad, folks. All the computer modeling showed this storm staying well off in the Atlantic. Looks like we’re in for at least a foot of snow in the city and as much as a foot and a half for the surrounding suburbs.” He chuckled. “Mother Nature sure played a joke on us.”

“Glad he thinks it’s funny,” I said. “He’s safe in his studio while we’re risking life and limb to get home.”

As it turned out, that was no exaggeration. The normally five-minute trip through town—ten during rush hour—lasted half an hour. I spun out once, missing a parked car by inches, coming to a stop perpendicular to the road. Luckily, Zack had stayed far enough behind me to avoid T-boning the Jeep.

“This is why I didn’t want you driving home,” I told my son after swallowing down the rush of adrenaline that had surged through my body and offering up a prayer to the God of Antilock Brakes.

“You never told me you raced at Daytona, Mom. I’m impressed.”

“Wise guy.”

His phone signaled a text. He pulled it from his pocket to check the display. “School’s canceled tomorrow.”

A surge of relief swept over me once I pulled into the driveway. I turned off the engine, took a deep breath, and said, “I hate snow.”

Then I stepped out of the car—and landed ankle deep in the cold white stuff. Of course, I hadn’t bothered to slip into a pair of boots before leaving the house, thanks to the incompetent meteorologists who failed to warn us of an impending storm. “And I really hate weathermen!”

Alex and I trudged a path through the snow to the back door. Nick met us in the mudroom, a stack of towels in his arms. We removed our coats, shoes, and socks. As we dried off our feet, I heard Zack pull into the driveway.

I stared out the window as he approached the house. “Days like this make me seriously consider moving to Florida.”

“You hate Florida,” Nick reminded me. “All that heat and humidity.”

“At this moment I wouldn’t mind a little heat and humidity.”

“Except Florida has a lot of heat and humidity,” said Alex. “And alligators.”

“Remind me of that tomorrow when I’m thawing out my frostbitten fingers and toes from hours of shoveling.”

Zack entered the house, bringing with him a rush of frigid air. “Nice maneuver back there,” he said.

“All those years racing the NASCAR circuit finally paid off,” I said.

Nick knit his brows together. “Huh?”

“Mom nearly got us killed,” said Alex.

“I did not! I was in total control at all times.”

From the expressions on their faces neither Alex nor Zack believed me. Barefoot, I stormed off toward my bedroom to strip out of my wet jeans.

Zack joined me a few minutes later. Ralph sat perched on his shoulder.

“You can’t ever leave me,” I said eyeing the bird nuzzling his beak against Zack’s jaw. “You’d break Ralph’s heart.”

“That’s the only reason I stay.”

“Nice to know where I stand in the pecking order.”

“Speaking of pecking…” He dipped his head and planted a kiss on my lips before heading over to the armoire to retrieve a pair of sweatpants. Little by little Zack’s wardrobe was making its way from his apartment to what used to be Karl’s armoire.

“What were you and Spader discussing?” he asked as he stepped out of his jeans and donned a pair of sweatpants.

I filled him in on the conversation. “He insinuated he’s got more evidence against Shane.”

Ralph squawked in Zack’s ear. “I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence. King Lear. Act Three, Scene Six.” Then he lifted off from Zack’s shoulder and flew to the top of the armoire.

Zack shook his head and stared at the parrot for a moment before returning to the conversation. “Spader gave you no clue as to what sort of evidence?”

“Not even a hint. It’s possible the eyewitness may only have seen a man with a similar build and coloring as Shane, but Spader seems convinced this other evidence clinches the case for him.”

“Maybe it does.”

“I hope you’re both wrong.”

“I hope so, too. I like the guy.”

“Won’t the district attorney have to share whatever he has with Shane’s attorney?”

“Eventually.”

I plopped face up on the bed and bit down on my lower lip as I stared at the ceiling.

“I know that look. Out with it.”

I heaved a deep sigh before speaking. “You’re probably going to think this is crazy, but another thought had occurred to me.”

Zack settled in next to me. “I’m all ears.”

I turned and propped myself up on my elbow to face him. “What if none of this has anything to do with Shane?”

“I’m not following. The guy’s ex-wife was murdered. He’s the prime suspect. Plus, someone broke into his home today.”

“Yes, but what if Lawrence has something to do with all of it?”

Zack sprang up. “Are you suggesting he’s orchestrating these crimes from his prison cell? To what end?”

“To mess with me.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Is it? After all, thanks to me, the guy is going to spend the remainder of his life behind bars.”

“If that were the case, wouldn’t he have his goons go after you and not Shane?”

“You’d think. But Lawrence is so twisted. Maybe this is his way of toying with me for his own amusement. What if he’s had someone watching me—watching us—and reporting back to him? Messing with Shane’s life could be the first step in a long tail plan to target anyone in my life—even casual acquaintances—to turn me into a cursed pariah. No one would want to have anything to do with me for fear of becoming the next target.”

Zack whistled under his breath. “Sounds pretty sick, even for Lawrence.”

“Given his prior crimes, I’m not so sure.”

“Have you suspected someone’s been watching or following you?”

I shook my head. “Only Sunday when Tammy hovered near us during the crafts fair.”

“She had her eye on Shane.”

“Maybe finding Shane was pure coincidence. Didn’t he say Spader told him Tammy spent several years in prison?”

“Are you suggesting Lawrence somehow had a connection to Tammy and hired her to stalk you?” Zack shook his head. “I think your imagination has shifted into overdrive.”

I wrinkled my nose. “When you put it like that, it does sound far-fetched. Besides, the government seized all of Lawrence’s assets. Where would he get the money to hire a stalker?”

“The Feds seized what they could find. I’m guessing Lawrence has plenty of money stashed in offshore accounts. Having a connection to Tammy seems a stretch, but what isn’t so far-fetched is Lawrence keeping tabs on you and your family. You should mention it to Spader.”

“At this point I’m sure Spader is fed up to his double chin with my theories.”

Zack reached for my hand. “But this one isn’t out of the realm of possibilities, even if it has nothing to do with Shane’s troubles. Lawrence is a twisted psychopath.”

I pulled a deep frown. “Nick is right.”

“About what?”

“Ever since Karl died, I’ve become a magnet for deadly creeps.”

Zack matched my frown with one of his own. “Present company excepted, I hope.”

I smiled. “Most definitely.”

I forced myself off the bed. As physically and emotionally drained as I was from the day’s events, I needed to stay awake long enough to catch the eleven o’clock news. I wanted to see what Spader had told the media about Tammy’s murder and Shane’s arrest. If I turned on the bedroom television, I’d probably fall asleep before the announcer finished his promo pitch for the upcoming stories.

Zack and I left the bedroom and headed for the den. We found Alex and Nick already camped in front of the TV awaiting the start of the newscast. Mephisto snored between them, his head on Nick’s thigh.

Our local murder didn’t even rate one of the headline teasers, thanks to various national stories and a major drug bust that occurred earlier in the day on Staten Island. The story finally appeared after the second commercial break.

Spader and the Union County district attorney stood before a bank of microphones set up in front of the courthouse in Elizabeth, but instead of broadcasting their comments, we heard a summary of the events as a voiceover from the reporter on the scene.

“An arrest has been made in the murder of Tammy Arnold, a tourist whose body was discovered in the woods behind the Staying Inn Motel in Union Township Sunday night. Westfield resident Shane Lambert, the victim’s ex-husband, has been charged in her death and released on three million dollars bond after surrendering his passport and agreeing to wear a monitoring device.

The reporter then sent the telecast back to the anchor, who moved on to the next story.

“That was a total waste of sleep,” I said, punctuating my words with a yawn.

“Busy news cycle,” said Zack. “Spader and the D.A. probably gave more details during the press conference, but they didn’t make it into the piece.”

“I guess busting drug dealers on Staten Island trumps a murder in Westfield,” said Nick.

“That’s a good thing,” said Alex. “On a slower news night they might have splashed pictures of Sophie and her dad across the screen and gone into all sorts of stuff about them.”

I patted him on the leg. “Absolutely. Now which one of you boys is going to do your exhausted mother a huge favor and walk Devil Dog before going to bed?”

“He will,” they both said at the same time, pointing to each other.

“I walked him last,” said Nick.

Alex muttered something under his breath as he patted the dog’s rump. Then he added, “Is Grandmother Lucille ever coming back, or are we permanently saddled with caring for her dog?”

“Good question,” I said.

“Where is she?” asked Nick. “Not that I want her back any time soon. It’s really peaceful around here without her.”

Peaceful was an odd choice of word, given the recent murder, but I understood what my son meant. “I have no idea,” I said. I turned to Zack. “Do you think I should call around to the local hospitals? File a missing person’s report?”

“Are any of her clothes missing?” asked Zack. “Medications? Toothbrush?”

“I didn’t think to look.”

While Alex walked Mephisto, Zack and I searched Lucille’s room. Even before all of my mother-in-law’s earthly possessions fell victim to an arsonist, she’d maintained a sparse wardrobe consisting mainly of polyester pantsuits that harkened back to the nineteen seventies. After the fire, she’d replaced her wardrobe with half a dozen nearly identical polyester pantsuits purchased at secondhand shops. I swung open the door to the bedroom closet. Six empty hangers hung from the clothes rod.

One by one Zack pulled out the dresser drawers. “All empty,” he said.

I walked down the hall to the bathroom she shared with the boys and opened the medicine cabinet. Her meds and toothbrush were gone.

Lucille had indeed flown the coop.

THIRTEEN

Whenever a snowstorm hits Westfield, our street is one of the last visited by the town’s plows. I cynically believe the reason has everything to do with the size of the lots and the age of the homes on our street. We pay far less in property taxes than the residents of the sprawling McMansions in other parts of town. However, the upside of an unplowed street is my inability to drive to the office, thus allowing me to work from home—after breaking my back shoveling out my car, the driveway, and the walks. My wrist had healed enough over the last four days that I refused to use the injury as an excuse not to share in the snow removal detail.

“The boys and I can handle it,” said Zack.

“I’m fine,” I insisted.

“I don’t believe you.”

I held up my arm and wiggled my wrist back and forth. “See? No pain.”

“What if you rip open your stitches?”

“Won’t happen. The doctor is taking the stitches out on Friday.”

Zack pursed his lips, heaved a sigh, and shook his head, but what could he do? File a restraining order preventing me from going within fifty feet of a snow shovel?

However, even with four—technically three-and-a-half—able bodies tackling all the white stuff on the ground, Zack, Alex, Nick, and I spent nearly two hours cleaning off the cars and clearing the driveway, the sidewalk, and the paths to the front and back doors.

Wet, heavy flakes had continued to fall all night. When the storm had finally ended before dawn, it was obvious the weather dude’s updated forecast had erred on the low side of estimated total accumulation. He was off by seven inches.

Even though my wrist no longer throbbed from coming into contact with Virginia Owens’ teeth, my muscles raged in protest at every one of those additional inches—not to mention the pain of shoveling the first eighteen. I also seriously doubted I’d ever get complete feeling back in my fingers and toes.

“Getting old sucks,” I said as Zack and I watched my sons, unfazed by the physical assault to their own limbs, head off in search of neighbors willing to pay someone else to shovel their properties.

“How’s your wrist?”

“No worse than every other muscle in my body. My aches have aches.” Then again, if I exercised occasionally, maybe I’d only feel half-dead right now instead of totally dead.

“If the garage didn’t look like the set of a Hoarders episode,” said Zack, “we could park two of the three cars inside, eliminating at least some of the work.”

Besides all the typical lawn paraphernalia, my garage housed most of Mama’s life prior to moving into her condo. Along with paying for her new digs, Ira had handed her and Lawrence his Amex card to furnish the place. My garage now served as Mama’s private, rent-free storage unit for all the old furniture she refused to sell or give away.

“Cleaning off the cars was a piece of cake compared to the shoveling,” I said.

“I have two words for you.”

“And that is?”

“Snow blower.”

“Lovely word. Too bad I can’t afford one.”

“Merry Christmas.”

My jaw dropped. “Are you serious?”

“Completely. Your muscles aren’t the only ones complaining. I’m not getting any younger, either.”

“You?” Zack’s body came equipped with built-in flab and fat repellant. Forget six-pack abs. The guy had a full case.

“Yeah, must be all that spy stuff,” he teased.

“So you finally admit it?”

He laughed. “Seriously, though, it’s only the beginning of December. If last night’s storm is any indication of the next few months’ weather, at this rate, I’m not sure either of us will survive the winter.”

Most women would prefer gold, diamonds, or a surprise winter vacation to the Bahamas for Christmas. I’d take a gas-powered snow blower over any of those—although a diamond engagement ring would be nice. But not yet. Someday. As much as I was head-over-heels in love with Zack, I was still too raw from Karl’s deception to leap into a commitment of that magnitude. I rubbed my lower back. A snow blower was just what the doctor ordered.

“Let’s go inside,” said Zack. “The boys should be gone for a few hours. I’ll rub your back if you rub mine—but only with your good hand. For the record, I don’t believe a word you said about your wrist no longer hurting.”

I hate when he sees right through me, but all I said was, “Deal.”

~*~

An hour later one of the town’s plows finally made several passes down our street, clearing the road but leaving in its wake a four-foot mountain of snow that blocked my driveway. With the boys still out earning shoveling money, Zack and I once again donned snow gear—even though he tried to persuade me he needed no help—and began to clear a path from the end of the driveway to the street.

We’d whittled away half the mound when a patrol car pulled up to the curb and Officers Harley and Fogarty stepped from the vehicle. I quickly scanned up and down our street, catching a glimpse of Alex and Nick working on a house at the end of the block, and willed my heart rate to cease racing with fear. However, other scenarios—all involving Shane and Sophie and none of them good—forced their way into my brain, keeping my adrenaline pumping. “Unless they’re selling tickets to the annual Patrol Persons Ball, this doesn’t bode well,” I said.

“I doubt it’s a social call,” said Zack.

With their standard issue winter patrol jackets covering bulletproof vests, the heavy-set Harley and his lumbering partner Fogarty now resembled members of the law enforcement division of the Michelin Man. Although, even with all that extra padding, neither man exerted undue effort in scaling the mound of snow to join us on the other side.

Harley, the more senior of the two officers got right to the point. “Your mother-in-law never showed up for her court date, Mrs. Pollack. If she was snowed in, she should have called to reschedule.”

“What court date?” I asked, relieved that their visit had nothing to do with Shane and Sophie. Lucille’s run-ins with the law happened so frequently that they no longer shocked me.

“On the charge of assaulting an officer,” said Fogarty. He jabbed a gloved thumb on his chest to indicate he was that officer.

“The incident last week?” Lucille had attacked Fogarty when he and Harley attempted to arrest Harriet Kleinhample for a hit-and-run. I had no idea Lucille was scheduled for court today.

“Right,” said Harley. “The judge issued a bench warrant for her arrest. Said he’s reached his limit with her antics.”

“I don’t blame him,” I said. I’d reached my limit with Lucille long ago. Unfortunately, I was stuck with her as a permanent houseguest.

“She inside?” asked Harley, jutting his chin toward the front door.

“No.”

“Know where we can find her?” asked Fogarty.

I shook my head. “She hasn’t been home in several days. Have you checked Harriet Kleinhample’s apartment? I assume she’s holed up there.”

“Ms. Kleinhample didn’t show up for court, either,” said Fogarty, “and she didn’t answer her door. We even had the superintendant unlock the apartment for a wellness check. The place was empty. We thought she might be here with your mother-in-law.”

Suddenly Lucille’s missing clothes made sense. “I don’t believe it!”

“Believe what?” asked Harley.

“They’ve pulled a Thelma and Louise.” Thank goodness I’d refused to post Lucille’s bail this time. I had no idea who had forked over the funds—perhaps the other Daughters of the October Revolution had pooled their Social Security checks—but the poor sucker or suckers were now out a bundle.

Fogarty raised both eyebrows until they disappeared under the brim of his hat. “You think they’re on the lam?”

“I’d bet on it.” I told them about Lucille’s empty closet and dresser drawers.

“We’ll put out an APB,” said Harley.

“This won’t sit well with Judge Roland,” said Fogarty.

“Copy that,” said Harley. “He said he’s through cutting her slack due to her advanced age. This time he’ll throw the book at her.”

Couldn’t happen to a more deserving scofflaw.

Did I care such a callous thought dubbed me Evil Daughter-in-law Extraordinaire? I did not. The woman had sucked every ounce of kindness and caring from me. I’d spent years offering honey in response to the vinegar she spewed at me. When Karl died, she replaced the vinegar with pure venom. If she could find a rationale, I’m certain she’d blame me for his death. Even Goody Two-Shoes had her limit.

“Kleinhample, too,” added Fogarty.

With any luck, it would be months before the law caught up with Thelma and Louise and far longer before they set foot out of prison. I wouldn’t even mind taking care of Devil Dog in the interim.

“Any idea where they’d go?” asked Harley.

“I suppose there’s always the possibility that they’re hiding out at the home of one of the other Daughters of the October Revolution. However, I doubt it.”

“Why’s that?” asked Fogarty.

“I believe they all either live in senior housing or with their children. I don’t know whether any of them would have room for both Harriet and Lucille.”

“We’ll check them out all the same,” said Harley. “I don’t suppose you have addresses?”

I shook my head a second time. “I don’t even know all their last names, but as soon as we finish shoveling, I’ll search her room and contact you if I find anything.”

“I’d appreciate it.” Using his teeth, he gripped the tips of two fingers of his leather glove and yanked the glove off his hand. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a business card, and handed it to me. “You can call or text me at this number.”

I didn’t bother telling him I already had his cell, as well as Fogarty’s and Spader’s, programmed into my phone, thanks to numerous encounters with them over the past year. Instead, I nodded and placed the card in my coat pocket as I stamped my feet. Between the time we’d already spent shoveling the mountain at the entrance to the driveway and now standing in one place for several minutes, my toes had grown so numb I feared frostbite.

I grimaced at the expanse of cold white stuff surrounding us. “If I were in my mother-in-law’s shoes, I’d head south. Somewhere warm and sunny with no chance of ever again having to shovel a single snowflake.” Not that Lucille had ever picked up a shovel in her life.

“You’re probably right,” said Harley. “If they took off several days ago, I’ll bet by now they’re sunning themselves on a Florida beach.” He raised his hand in a friendly gesture. “Thanks for your help, Mrs. Pollack.”

I wanted to tell him to take his time sending out that APB. The longer Lucille was AWOL, the lower my blood pressure, but I bit my tongue. Thinking evil thoughts is one thing; voicing them to the police reached an entirely different level. Given what they say about Karma, I thought it best not to tempt fate any further than I already had.

~*~

After Zack and I finished shoveling for the second time and warmed up with steaming cups of coffee, we headed to Lucille’s room to search for any paperwork listing the full names and addresses of the other octogenarian revolutionaries. Since all of Lucille’s books, files, and assorted other papers went up in flames a year and a half ago, I had little hope of finding anything that might help the police. Still, I had promised to look.

Zack swept the curtain aside, and we stepped into the room. When Lucille had been forced to share the space with Mama, the room resembled an overstuffed storage unit, thanks to Mama’s financial ménage a trois with Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor. A jam-packed eight-foot portable metal clothes rack had filled the floor space between the double windows and her bed. Dozens of plastic tubs, stacked nearly to the ceiling, contained the remainder of her clothes and covered all but a small path of floor space on her half of the room.

Mama’s expansive wardrobe now resided in her condo’s master bedroom walk-in closet, a space larger than her former shared bedroom. Having gotten rid of Lawrence’s clothes, between the closet, the triple dresser, and chest, she now had almost enough room for all her clothes. The overflow she stored in the den closet.

The only furniture in the room consisted of the twin beds, a dresser, and a nightstand. Nick had moved his desk into his brother’s room when he was forced to give up his room to Lucille.

Zack began the search by pulling open the dresser drawers to double-check that he hadn’t overlooked anything in his initial search. “Completely empty.”

“We’re not going to find anything,” I said, scanning the closet floor and finding nothing besides a pair of rain galoshes and a dozen dust bunnies.

I periodically search Lucille’s room for contraband wine. She’s not supposed to mix alcohol with her meds. However, she constantly ignores her doctors’ orders, secreting bottles of merlot and burgundy in her room. The galoshes had doubled as wine storage. “I don’t remember ever seeing any paperwork related to her not-so-merry band of minions. If they keep files, someone else in the group stores them.”

Zack joined me at the closet and checked the shelf. “Nothing up here.”

That left the nightstand, which I’d never bothered with previously because the drawer wasn’t deep enough to hide a wine bottle. I pulled open the single drawer and gasped. Then I laughed.

“What’s so funny?”

I reached into the drawer and pulled out a dog-eared copy of Fifty Shades of Grey. “Maybe Mama left it here,” I said. Although, if the book belonged to Mama, why would Lucille hold onto it?

“Or maybe when they’re not fomenting revolution, your mother-in-law and her pals are sitting around reading S and M.”

I wrinkled my nose. “As long as they’re just reading about it and not doing it.”

“Find any books by the Marquis de Sade? Any sex toys?”

“I’m afraid to look.”

Zack pulled the drawer out of the nightstand and dumped the contents onto the bed. “Just your run-of-the-mill nightstand junk.”

“You sound disappointed.” I fished through the remainder of the items scattered on the bed. “This looks promising.” I picked up a small spiral-bound notepad and flipped up the cardboard cover. “Bingo!”

The notepad was a makeshift address book. Along with the names, addresses, and phone numbers of each of the Daughters of the October Revolution, Lucille had recorded members’ birthdates. “I wonder if she throws parties for them,” I said, handing Zack the notepad and pointing out the birth dates. “She’s never once remembered her grandsons’ birthdays.”

“For which you should be grateful.”

“Grateful for what? That she’s always ignored her grandchildren?”

“Think about it. What would Lucille give Alex and Nick for their birthdays?”

“How should I know?” Then it dawned on me. Sometimes it takes a minute or two before my neurons fire up and kick-start my brain cells. “A copy of the Communist Manifesto.”

“Or a biography of Karl Marx. Or Lenin. Or any other book from The Socialist Workers Press. Do you really think she would have bought them LEGOs or a Millennium Falcon?”

“Point taken.”

Zack flipped the notepad closed and handed it back to me. I fished my phone from my jeans pocket. “I’ll give Officer Harley a call, but I’d be surprised if he finds her hiding out at any of these homes.”

“You really think they drove to Florida?”

“Wouldn’t you?”

“Hell, no. If I jumped bail, I’d head for a country without an extradition treaty with the U.S.”

We looked at each other for a split second before we both blurted out. “Russia?”

“Does she have a current passport?” asked Zack.

“I have no idea. Wouldn’t she also need a visa?”

“Yes, but it’s a lengthy process. She would have had to plan well in advance. In addition, the visa would list an entry and exit date. Russian visas aren’t open-ended, and there are no exceptions. If she overstayed her welcome, she’d face serious consequences.”

“What kind of consequences?”

“Major ones, and the Russian government won’t allow the U.S. embassy to intervene in visa violations.”

For someone who claimed no alphabet agency affiliation, Zack knew a great deal regarding travel to Russia. “I take it you’ve gone there on assignment?”

“A few years ago, for a National Geographic spread on nineteenth century dachas.”

“I see. So, it seems unlikely they’ve hopped on an Aeroflot flight.”

“Unlikely but not impossible, especially if they plan to seek asylum.”

For all of Lucille’s constant complaints about our country and government, I never thought she’d leave. Did she even speak Russian? I had no idea. “I’ll let Officer Harley know.”

I was about to call the patrolman when my phone rang. “Naomi,” I said, reading my editorial director’s name from the screen. I answered the call. “Hi, Naomi.”

“Anastasia, we have a problem at work. The power is down over half of Morris County.”

“What happened?”

“I’m not sure. The power company is offering few details at this point other than the problem is storm-related and will require a major repair. We were told not to expect power restoration for several days. We’ll all be working from home for at least the remainder of the week. Do you have anything at the office you need?”

“You’re still there?”

“Only for a few minutes more, but I can grab some things for you before I leave.”

“Am I able to access our cloud?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m good. I have plenty of supplies here.”

“I’ll check in with you on Sunday evening to let you know if the office will reopen on Monday.”

I hung up from Naomi and passed along the news to Zack before placing my call to Officer Harley. Along with telling him I had the addresses he requested, I suggested if he didn’t find Lucille staying with one of the other Daughters, he should check the manifests of all international flights to Russia from either Newark Liberty or JFK during the last few days.

“I hope she did fly to Russia,” said Harley.

“Why is that?”

“She’s a drain on our resources, not to mention our budget. If she’s in Russia, she’s Moscow’s problem.”

A part of me (albeit, an extremely small part) felt sorry for the Kremlin.

FOURTEEN

Harley said he’d swing by within the hour to pick up the notepad. When I mentioned this to Zack, he said, “Let’s make copies of the pages before you hand it over to him.”

“Why?”

“You might need that contact information at some point.”

“Good idea.” And one I obviously wouldn’t have thought of on my own. We grabbed our coats and headed to his apartment.

I had first moved my home office and studio from the garage apartment to my basement when I rented out the apartment to Zack. Little had I realized that Lucille and her cohorts would avail themselves of my office equipment and supplies whenever I wasn’t home. Of course, they never replaced or reimbursed me for the reams of paper and multiple ink cartridges they used. So just as Zack’s clothes were migrating from his apartment to my bedroom, my office had migrated back to his apartment.

Once we placed the notepad on the scanner bed, we realized we had a problem. The notepad’s metal spiral prevented a clear scan of the pages. Frustrated, I suggested tearing the pages from the notepad.

“I wouldn’t,” said Zack. He pulled his phone from his pocket and began snapping photos of each page.

When all else fails, leave it to the photographer—or the spy—to find a solution. I wondered how often Zack had performed similar tasks, but I didn’t ask. I already knew both the look and the answer he’d give me.

Harley and Fogarty arrived half an hour later. When I handed over the notepad, Harley flipped it open and quickly leafed through the pages. “I guess we know what we’re doing this afternoon,” he said to Fogarty.

“Will you let me know if you find her?” I asked.

“Of course.”

Shortly after the two officers left, notepad in hand, Zack received a call from Shane Lambert. After a brief conversation in which Zack did little more than respond with a word or two, he hung up and said, “Shane wants to speak to us.”

“About what?”

“He didn’t say, but he sounded extremely angry and upset.”

A bowling ball landed in the pit of my stomach. Logically, my first thought should have centered on Shane’s arrest for the murder of his ex-wife. However, my mind immediately zeroed in on something far closer to home. “You don’t think Sophie’s…” I stood momentarily paralyzed with fear, unable to give voice to the word I dreaded hearing most in connection with my son.

“Pregnant?”

I vigorously shook my head. Tears clogged my throat. “No, it can’t be. We’ve talked about this. He assured me they weren’t…hadn’t—”

Zack wrapped his arms around me. “And you believed him?”

“Of course.” Not only because I wanted to believe Alex but because I’d raised my kids to understand the consequences of their actions and trusted them to make decisions accordingly. “What was he thinking?”

“Speaking as a former teenage boy, I can state unequivocally that as a species, we don’t think, at least not with our brains and not until we’re much older. Until then we’re ruled entirely by the area below the belt.”

“Not all boys all the time.” I’d dated my share of teenage boys. I knew all about raging hormones. But this was my son. Frustration and anger consumed me. I wanted to smash something. “How could they be so careless?”

“Maybe they weren’t. No birth control is a hundred percent effective.”

“Not that it matters now,” I muttered. If there was a bun in the oven, what difference did it make if it got there through carelessness or failed birth control?

“Maybe you’re jumping to conclusions.”

I heaved a fearful sigh. There was only one way to find out. “I’ll get my coat.”

Alex and Nick were playing a video game in the den. Before leaving the house, I stopped to tell them Zack and I were going out, but all I could do was stand in the doorway and numbly stare. Alex eventually noticed me and paused the game. “Something wrong, Mom?”

“Why do you ask?”

Nick turned his attention to me, his brow wrinkled. “You have a strange look on your face. Like you’re both sad and angry at the same time.”

“Is it Grandmother Lucille?” asked Alex. “Has she gotten into more trouble?”

“No, Zack and I have to run out for a little while. We should be back in an hour.”

“Okay,” they both said in unison.

“You sure you’re okay?” asked Alex.

“Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Because you don’t look okay?”

“I’m fine.” I pivoted on my heels and hurried to the front door. My sons had obviously inherited Mama’s knack for seeing right through me.

~*~

When we arrived at Shane’s home, he greeted us at the door. The guy looked like he’d aged another ten years overnight. “Thanks for coming,” he said, ushering us inside and taking our coats.

“Where’s Sophie?” I asked.

“In her room. She doesn’t know about this yet. I’d like your advice on how to tell her.”

Sophie didn’t know she was pregnant?

Shane shook his head. “No, that’s not true.” He cast pleading eyes at both of us. “My lawyer called earlier. I need some backup support, and I have no one else to turn to.”

I clasped Zack’s hand, and we exchanged a quick look. I had taken a flying leap, plummeting headfirst into the land of erroneous conclusions. Relief flooded through me. Whatever had upset Shane was obviously bad, but it had nothing to do with my son’s sperm cavorting with one of his daughter’s eggs.

We followed Shane into the kitchen. “Coffee?” he asked.

Zack and I nodded. We took seats at the island and watched as he busied himself pouring three cups. After pulling a container of milk from the refrigerator, he joined us, but instead of taking a seat on one of the barstools, he stood on the opposite side of the island, directly in front of us.

Shane clutched his mug with both hands, his grip so tight that his knuckles turned white, but it did little to stem his trembling. He focused on the steaming contents of his cup as he spoke. “When I told Detective Spader I hadn’t had contact with Tammy since the divorce, I lied.”

I lifted an eyebrow. “Then you had seen her prior to Sunday?”

He shook his head. “No, that part was the truth. Other than to finalize the divorce, the last time I saw her was the day she walked out on us.”

“But you’d spoken with her?” asked Zack.

Shane shook his head again. “Remember how I told you about Sophie’s anger issues as a child?” 

I nodded. “When she destroyed the photos of Tammy.”

“Yes. Seeing her systematically cut up those photographs into smaller and smaller pieces made me suspect that her behavior issues all centered around not having a mother.

“I spoke with the school psychologist at the high school where I taught. She suggested that in the ensuing years, Tammy might have come to regret her decision to give up her parental rights. If that were the case, a relationship between the two of them might benefit both mother and daughter.”

“I thought you didn’t know where Tammy had gone,” said Zack.

“I didn’t. But I figured her divorce attorney might know. I wrote her a letter, gave it to my divorce attorney, and asked that he pass it along to her lawyer to give to her.”

“This was back when Sophie was in kindergarten?” asked Zack.

Shane nodded. “Twelve years ago.”

“Did you ever hear from her?” I asked.

“No, but according to my attorney, she did receive the letter.”

“That’s hardly having contact,” said Zack.

“The problem is…” Shane paused for a deep breath, releasing it slowly. “…Detective Spader found the letter in a zippered compartment of Tammy’s purse.”

“I still don’t see the problem,” I said.

“Just the letter, no envelope with a postmark, and I didn’t bother to date the letter. It could have been written years ago or a week ago.”

“So you wrote to your ex-wife asking if she’d changed her mind and would like to have a relationship with her daughter. What difference does it make when you wrote the letter?” Maybe I was missing something, but I didn’t see why the letter posed a problem for Shane.

He raised his coffee cup to his mouth and drained the contents before continuing, keeping a firm but shaky, two-fisted grip on the mug. “In the letter I made a veiled threat about how one day Tammy would regret her actions. I wasn’t threatening her with harm; I only meant she’d regret not having a relationship with Sophie. But that’s not the way the district attorney is interpreting it.”

This was the additional evidence Spader alluded to when we spoke yesterday. Without proof of the letter’s age, Shane’s uphill battle to prove his innocence had now grown even steeper.

Shane slammed the empty coffee cup onto the island hard enough that I was surprised when the mug didn’t break. I glanced down at the marble countertop but saw no damage from the force of the impact. Broken mugs and chipped counters were the least of his worries, though. He could afford to replace both, but his wealth wouldn’t help him escape a murder conviction.

He leaned over, propping his elbows on the counter and lowering his head into his hands. “I need to prepare Sophie for the worst case scenario. How do I tell my daughter her father may spend the rest of his life in prison?”

“Don’t you think I already know that?”

Shane straightened, his jaw dropping, his eyes widening, as we all turned to find Sophie standing at the entrance to the great room. Her arms crossed over her chest, she approached her father. “I’m not stupid,” she continued. “Why do you think I’ve been so upset, Dad? This isn’t like a parking ticket.”

“I know, Soph.”

“So what are you going to do about it?”

“I’m working on it.”

Sophie threw her arms up in the air, then slammed her fists down on the island. “Work harder!” She whipped her head around to confront Zack and me. “All of you!”

I reached over and covered her fists with my hands. I didn’t know what to say, but it didn’t matter. My touch had drained Sophie of her bravado. Her jaw trembled. She sucked in a ragged breath and in a near whisper said, “No one else cares what happens to us.” Then she ran out of the room. We heard her race up the stairs and slam her bedroom door.

“Excuse me,” said Shane. He hurried from the room and bounded up the stairs.

“Well, that went well,” said Zack.

“Not.” I threw my hands up in the air, then slapped them on my thighs. “I feel so helpless.”

“Are you still convinced he’s innocent?”

I nodded. “Aren’t you?”

“If he isn’t, he’s the world’s greatest actor. Unless we’re unaware of some crucial details, I don’t see what Shane would gain by killing Tammy. He has no motive. If not for the eyewitness, the D.A. has no case.”

“Unless the eyewitness has a motive.”

Zack knit his brows together. “And what would that be?”

“Beats me. Now that I knew I wasn’t about to become a premature grandmother, I returned to my current pastime of pulling ideas out of the stratosphere. Have you heard from Patricia?”

“She made a few calls. Nothing jumped out that raised any suspicions on her part.”

“What we need is for a suspect to jump out. Is there any way we can access Lawrence’s phone and visitor logs?”

“You still think he has something to do with this?”

“I don’t know, but I’d like to turn over every available stone to see what crawls out. Nothing is too far-fetched when it comes to Lawrence. After all, he put out a hit on two innocent strangers to keep my nose out of his business.” Which in my mind made my mother’s ex-husband more a boulder than a stone. I might need a crowbar. “Maybe if I paid a visit to the prison—”

“Absolutely not! I don’t want you anywhere near that man. Talk to Spader. As the detective on the case, he should be able to find out who Lawrence has spoken with since his incarceration.”

“Unless he gave orders to one of his henchmen before the feds locked him up. Or arranged with someone on the inside to get word out for him. What else does he have to do in max other than plot revenge?”

“Talk to Spader,” Zack repeated.

“I’ll talk to Spader.”

Shane had been upstairs with Sophie for ten minutes when his doorbell rang. “Do you think he heard it?” I asked after waiting a few seconds without hearing him come downstairs.

“Maybe we should answer it,” said Zack.

We both stood and headed for the front door. I crossed all my available digits, hoping not to find the police on Shane’s doorstep. Or if they were there, it was to say they’d found the real killer.”

After looking through the peephole, Zack swung open the door. Trey Krause, the food bank board treasurer who had introduced himself to Shane at the crafts fair on Sunday, stood on the front step. He wore a wool cashmere tailored camel coat. The turned-up color exposed a lining of classic Burberry plaid that matched the scarf peeking out from behind his lapels. The man’s outerwear telegraphed success.

The expression on his face telegraphed surprise. “Oh…I’m…uh…here to see Shane Lambert. Is he at home?”

“Come in, Mr. Krause,” said Zack as he stepped aside to usher him into the foyer.

Krause’s forehead wrinkled, his surprise segueing to puzzlement. “Have we met?”

“Not formally,” said Zack. “We were standing with Shane at the crafts fair on Sunday when you introduced yourself to him. I’m Zachary Barnes, and this is Anastasia Pollack. Her son is on the high school community service committee that raised the funds for the food bank.”

Krause extended his hand, first to Zack, then to me, his sleeve hiking up slightly to expose the king’s ransom he wore around his wrist. “A pleasure to meet you both. The food bank is indebted to this year’s graduating class. And of course, to Mr. Lambert for his generous offer to match the amount they raised.”

“Is that why you’re here?” I asked.

“Why, yes.” The corners of his mouth quirked up slightly. “I thought I’d save him the price of a stamp.”

“Really? How thoughtful.” A man about to donate thousands of dollars to charity would hardly care about spending an additional fifty cents on postage. And, Trey Krause, with his two-thousand-dollar overcoat and fifty-thousand-dollar Rolex, didn’t strike me as a man who would worry about saving another man fifty pennies.

“Well, that and having the opportunity to thank him once again in person, of course.”

“Of course.” Still not buying it. Something about the man told me he had an ulterior motive for dropping in on Shane.

Then again, if he’d caught Spader’s press conference and knew of the indictment, he may have panicked that Shane might renege on his promised donation. Shane had staggering legal fees looming, and even though such expenses would bankrupt the average person, given Shane’s enormous lottery win, those expenses hardly put a dent in his net worth, not that Krause had any way of knowing that.

My gaze darted from the overcoat that cost twice my monthly mortgage payment to the still visible watch that cost more than the average new car. Perhaps I’d simply allowed my innate dislike for ostentatious people to cloud my judgment.

I tabled my inner musings as Shane descended the staircase. “Mr. Krause,” he said, stopping halfway down the stairs, his voice filled with surprise at seeing his unexpected guest. “Did we have a meeting?”

“No, forgive me,” said Krause. He offered Shane a huge smile as he stood at the bottom of the staircase and extended his hand. “I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop by to pick up your donation.”

Shane descended the remaining steps and shook his hand. “Of course. Give me a minute.”

He stepped into his office, which showed no signs of the chaos from last night’s break-in. Shane must have stayed up all night sorting and filing several thousand sheets of paper and shelving hundreds of books to return order to the room. He settled into the chair behind his desk, pulled a ledger from the top drawer, and flipped it open.

Krause stepped away from Zack and me and walked over to the office entrance. He glanced around the room as if appraising it. Then without waiting for an invitation, he strode across the hardwood and hovered over the desk as Shane filled out the check.

“How rude,” I whispered to Zack. After all, Shane had implied Krause should wait in the foyer with us. At least that’s how I had interpreted his “give me a minute” comment.

We watched as Shane paused his pen, glanced up at Krause, and frowned. “Was there something else, Mr. Krause?”

“Please, call me Trey.”

“Was there something else, Trey?”

“As a matter of fact…” He reached into his breast pocket, removed a business card, and offered it to Shane. “Since you’re relatively new to the area, I thought I might be of service.”

Shane glanced at the card. “Thank you, but I’m not in the market for a broker.”

Krause placed the card on the desk. “I’ll leave this with you in case you change your mind. Feel free to call at any time.”

Shane ripped the check from the ledger and folded it in half. Before handing it over, he said, “According to the long-range meteorological forecasts, we’re in for a brutal winter.”

Krause didn’t respond at first, most likely puzzled by the comment. Then it hit him. “Yes, of course. The staff is worried we won’t have enough resources to help everyone who will need our services over the next few months.”

Shane handed him the check. “I’ve added a bit extra for that reason.”

“That’s quite generous.” Krause unfolded the check and stared at it. “Exceedingly generous.” He studied the check closer. “You have your own foundation? I had no idea.”

Shane stood. “Spend it wisely, Mr. Krause. I have auditors.”

The man paled for a split second before saying, “Trey.”

Shane nodded. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have guests.”

“Of course.”

Shane ushered Krause from his office and walked him toward the front door. When he swung open the door, Krause extended his hand, his coat sleeve once again hiking up to expose his Rolex, and said, “I hope we’ll be seeing much more of each other, Shane.”

Shane accepted his hand, but all he said was, “Good day, Mr. Krause.” He closed the door the moment Krause stepped over the threshold. Don’t let the door hit you on your way out.

“That guy is a real tool,” said Sophie.

The three of us glanced toward the staircase to find her sitting on a step.

“He hopes to see more of you?” she continued. “Give me a break! He hopes to see more of our money.”

 “The money isn’t for him,” said Shane. “It’s to feed the homeless and people who are having a hard time making ends meet. You know that.”

Sophie bounded down the stairs and joined us in the foyer. “I know, Dad, but they’re lucky the committee didn’t meet that guy before we chose the food bank as our charity. Did you guys see his wrist bling? How many poor people would that watch feed?”

I had wondered the same thing, but I didn’t want to insert myself into the middle of this conversation. After everything that had happened over the last few days, Shane and Sophie needed as much father/daughter time as possible, I turned to Zack and said, “We should leave.”

Zack walked over to the foyer closet and retrieved our coats.

“Do you have to go?” asked Sophie, her eyes begging me—or us?—to stay.

I certainly hadn’t expected that, but perhaps I should have. All Sophie had was her father. She’d lost her mother before she ever knew her. Her grandparents had died years ago. She had no aunts, no uncles, no cousins. And now she might lose her father, the only family she’d known for most of her life. The poor kid was desperate for family connections.

After Zack helped me into my coat, I could no longer help myself. I wrapped my arms around Sophie and said, “If I don’t make a trip to the supermarket, your boyfriend and his brother will starve to death. But how about if you and your dad join us for dinner this evening?”

Sophie turned to Shane. “Can we, Dad?”

“You sure?” Shane asked me. “I don’t want us to impose.”

“We’d love to have you join us.”

“Thank you. We’ll bring dessert. Sophie and I make a mean brownie.”

When he opened the front door, we discovered Detective Spader, poised to ring the doorbell.

FIFTEEN

Spader cradled a silver MacBook Air under one arm. He stepped inside the house and offered the laptop to Shane. “I wanted to return this to your daughter as soon as possible.”

Before Shane could take possession, Sophie pushed her way past her father. Scowling at Spader, she snatched the device from his hands. She was about to run off when Shane reached out and grabbed hold of her shoulder to stop her. “Don’t you have something to say to Detective Spader, Sophie?”

She turned back and eyed the detective. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. What about my Dad’s computer?”

“That’s not what I meant,” said Shane.

Sophie continued staring at Spader without saying another word. Maybe she was waiting for him to answer her question. Shane gave her shoulder a squeeze, and she finally offered a contrite apology. “Thank you, Detective.”

“You’re welcome. I’m sorry we had to take it.”

That set Sophie off again. “Really? Do you honestly think if my father had killed my mother—which he didn’t—he would have left evidence on my laptop?”

“Sophie!”

Shane looked like he wanted the floor to open up and swallow him while Spader looked like he was regretting not sending a patrol officer to deliver the computer. To his credit, though, instead of addressing Sophie’s outburst, he said, “Get an A on those school papers.”

Clutching her laptop to her chest, she answered, “I always get A’s.” Then she sprinted upstairs.

Shane apologized to Spader for Sophie’s lack of manners. “She’s not normally like this. Thank you for returning her computer.”

Spader nodded. “No problem.”

Zack and I left the house with Spader. “Tough kid,” he said as we walked with him down the front path toward our cars.

“Do you blame her?” I asked.

“No, I don’t, but I have a job to do.”

“We know that,” said Zack.

“But Sophie’s world is crumbling before her eyes,” I said.

“And she blames me,” said Spader.

“Why wouldn’t she?” I asked. “If you want to get in her good graces, find the real killer.”

We had come to the curb where Spader’s unmarked sedan sat idling. As he opened the car door, he said, “I’m not ignoring other leads, Mrs. Pollack. There are none.”

“Well, I may have one for you.”

Spader closed the door and turned around to face me. “I’m listening.”

I explained my Lawrence theory to him, how Tammy may have fallen victim to Lawrence’s twisted idea of revenge in much the same way my neighbors, Betty Bentworth and Carmen Cordova, had wound up dead, simply due to their proximity to me. “After all, if someone has been stalking me, he could have seen Tammy standing near me at the fair. She hung around us for quite some time, but if he was keeping his distance, he might not have been close enough to see if she and I spoke. The fair was extremely crowded. If he thought she was a friend, he may have chosen her as his victim and followed her back to the motel.”

When I’d finished, Spader scrubbed at his jaw for a moment as if digesting my theory. Finally, he heaved a deep sigh and said, “You realize how cockamamie this sounds, don’t you?”

“Except that he’s done it before.”

“Which is why I’m not dismissing it.”

“You’re not?”

Spader looked me in the eye and said, “If it’s one thing I’ve learned, Mrs. Pollack, it’s not to underestimate you. I’ll contact the feds to check the prison phone and visitor logs. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”

“That’s all I ask.”

On the way home, guilt reared its ugly head. I’d spent so much time the last few days worrying about Sophie, Shane, and Lucille, that I hadn’t thought to check in on Mama. In her sixty-five years on the planet my mother had never lived on her own until now. As a young bride, she went from her parents’ home to living with my father. After he died, she sold their home and moved in with me while she searched for my first stepfather.

The pattern repeated with each new stepfather, the only difference being none of my four prior stepfathers owned their own homes, much less anything else. Mama had an uncanny knack for picking men whose purported wealth didn’t live up to either their exaggerated claims or her expectations.

Because Mama couldn’t afford to live on her own, thanks to her need to support Mr. Lord and Mr. Taylor, she moved back and forth from my home to a rental apartment to my home as each subsequent stepfather met his maker. Then along came Lawrence Tuttnauer and his son-in-law Ira, the New Jersey King of Car Dealers. Upon Lawrence’s arrest and incarceration, Mama became queen of her own condo.

I pulled out my phone and called her.

“I was wondering if you’d ever get around to checking to see if I was still alive,” she said by way of greeting.

“Hello to you, too, Mama.”

“Sarcasm is never becoming, Anastasia.”

Except for her? “Is everything all right, Mama?”

“Of course, everything is all right. Why wouldn’t it be?”

I decided to ignore the question. It was either rhetorical or a landmine waiting for me to step on it. “Zack and I are on our way to the supermarket. Do you need us to pick up anything for you?”

“I’m almost out of food for Catherine the Great.” She rattled off the name of some high-priced organic, grain-free gourmet brand sold in the refrigerated section of the pet food aisle. “One of each flavor but not the one with pumpkin. Catherine the Great doesn’t care for pumpkin.”

“Finicky feline,” I muttered under my breath. Mama’s corpulent Persian ate better than I did.

“What’s that, dear? I didn’t hear you.”

“I asked if there’s anything else you need.”

“Now that you mention it, I have had a craving for Beluga caviar lately.”

I turned toward Zack, shook my head, and executed an eye roll. Good thing Mama couldn’t see me. “I don’t think ShopRite carries caviar, Mama.”

Zack’s eyes widened as he mouthed, “Caviar?”

“Beluga,” I mouthed back.

He responded with a headshake and eye roll of his own.

“I’m sure they do,” she said. “Look in the gourmet food section.”

“Cat food and caviar. Check.”

I hung up the phone, wishing I hadn’t bothered to call. “I can’t remember if she’s always been this self-absorbed or has gotten worse with age.”

“I read somewhere once,” said Zack, “that as people age, their negative traits become more pronounced.”

“Not comforting,” I said. Mama might live another thirty years. Or more. Would I survive?

“By the way, do you have any idea what Beluga caviar costs?”

I shook my head. “It’s not exactly a staple in my pantry.”

“Google it.”

I pulled out my phone and asked Siri. Several websites popped up on my phone. My eyes bugged out as I scanned them. “Holy mackerel!”

“Sturgeon,” said Zack, as he pulled into the supermarket parking lot and searched for an empty parking space.

“Not in this lifetime.” Mama also occasionally had an empty wallet when it came time to reimburse me. No way was I footing the bill for Beluga. Gourmet cat food was bad enough.

Given the packed aisles, it seemed half the town had descended on ShopRite to replenish their bare cupboards. As we slowly made our way down one row of food and up another, filling our shopping cart, I stopped in front of the gourmet food section. Zack raised an eyebrow.

“Just curious,” I said. As expected, the shelves were devoid of Beluga caviar. “And now at least I can say I tried.” No way did I want Mama catching me in a lie.

Thirty minutes later we stuffed the small trunk of Zack’s Boxster with four bags of groceries. A fifth bag, holding twenty dollars worth of overpriced cat food, sat on the floor between my legs as we drove to Mama’s condo.

“Want me to wait in the car while you run in?” asked Zack after he pulled into a parking spot in front of the condo.

I’d love nothing better than to hand Mama her cat food and dash back to the car, but that would really set her off. “We’d better go in, even if only for a few minutes.”

Zack cut the engine, and we exited the car. As we walked up the shoveled path, I noticed the curtain flutter on the front-facing kitchen window. A moment later Mama swung open her condo door before I had a chance to ring the bell.

“Hello, Mama.” I handed her the grocery bag. “The cat food came to twenty dollars.”

“Come in,” she said. “I just finished brewing a pot of coffee.”

Of course, she completely ignored my not-so-subtle hint for reimbursement as we stepped inside the apartment. I expected no less. “We can’t stay long, Mama. We have perishable food in the car.”

“Well, you certainly don’t have to worry about anything spoiling in this weather, dear. Take your boots and coats off.”

As Zack and I complied with the order, she glanced in the bag and frowned. “No caviar?”

I tugged a boot from my foot. “Sorry. Not a single tin on the shelves. Maybe you can satisfy your craving with a can of salmon or tuna.”

“Really, Anastasia, how can you compare caviar to canned salmon and tuna?”

I yanked off my other boot. “They both come from fish, don’t they?”

Mama appealed to Zack. “Do you believe her?”

“She does have a point,” he said.

“And this is why I keep him around.”

Mama shook her head at both of us. Then she uttered a deep sigh, turned on her heels, and marched into the kitchen. As we followed her, I fought the urge to stick out my tongue. Mama had succeeded in resurrecting my inner twelve-year-old.

However, as long as we were here, I decided to ply her for information about her ex-husband. So I quickly morphed back into the obedient daughter and helped her by pouring coffee while she placed Catherine the Great’s pricey gourmet meals in the fridge.

After the three of us were seated around her kitchen table, I asked, “Mama, have you had any contact with Lawrence?”

“Why on earth would I want to have anything to do with that man after what he did to me?”

“You haven’t spoken to him since his trial?”

“I haven’t spoken to him since his arrest!”

“And he hasn’t tried to contact you?”

She hesitated for a moment. “He’s tried, but I haven’t accepted his calls.”

“How often does he call?”

“Once a week.”

My Spidey senses tingled from my scalp down to my toenails. “Why haven’t you told me?”

She set her coffee cup on the table and waved a hand in dismissal. “What’s there to tell? When the Caller ID displays a call is from the prison, I don’t answer. I want nothing to do with that man.”

“Have you told anyone about the calls?” I asked.

“Like who?”

“The police? Your attorney? The D.A.?” asked Zack.

“I saw no reason to. Why are you asking me about Lawrence?”

“I was worried he might be harassing you,” I said.

She raised an eyebrow. “He hasn’t called you, has he?”

“No.” Receiving phone calls from an inmate at a federal penitentiary wasn’t what concerned me, but I refused to burden Mama over my suspicions regarding Tammy’s murder. One worrywart insomniac in the family was more than enough.

After we finished our coffee, I said, “I hate to drink and run, Mama, but I’m supposed to be working from home today.”

“Then you’d better get home,” she said, following Zack and me as we headed toward the coat closet.

Her purse sat on the foyer console table. As I slipped on my boots, she retrieved her wallet. I waited for her standard excuse about not having any cash, but to my surprise, she pulled out a twenty-dollar bill and handed it to me. “Thank you, dear.”

Mama often surprises me, but rarely is it a pleasant surprise.

On the ride home I pulled out my phone and placed a call to Detective Spader. He answered on the first ring. “Mrs. Pollack, always a pleasure.”

“Good to know you don’t dread my calls, Detective.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Have you contacted the prison yet?”

“It’s on today’s to-do list. Why?”

“I just learned Lawrence Tuttnauer has been placing calls to my mother once a week.”

“About?”

“Mama said she’s ignored all the calls.”

“Good. Tell her to keep ignoring them. I’ll be in touch if I learn something.”

He hung up before I had a chance to say more.

~*~

Shane and Sophie arrived for dinner with a pan of freshly baked chocolate chip brownies and a half-gallon of salted caramel and chocolate chip ice cream.

“How about if we skip dinner and go right to dessert,” said Nick.

“No chicken and asparagus, no dessert,” I said, forcing a Mom Look.

“You’re no fun,” he grumbled under his breath.

“I’m your mother. It’s part of the job description.”

Before I had a chance to place the ice cream in the freezer, the doorbell rang again. Zack checked out the newcomers through the peephole. “Harley and Fogarty.”

I saw Sophie stiffen and grab Alex’s hand. “Are they alone?”

Zack nodded. Noticing the fear that had spread across Sophie’s face, he said, “I don’t think they’re here because of your dad, Sophie.”

“Why else would they be here?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Grandmother Lucille is missing,” said Alex. “She hasn’t been home in several days.”

“That’s terrible,” said Shane.

“Not really,” said Nick.

“Nick!”

“Well, it’s true, isn’t it?” he asked. “Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be happy if she never came back, Mom.”

All I could do was emit a huge sigh and shake my head at him.

Zack opened the door. Both Harley and Fogarty showed surprise at being greeted by a contingent of six, one of whom cradled a pan of brownies and another who held a half-gallon of ice cream.

Fogarty pointed to the food. “For us?”

“Depends,” I said. “Do you come bearing good news or bad?”

“That depends how you look at it,” said Harley. He handed me the spiral notepad. “I added all the names and addresses into a database. Sooner or later we’ll probably need the information again.”

“Did you find them?” I asked.

He shook his head. “Not only didn’t we find your mother-in-law and Ms. Kleinhample, we couldn’t find any of them.”

“They’re all missing?”

“Every last Daughter of the October Revolution,” said Fogarty.

“Where did they go?”

They both shrugged. “No one seems to know,” said Harley. “We checked flight manifests, as you suggested, not only those going to Russia but all domestic and international flights leaving Newark Liberty, LaGuardia, and JFK the last few days. They didn’t fly anywhere.”

“Unless they drove to Philly and took a flight from there,” I said.

“We didn’t think of that,” said Harley. He pushed a button on his shoulder-mounted walkie-talkie and relayed a message to have someone check the flight manifests for not only the Philadelphia Airport but also Atlantic City and Westchester.

“If those come up cold,” he said, “you’re probably right about them heading down to Florida.” 

“Or they’ve all been abducted by aliens,” said Fogarty, peppering his words with a chuckle.

“Cool!” said Nick. “Either way, that means she won’t be coming home any time soon, right?”

“Nick!” I thrust the ice cream at him. “Put this in the freezer.”

I then turned back to the two officers. “So what happens now?”

“We’ve put out both a nationwide APB and a Silver Alert,” said Harley. “Thirteen female octogenarians riding around in a vintage VW minibus shouldn’t be too hard to spot.”

“And once you find them?” I asked.

“We extradite them back to New Jersey,” said Harley. “Your mother-in-law and Kleinhample are fugitives. The others will be charged with aiding and abetting.”

My evil twin wondered if they might deport them all to Russia.

~*~

School reopened the next day, but since I didn’t have to rush off to work, thanks to the Morris County power outage, our morning routine was less frenetic. I spared the boys their morning Mephisto and Ralph chores, taking on the duties of walking Devil Dog and filling water and food bowls myself, while Zack whipped up a breakfast of egg and Canadian bacon sandwiches. Nick and Alex wolfed theirs down in two bites before donning boots, hats, coats, and gloves; grabbing their backpacks; and rushing out the door.

With Lucille still MIA, a peaceful calm descended over the kitchen as Zack and I took our time with our own breakfast sandwiches and sipped our morning coffee. Mephisto had retreated to his spot under the coffee table in the den while Ralph quietly observed us from his perch atop the refrigerator. “I could get used to this,” I said.

“Being a lady of leisure?”

“Enjoying an unhurried weekday breakfast.” I didn’t eat and run each morning; I only ran, grabbing for breakfast whatever I could find in the break room once I arrived at work. And those offerings always consisted of massive amounts of sugar and calories.

Was it any wonder after seventeen-plus years I still hadn’t shed the baby weight I’d gained from two pregnancies? At this stage of my life nothing short of a starvation diet, coupled with the exercise routine of a triathlete, would shed those excess pounds. Unfortunately, diet and exercise continually lost out to the temptation of morning muffins, pastries, and croissants.

Zack drained his coffee cup, then rose from the table and carried his dishes to the sink. “Do you have a packed work schedule today?”

“No more than usual but working from home I won’t have any interruptions. I should finish early.” I watched as he rinsed his dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. “Are you suggesting we ditch our responsibilities and enjoy the day?”

Ralph flapped his wings, squawked once, then said, “Consent with both that we may enjoy each other. As You Like It. Act Five, Scene Two.”

Zack glanced at Ralph, then turned toward me and shook his head. “Don’t look so eager.”

“Do I look eager?”

“You look like a woman itching to play hooky.”

“We do have the house to ourselves.”

Zack shook his head again. “You have the house to yourself. I’m off to a meeting in D.C.”

“Oh.” I frowned. “Did I know that?”

“With everything that’s happened the last few days, I may have forgotten to mention it.”

Or he’d deliberately kept his travel plans to himself up until the last possible moment. Was he really going to a meeting in Washington, or was that a cover for a more clandestine trip? “When will you be home?”

“Most likely by eight o’clock.”

“Most likely?”

He shrugged. “You never know with Amtrak and the weather.”

“Right.” At least if he expected to return this evening, he wasn’t flying off to someplace where the U.S. only has a covert presence. No way could Zack travel to Africa, the Middle East, or any other overseas hotbed and return within twelve hours, assuming he really did plan to arrive home later this evening.

I pasted a smile on my face, swallowing down my fear and insecurity and forcefully reeled in my overactive imagination. I didn’t even bother to ask about his destination in D.C. He’d say the World Wildlife Federation or the Smithsonian or National Geographic, even if he planned to meet with the CIA, FBI, or NSA. I’d never know the truth. Or I’d know but refuse to believe it.

No matter how often or how vehemently he protested otherwise, something about Zack’s day job refused to add up in my mind. I doubt it ever would. But was my skepticism justified, or was I suffering from post-traumatic Karl syndrome, the aftermath of marriage to a pathological liar? I honestly didn’t know.

A few sessions with a psychiatrist probing my psyche might provide me with answers, but I had more pressing expenses. For now—as well as the foreseeable future—I’d have to take Zack at his word and make peace with my suspicions. I had no other choice.

After Zack left, I placed Ralph in his cage, locked up the house, and climbed the stairs to the garage apartment where I planned to spend an uninterrupted day in front of my computer.

Two hours later, as I proofed the craft pages for the American Woman issue about to go to press, I heard heavy footfalls making their way up the stairs. I froze. My heart pounded in my ears.

Had Lawrence sent one of his goons to kill me?

I had no escape. As quietly as possible, I made my way into Zack’s bedroom and opened the closet door, reaching up to the top shelf in search of his gun case. I’d never fired a gun in my life, but if ever there was a time to learn by doing, this might be it.

Except the gun was missing.

Zack lied to me!

Someone pounded on the door. Fear shot waves of tremors through my limbs. I grabbed the closet doorjamb to keep from collapsing onto the floor.

I’m going to die.

“Mrs. Pollack? You in there?”

Spader? I’d never been so happy to hear that gruff, tobacco-damaged voice.

I opened my mouth to answer, but my words came out as a squeak. I closed my eyes and took a few deep breaths to steady my nerves and tried again. “Be right there.” Then I exited the bedroom and made my way across the living room.

“You okay?” he asked when I swung open the door. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

Not a ghost, just my life flashing before my eyes. “Come in, Detective. I’m fine.”

He eyed me up and down, skepticism written all over his face. “If you say so.”

I offered him a seat. After he settled into a chair, I sat opposite him on the edge of the sofa and asked, “What can I do for you?”

“I looked into your theory regarding Tuttnauer.”

I hoped Spader was about to alleviate my fears by telling me he found no evidence Lawrence wasn’t up to his old tricks. However, if that were the case, wouldn’t he have called rather than making a special trip? I clasped my hands together to stem the shaking and leaned forward. “And?”

SIXTEEN

When Spader didn’t immediately respond, I repeated my question. “And?”

“Since contraband is a huge problem in prisons,” he said, “random searches are routinely performed. When I notified the warden of my concern—” 

“Your concern?”

Spader raised one of his bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. “He wasn’t going to toss a cell block based on your suspicions, Mrs. Pollack. The request had to come from law enforcement.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Can you imagine the chaos if anyone could insist a prison be searched at any time for any reason, whether valid or not? Not to mention the cost, let alone the legal ramifications? The courts would be tied up in lawsuits for years.”

“Because prisoners’ rights supersede victims’ safety?”

Spader glared at me, his brow wrinkling, his mouth forming a tight line before he spoke through gritted teeth. “Because in this country we don’t trample on the Constitution.”

I sighed. “Point taken. Did they find anything?”

“A burner phone.”

“Mama said the calls she received from Lawrence came from the prison. She declined to accept them.”

“Tuttnauer used the prison phone system for his legitimate calls, the ones to your mother and his lawyer. He used the burner for other business.”

“What kind of other business?”

“The illegal kind. Over the last month he’d placed three calls to someone from the burner.”

“Who?”

“The name Tommy Gravino ring a bell?”

I shook my head. “Should it?”

“He’s a low-level hood living in Weehawken. Dumb as dirt.”

“How so?”

“For one thing he’s too stupid to know he should be using a burner phone.”

“That must put a huge smile on the D.A.’s face.”

“Damn straight. Certainly makes my life a heck of a lot easier. Anyway, his name and number popped right up in the history on Tuttnauer’s confiscated cell. My guess is Gravino’s doing Tuttnauer’s bidding to earn points with the mob. The Feds rounded up quite a few of his cronies when they nabbed him. It’s a good time for up-and-comers to make their mark.”

“Lots of recent job openings in the family business?”

“Exactly. But only for those not dumb as dirt.” Spader pulled out his phone, thumbing it for a moment before handing it to me. “This guy look familiar?”

I stared at the mug shot on the screen. The face in the photo scowled back at me, his lips pursed, his eyes narrowed slits under unruly eyebrows that had formed into a “V”. An overabundance of gel sculpted his blue-black hair off his face, exposing either a high forehead or early-onset male pattern baldness. “Gravino?”

Spader nodded.

“He’s a kid.”

“Nineteen but don’t let his age fool you. Seen him around?”

“Not that I recall.”

“Keep your eyes open. If your suspicions are correct, this is the guy Tuttnauer has dogging you.”

“You think he killed Tammy?”

“You think that. My money is still on Lambert.”

“You’re wrong, Detective.”

“So you’ve said.” He ran his hands through his closely cropped, thinning hair. “Look, Mrs. Pollack, I’m willing to give you the benefit of the doubt. That’s why I contacted the prison, but you have to admit, it’s pretty far-fetched.”

It was my turn to raise an eyebrow. “Is it? The man put out a hit on two of my neighbors to distract me from questioning his daughter’s accidental drowning. Two innocent people died because of that twisted psycho. And that was before I was instrumental in sending him to prison. Why is it so hard for you to believe that he’s up to his old sick tricks?”

“It’s not. Like I said, I’m giving you the benefit of the doubt.” He shrugged. “You could be right. Stranger things have happened, especially when it comes to cases that involve you.”

I didn’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not, but I decided against rising to the bait. “Then you’ll check out Gravino’s alibi?”

“Already on it. And I’ve got someone tailing him just to be on the safe side.”

I handed the phone back to Spader. “What about Lawrence?”

“Getting caught with that phone landed him in solitary for a month. Other than his lawyer, he won’t be seeing or speaking to anyone.”

“How’d he get the phone?”

“The same way they all get contraband, either from their crooked lawyers or corrections officers on the take.” He rose to leave. “Keep your eyes open, Mrs. Pollack. Just because Tuttnauer is in solitary for the next few weeks doesn’t mean he hasn’t already set future events in motion.”

After dropping that comforting bomb on me, Spader departed, leaving me jumping at every unexpected sound and constantly running to the window to scan the street for unfamiliar parked vehicles. Twice I noticed a patrol car cruise down the street and wondered if Spader had requested periodic drive-bys. If so, rather than allaying my fears, knowing the cops were keeping an eye on me only confirmed my suspicions about Lawrence and raised my anxiety level by a few hundred notches.

Shortly before noon I heard a car pull into the driveway. I ran to the window, hoping to find Zack had returned early. Instead I watched as Ira cut the engine and exited a shiny new silver Mercedes with dealer plates. Even though I’d admonished him countless times to call before dropping by, this time I breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of my half-brother-in-law. That alone spoke volumes about my current anxiety level. Talk about desperation!

I opened the apartment door, stepped onto the landing, and waved to let him know I wasn’t in the house. His face lit up in a broad grin as he waved back. I stepped inside and closed the door before the whipping December winds turned me into a Popsicle. (Or would that be a Momsicle?) A moment later Ira bounded up the staircase and entered the apartment.

“I had a feeling you might be working from home today,” he said. “I heard on the news most of Morris County is without power.” He glanced around the apartment. “Zack’s not here?”

“He’s out of town today.”

“That’s too bad,” he said, but something in his expression told me his private thoughts didn’t match his spoken words. 

“What brings you across the state, Ira?”

“I had a meeting this morning in Elizabeth. Figured, if you were working from home, I’d swing by on my way back to see if I could convince you to join me for lunch.”

“I’d be delighted.”

“Really?”

“Don’t look so surprised.”

Ira lowered his head and mumbled to his boots. “You’ve been avoiding me lately. I thought maybe you were angry about something.”

I sighed. There was so much about Ira that angered me, but I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, and I certainly didn’t want a confrontation—especially today. I opted for the coward’s way out. “It’s been a rough week, Ira. I have a lot on my mind.”

He reached for my hands and clasped them in both of his gloved ones. “Is it Zack? Are the two of you having problems?”

Did I detect a note of hope in his voice? Every so often I got the uncomfortable feeling that Ira would like nothing better than to learn Zack and I had broken up. I pulled my hands away and took a step backwards. “No, of course not. Why would you think that?”

Two crimson spots sprouted on his already ruddy cheeks. “I don’t know…I just…what can I do to help? Do you need money?”

Ira lived by the philosophy that if you threw enough money at a problem, it disappeared. You’d think by now he’d realize such an approach had serious flaws. Money hadn’t kept his second wife from cheating on him, and all the gifts he showered on his children only made them prime candidates for a Willy Wonka comeuppance. “This has nothing to do with finances, Ira, and there’s really nothing you can do to help.”

“You know I’d do anything for you, Anastasia.”

“I know.”

“Then let me help you. Please.”

“How about we get that lunch, okay?”

“You’ll tell me what’s going on once we arrive at the restaurant?”

I’d never met a man with such a need to be needed. I wasn’t about to tell him anything regarding Shane, and I saw no point in divulging the latest incident with Lawrence. Why worry him? Besides, from what I’d seen, Lawrence had a soft spot when it came to Ira, or at least for Ira’s money. Even with everything Lawrence had done, I never believed for a moment he’d set his goons on Ira or his children. I was the psycho’s prime target.

I saw no harm, though, in tossing Ira a proverbial bone by filling him in on Lucille’s latest escapade. Perhaps knowing more about the real Lucille would open his eyes to the truth.

When it came to his father’s first love, Ira was totally clueless. He kept trying to win Lucille over, refusing to understand that the mere sight of him was like a steel hammer and sickle to her commie heart. Lucille looked at Ira and saw the only two people she’d ever loved, both of whom she’d lost.

I grabbed my coat and said, “We’ll talk over lunch. I promise.”

Ira and I had never spent any one-on-one time together, something that suited me just fine but obviously bothered him. Instead of picking a local restaurant, he drove us into Millburn. “How lucky is this?” he asked as he parked the Mercedes at the curb on Main Street. “We couldn’t get any closer.”

 I turned to look at the restaurant and swallowed back a gasp as I read the name emblazoned on the plate-glass window. “Ristorante Gravino?”

“Ever been here?”

I shook my head and sent up a quick prayer to the God of Coincidences, hoping there was no connection between the restaurant and Lawrence’s mob wannabe. Talk about leaping from the frying pan into the fire! I had only agreed to lunch with Ira because Spader’s visit had turned me into a basket case.

I stared at the name on the window. Was Gravino a common Italian surname? I desperately hoped so. “How do you know about this place?”

“I grew up in Millburn. I’m sure I mentioned it.”

“I don’t think so.” Spader had said Tommy Gravino lived in Weehawken. He never mentioned Millburn. Maybe it was nothing but coincidence.

Ira shrugged. “The Gravinos lived next door to us. Great family. Tommy Two took over the restaurant after his father retired.”

“Tommy Two?”

“Tomas, actually, like his father, but everyone always called him Tommy Two. We went to school together. He’s grooming his son, Tommy Three, to take over the business some day, but he’s got his work cut out for him.” Ira punctuated his last statement with a frown.

“Why is that?”

“From what I can see, Tommy Three hasn’t shown much interest in becoming a restaurateur. He’s a bit of a rebel.”

“In what way?”

Ira shrugged. “He wants to do his own thing, whatever that is. I’m not sure even he knows.”

If Tommy Three was the same Tommy Gravino as the one in cahoots with Lawrence, I knew his career of choice. However, I had no way of probing without raising Ira’s suspicions. It’s not like I could come out and ask him if Tommy Three now lives in Weehawken.

Ira had offered up very little information regarding his life prior to our meeting last summer. I ticked off in my mind the few facts I’d learned about him: He and Karl had had the same father. His parents were both deceased. He had three kids by his first wife. She died of cancer several years ago. I couldn’t remember if he’d ever mentioned her name or the type of cancer that had killed her. Neither he nor his kids ever spoke of her.

In addition, Ira owned half a dozen car dealerships throughout the state, and his second wife was murdered. However, the murder occurred after we met.

That was the nutshell sum total of my Ira knowledge. Not only did he shy away from talking about himself, I made a point of not encouraging him. Too much of Ira’s life had already flowed into mine. I refrained from asking questions to stave off a dam breach.

We exited the car and entered the nearly empty upscale northern Italian restaurant. The ambiance struck me as better suited for lovers. High-backed booths separated the tables, affording diners intimate privacy.

“They have a strolling violinist and guitarist in the evenings,” said Ira as a hostess led us to a table and handed us menus.

As soon as we were seated, he said, “This is nice, isn’t it?”

I glanced at his eager expression, nodded without saying anything, and turned my attention to the menu, trying to focus on the day’s offerings. The task proved nearly insurmountable. I not only had to worry about a possible connection between Tommy Gravino and the Ristorante Gravino, I also had to fend off Ira’s subliminal messages without hurting his feelings.

I had no desire to encourage any unrealistic fantasy Ira might harbor about me. Even if Zack and I weren’t a couple, I’d never marry Ira, not if he were the last eligible man on the planet. I’d rather take a vow of celibacy for all eternity.

I thought about playing matchmaker, but I wouldn’t wish Ira’s kids on a total stranger, let alone someone I knew. Ira would have to find the next Mrs. Ira Pollack on his own. And good luck to her. She’d need it.

After the waitress took our orders, Ira leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, his hands clasped around his water glass. “What’s going on, Anastasia? You can tell me. I’m here for you.”

I took a sip of water. The time had come to muster my inner actress. I needed to compose myself, place the Gravino coincidence on hold for now, and toss that bone to Ira. “Lucille is missing.”

His jaw dropped, his eyes grew wide. He pushed back from the table with both hands and flattened his spine against the back of the wooden booth. For a moment he stared at me, not uttering a sound. Finally, he said, “Missing? As in kidnapped?”

I bit my lower lip to keep from laughing. If someone had kidnapped Lucille, I’d gladly pay him to keep her. “As in she’s skipped bail and is on the run.”

Ira’s brows knit together. “I don’t understand.”

As I explained the events leading up to Lucille and her communist minions going on the lam, Ira’s eyebrows shot higher and higher toward his receding hairline. “Let me get this straight. You’re saying your mother-in-law has been arrested previously?”

“Multiple times.”

“For what?”

I counted off on my fingers her various recent illegal acts. “Disorderly conduct, vandalism, protesting without a permit, and assaulting an officer. That’s just a few of her offenses from this past year and before they slap her with these newest charges.”

“I had no idea. I knew she was involved in various social justice causes…but…I…I’m flabbergasted.”

Ira had originally found me after he saw a news clip of Lucille being interviewed at a protest in Westfield. He put two and two together and eventually showed up on my doorstep, announcing he was Karl’s half-brother. “Lucille believes in the Law According to Lucille,” I said. “She often crosses the line from peaceful protest into anarchy.”

“Where do you think she’s gone?”

“My guess is she and her Bolshevik brigade are headed south.”

“To Cuba?”

“Most likely Florida.” I hadn’t considered Cuba as their final destination. Perhaps their plan was to ditch the VW minibus once they arrived in the Keys and charter a boat to Havana. I made a mental note to contact Officer Harley about this new theory.

Did the Daughters of the October Revolution have a Key West branch? Were there chapters all along the I-95 corridor to aid fleeing commies?

Ira withdrew his phone. “I’ll hire a private investigator to find her.”

I reached across the table and placed my hand over the phone. “No.”

“Don’t worry. I know someone. He’s discreet.”

Had Ira engaged the services of a private detective when Cynthia ran off with the pool boy? I didn’t ask. I already knew far more than I cared to about that sordid affair and its deadly outcome. “The police are on it, Ira. They have an APB out for them. You don’t need to do anything.”

“But what if they don’t find her?”

“A bevy of octogenarian women driving around in a fifty-year-old VW minibus won’t be hard to spot.”

“But what if they refuse to surrender? What if there’s a shootout?”

Was he kidding? “Trust me, their deadliest weapons are Lucille’s cane and Harriet’s mouth.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. If she and her misguided sisterhood were armed, they would have accidentally shot themselves or each other long ago.” That not-so-merry band of commie anarchists would give new meaning to The Gang Who Couldn’t Shoot Straight—assuming any of them had the strength to lift a loaded weapon.

Ira mulled that over for a minute. “I suppose you’re right, but my offer stands. If there’s anything I can do to help—whether concerning Lucille or anything else—I’m here for you. We’re family, Anastasia. Never forget that.”

“I won’t forget, Ira.” How could I when he reminded me every chance he got?

The moment I saw the restaurant name, I’d lost my appetite, but when our food arrived, I forced myself to eat the salad I’d ordered. Throughout the meal as Ira made small talk and I listened with half an ear, I tried to convince myself that I was worrying over nothing. Mere coincidence.

While Ira waited for the check, I excused myself to use the ladies’ room, which was situated down a long oak-paneled corridor. Three generations of Gravino family photographs covered the walls. I stopped in front of the most recent one, a photo of Tomas Gravino handing the restaurant keys over to his son. A bronze plaque on the frame identified the other people in the photo. Tomas’s wife Rose stood to his left. Standing beside Tommy Two was his wife Angelica and their three children—Angelina, Rose Marie, and Tommy Three, his gel-drenched blue-black hair looking like an oil slick atop his head.

I ran into the bathroom and lost my lunch.

SEVENTEEN

As I hovered over the porcelain throne, a thunderbolt hit me: Did Ira know of the connection between his childhood friend’s son and his murderous ex-father-in-law?

I rewound the tape in my head and played back everything I knew about Ira. Had he ever told me how he and Cynthia met? I couldn’t remember.

What if Ira met Cynthia through Lawrence and not the other way around? If so, that brought up a host of disturbing questions, including Ira’s connection to the mob, and whether he knew of Lawrence’s plan to eliminate Cynthia. That thought sent another wave of nausea coursing up my esophagus.

After several more minutes I finally exited the stall and headed for the sink to clean myself up. One thought kept playing over and over in my head: had Ira been playing me from the moment he entered my life? Did a much darker person lurk behind that affable, needy exterior? If so, what did that say about my ability to judge character?

I took a shuddering breath and studied my reflection in the mirror above the sink. Amazingly, given the circumstances, I only looked half-frightful. I could work with half-frightful.

After rinsing out my mouth and splashing cold water on my face, I ran a comb through my hair and applied lip gloss. Then I rooted around in my purse for a pack of Tic Tacs and popped two into my mouth. After a final deep breath for courage, I summoned my inner actress before returning to the table.

Ira stood as he saw me approach. “Everything all right?”

So much for my acting ability. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You were gone for quite some time.”

“Women always take longer than men, Ira. You should know that.”

“Of course.” His cheeks flushed as he held my coat out for me. “Ready?”

“Yes, I need to get home to finish some editing.”

“Oh.” The corners of his mouth dipped. “I thought we’d take a short detour so I can show you the new house.”

“You’ve made settlement already?”

“No, but we can do a drive-by. It’s not all that much out of our way.”

When I agreed, his face brightened. Ira was either a master of manipulation or an insecure puppy in need of constant petting. I’d always assumed the latter, but in light of today’s events, I no longer had faith in my own judgment. Therefore, as soon as I returned home, I’d place a call to my very own law enforcement Rottweiler, Detective Samuel Spader.

On the other hand, maybe I had no need to worry about Ira. I’d gone to school with dozens of Mafia princes and princesses. Some later went into the family business. That didn’t make me complicit in any of their crimes. By the same logic, having a friend whose son yearned to make his mark in the mob didn’t prove Ira was guilty of anything. Still, the coincidence unnerved me.

Once we arrived back in Westfield, Ira cut through the shopping district and down Prospect Street, stopping in front of a sprawling three-story Craftsman-style McMansion with a sweeping cobblestone driveway that led to a three-car garage. “What do you think?” he asked.

I gaped at the structure. “That’s a lot of house, Ira. Four-thousand square feet?”

He puffed out his chest. “Five. Do you like it?”

I forced a smile, hoping he wouldn’t pick up on my insincerity. “It’s perfect.” A perfect example of conspicuous consumption. My nineteen-fifties modest rancher would get lost within Ira’s new abode.

“Wait until you see the media room. We’re going to host some fabulous movie nights.”

“I’m happy for you, Ira.” Then for emphasis I glanced at my watch. “Now I really do need to get home.”

“Of course.” He shifted into Drive, pulled away from the curb, and executed a U-turn.

As we drove down the street, I thought I caught a glimpse of Trey Krause standing on the sidewalk across the street from Shane’s house.

~*~

After Ira dropped me off at home and before I called Detective Spader, I sat down at my computer to search for any information I could find on both Ristorante Gravino and Tommy Three. Dozens of review sites praised the restaurant for its food, service, and ambience with hardly any complaints from disgruntled diners. With very few exceptions, everyone who ate at Ristorante Gravino sung its praises.

I dug deeper, clicking page after page. Other than a local article about Tomas Gravino retiring and turning the business over to his son, I came up cold. If Ristorante Gravino and the first two generations of Gravinos had any connection to the mob, they’d managed to stay under the radar of both the police and the news media.

I turned my attention to Oil Slick Tommy. Several articles popped up detailing three arrests—one for driving under the influence, one for assault during a bar brawl, and one for attempted rape. Each time the charges had been dropped. A host of red flags flapped furiously on the horizon.

Finally, I Googled Ira, something I should have done after he showed up on my doorstep months ago. But I never doubted Ira’s story, mostly because he was a younger, less-balding spitting image of my dead husband. Once I accepted him as Karl’s half-brother, I accepted everything else about him.

The Internet contained a vast amount of information pertaining to Ira’s automotive empire, along with an obituary for his first wife and several dozen articles detailing the events surrounding Cynthia’s murder and her father’s conviction. The only other mention of Ira that popped up concerned a college alumni event Cynthia had hosted. Still, to keep myself from going crazy, I needed confirmation that the guy was as squeaky clean as I once thought.

I picked up the phone and punched in Spader’s number. His phone rang five times before he answered. His tone conveyed his joy at hearing from me. “What now, Mrs. Pollack?”

“Are you busy, Detective?”

“Always.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but I thought you should know what I discovered today.”

“Didn’t I tell you to keep your nose out of this investigation?”

“My nose—along with the rest of me—wasn’t anywhere it didn’t belong; I was out to lunch with my husband’s half-brother—Lawrence’s former son-in-law.”

“How nice. Did you enjoy yourself?”

“As a matter of fact, I most definitely did not.” I proceeded to tell him about Ira’s connection to the Gravino family. “I’m more than a little freaked out by this.”

“You think he was sending you a message?”

“I don’t know. What do you think?”

“I think there’s a rotten apple in every family barrel. I know the Gravinos from my time in Essex County. They’re good people. Tommy Three is their rotten apple.”

“So you’re saying I don’t need to worry about Ira?”

“Probably not.”

“Probably not?”

“There are no guarantees in life, Mrs. Pollack.”

Except for death and taxes. Thanks to my deceased husband, I constantly worried about paying off the latter. Now, thanks to his half-brother, I needed to add the former to my ever-mounting list of fears.

~*~

The boys and I were about to sit down to dinner when a car pulled into the driveway and a pair of headlights lit up the kitchen. “Zack’s home,” said Alex, glancing out the window.

A moment later the spy-who-claims-not-to-be-a-spy came in from the cold. He dropped his backpack on one of the kitchen chairs and planted a quick peck on my lips.

“You’re early,” I said, turning away from him to remove dinner from the oven. I placed the roasting pan filled with chicken, carrots, and baby potatoes on top of the stove and covered it with a glass lid to keep the contents hot.

“The meeting ended in time for me to catch the 3:50 Acela.”

With my back still turned toward him I said, “You should wash up for dinner.”

Zack grabbed me by the shoulders and spun me around. “Something wrong?”

My eyes darted to my sons. Where did I begin? You lied to me? Where’s your gun? Lawrence is after me again? Ira may be connected to the mob?

Zack followed my gaze. The next thing I knew, he took hold of my hand and said to the boys, “We’ll be right back.” Then he dragged me out of the kitchen.

Once we were in the bedroom, he closed the door, turned to me, and said, “Out with it. What’s wrong?”

“Where were you today?”

Confusion settled over his face. “What do you mean? I had a meeting in D.C. You knew that.”

“Where in D.C.?”

Zack sat on the edge of the bed and crossed his arms. “At the Smithsonian. What the hell is going on?”

Everything spilled out in a torrent. “After you left this morning, I went up to the apartment to work. I heard someone climb the stairs. I panicked. I thought for sure one of Lawrence’s goons had come after me. I went into the bedroom to grab your gun from the closet, but it wasn’t there.”

Stunned, Zack stared back at me without saying a word.

I moved toward him. “Why did you need to bring a gun with you for a meeting at the Smithsonian?”

When he didn’t answer immediately, I jabbed a finger at him. “I knew it,” I said. “I was right all along. You are a spy.”

He smiled. “Really? You came to that conclusion on the basis of not finding my gun?”

“Why else would you take a gun to Washington?”

 “I didn’t.”

Either he was lying to me again, or he was telling the truth, and if he was telling the truth… “Oh my god! Someone broke in and stole your gun!”

“No one stole my gun.”

“Then where is it?”

“Where I’ve been keeping it—”

“No, it’s not. I just told you—” 

“—in one of the darkroom cabinets. I did some reorganizing a few weeks ago.”

I blinked. “The darkroom?”

He nodded. “Would you like to check?”

I collapsed onto the bed next to him and lowered my head into my hands. “I feel like such a fool.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders and drew me to him. “But a lovable fool. So who was climbing up the stairs?”

I sighed. “Spader.”

“What did he want?”

I told Zack about the burner phone, Tommy Gravino, and my lunch with Ira. “Now I’m second-guessing everything I thought I knew about Ira.”

“You’ve had a busy day jumping to so many conclusions.”

I turned to face him. “Can you forgive me? I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”

He gave me a peck on the cheek. “I’ll take you up on that but later. I’m starving.” He pulled me to my feet. “Let’s eat first.”

On the way back to the kitchen he said, “By the way, the gun is in a combination lockbox. You need the code to open it.”

“Now you tell me.”

~*~

Later that evening while the boys tackled homework at their desks, Zack and I camped out on the den sofa. Mephisto snored away under the coffee table. Ralph flew into the room and landed on Zack’s shoulder, his perch of choice ever since man and bird first bonded.

Zack studied me as if he either planned to paint my portrait or pronounce a fatal diagnosis. I squirmed under his intense gaze. “What?” I asked.

“You doing okay now?”

“Stress-wise?”

“And otherwise.”

I heaved a sigh. “Let’s just say I’ve taken a few steps away from the ledge, but I’m still teetering on the brink.”

He reached for my hand. “You need to walk yourself back about a mile.”

“Rather difficult under the circumstances but I promise, I’ll try.”

Ralph squawked. “If circumstances lead me, I will find where truth is hid. Hamlet. Act Two. Scene Two.”

Zack reached into his shirt pocket and rewarded Ralph with an almond sliver. “Try harder.”

“Me or Ralph?”

“You.”

“Right.” Easy for him to say. “However, as long as you’ve brought up the subject—”

“The Smithsonian is not a cover for the CIA.”

“Good to know, although not the subject I had in mind. I was about to ask your thoughts on Ira.”

“Ira, huh?” Zack chuckled. “Ira is an open book; what you see is what you get. The man allows his own kids to run roughshod over him. Do you really believe a guy like that is leading a double life in organized crime?”

“I suppose when you put it that way…”

“Besides,” he continued, “the Feds turned over every rock in their investigation of Lawrence and his cronies. They rounded up all the cockroaches that scurried out. With everyone they indicted and convicted, if Ira had more than a marital connection to the mob, what are the chances he would have evaded detection? The guy is no Keyser Söze.”

Zack made sense, especially once he referenced The Usual Suspects. “All right. You’ve convinced me. I took a flying leap and did a face-plant into a totally ridiculous conclusion.”

Using his index finger, he executed a checkmark in the air. “One down. Shall we move on to the next?”

I raised both eyebrows. It would take much more than a relocated gun to convince me the guy didn’t juggle both an overt and a covert career. One battle did not a war win. So I lobbed him a curve ball. “Trey Krause.”

“What about him?”

I told Zack how I thought I had seen the food bank board treasurer as Ira and I drove down Prospect Street. “I can’t be one hundred percent certain, but it looked like him. He stood on the opposite side of the street, his arms crossed over his chest, glaring at Shane’s house.”

“Glaring?”

“That’s what it looked like to me.”

“Maybe he showed up unannounced again to try to sell Shane on his brokerage services.” 

“I think Shane made it quite clear at the time exactly what he thought of Krause.”

Zack shrugged. “Some people are dense. Others don’t like to take no for an answer.”

“Which category do you think Trey falls into?”

“Definitely the latter.”

“I can’t help but think something more is going on with him.”

“Surely you’re not suggesting he killed Tammy?”

“Of course not. That makes no sense.”

“Good. Because that would be one huge leap, even for you.”

“Agreed.”

“Keep in mind,” he continued, “Shane and Trey first met at the crafts fair last Sunday.”

“As far as we know.”

Zack raised both eyebrows. “Haven’t you jumped to enough conclusions today?”

EIGHTEEN

The next morning I awoke to a cacophony of metallic clanging and banging punctuated by shouting. I rolled over to find Zack’s side of the bed empty. The clock on my nightstand read a-quarter-past-too-early-for-so-much-noise. I pulled on my robe, and after a quick trip to the bathroom, made my way to the kitchen.

As I passed the boys’ bedroom, I pounded on the door to wake them. “Rise and shine, gentlemen.”

Twin groans answered back.

I found Zack preparing breakfast smoothies. “What’s all that noise outside?” I shouted over the whirring blender.

“Betty Bentworth’s house is coming down.”

“In the snow?”

Zack shrugged. “The quicker they get new homes built and sold, the more profit they make. With the house gone, they can dig the foundation and pour concrete at the first thaw. Once that’s complete, they can start framing, no matter how cold it gets.”

I retraced my steps into the living room and pulled up one of the shades covering the bay window that looked out onto the street. A flotilla of construction vehicles filled every available curbside parking space on both sides of the road. An oversized Dumpster sat parked on Betty Bentworth’s driveway. Half a dozen men scurried back and forth, hauling items from the house and unceremoniously tossing them into the Dumpster.

“We’re about to get our first McMansion on the street,” said Zack, coming up behind me. He handed me a smoothie.

“I’m not surprised,” I said. “I suspect everything inside that house is original, including the seventy-year-old wiring and plumbing.”

“Starting from scratch is probably much cheaper than attempting a renovation,” he said, “but it’s a shame. That house had character. At best something cookie cutter will spring up in its place.”

“At best? What could be worse?”

“An eyesore.”

I sighed. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder.” Some of the new-builds kept to the original Victorian and Craftsman style of many of the original Westfield homes built prior to the cape cods, ranchers, and split-levels of the fifties and sixties. However, some of the builders buying up older properties possessed an extremely skewed sense of beauty, which resulted in the construction of garish, nouveau riche monstrosities. I hoped we weren’t about to see one of those rise across the street.

“Betty’s kids probably wanted to unload the house as quickly and easily as possible,” said Zack. “Selling to a builder means no inspections and haggling over repairs.”

I watched as workers continued to toss away all remnants of my deceased neighbor’s life. “Under the circumstances, I can’t blame her children. I’m sure they want no reminders of their mother.”

“Not that she had much. The only valuable items in that house were the copper pipes, which the work crew already removed.”

I turned to look at him and noticed one of his cameras dangling from a leather strap around his neck. “How do you know?”

To my knowledge Zack had never entered Betty’s home. I’d lived across the street from her for nearly two decades and had only set foot in her entryway and living room once, the day I discovered her dead from a gunshot wound to the head.

He held up his camera. “I slipped the foreman a few bucks to allow me to walk through the house to document it,” said Zack.

“Why?”

“To preserve the memory of a home that will be gone by the end of the day. I also plan to capture the work crew bulldozing the house and hauling away the remains. I see the makings of a photo essay.” He shifted the camera so I could view the screen and began scrolling through the shots he’d taken. “As you can see, each room contained very little in the way of furnishings.”

No photographs or artwork decorated the walls. No knickknacks lay on the limited horizontal surfaces. No books lined the built-in bookshelves. “Makes you wonder why she moved into the house in the first place,” I said.

“And what she did all day,” added Zack.

“That I can answer. She spent her days seated in front of her living room window, spying on her neighbors. When she wasn’t doing that, she was pestering the police over nonsense. She once demanded they arrest a six-year-old for drawing a chalk hopscotch board on her sidewalk.”

Zack rolled his eyes.

“I often wondered how she could afford that house, but maybe she inherited it along with the silver.”

“What silver?” asked Zack.

“The pieces in the living room, an ornate pair of candlesticks and a matching five-piece silver tea service. They seemed so incongruous with the sparse, threadbare furnishings in the room. Didn’t you notice them?”

“Where were they?”

“The candlesticks were on the mantle, and the tea service was on her coffee table.”

Zack scrolled back to the photos he’d taken of the living room. Both the mantle and coffee table were empty.

I shrugged. “Looks like someone walked off with them.” A long list of suspects flipped through my head—any one of dozens of first responders who traipsed in and out of Betty’s house the night of her murder—the attorney her children had hired, the realtor who’d sold the house, the builder who’d purchased it, the men currently working across the street.

“Do you think we should notify the police?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t bother,” said Zack. “If they were the only items of value in the entire house, most likely they weren’t stolen.”

“Then what happened to them?”

“My guess is someone in authority took them to send to her children.”

That made sense.

“Besides,” he added. “Even if that’s not the case, those candlesticks and tea service no longer exist.”

“Melted down?”

“At the going rate for an ounce of silver? Definitely.”

I drained my glass and turned from the window. The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee drew me toward the kitchen. The boys entered as I finished pouring two cups. “Where’s Mephisto?” I asked.

“Still snoring in the den,” said Nick.

Once again, I offered to spare the boys morning pet duty. They rewarded my generous offer with dual cheek pecks. “You’re the best,” said Alex.

“Ditto,” said Nick.

“Don’t get too used to it,” I said, filling Ralph and Mephisto’s food and water dishes. “I expect the office will reopen Monday morning. Then it’s back to dog and parrot chores for both of you.”

After gulping down their smoothies, they donned their coats and grabbed their backpacks. As they dashed out the back door, they offered Zack and me an over-the-shoulder wave accompanied by a singsong, “Bye, Mom. Bye, Zack.”

After Zack and I finished our coffee, he headed back outside to take more photos. I jumped into a quick shower while Mephisto continued to snore away under the den coffee table. 

Ten minutes later, showered and dressed, I popped my head into the den once more and found the room minus one sleeping dog. I discovered Mephisto in the kitchen where he was chowing down on his kibble.

I stepped into the mudroom to retrieve his leash. The next thing I knew, my legs flew out from under me, and I landed with a splat in a puddle of piddle. Devil Dog paused, lifted his head from his bowl, and stared at me. I swear I could read his mind.

I glared back at him. “You did that on purpose, didn’t you?” And here I thought Lucille’s dog and I had entered into a détente of sorts. After all, he had saved my life over the summer, but I suppose détente—and bladder capacity—only go so far. “See if I allow you to sleep in ever again.”

Mephisto barked once before returning to his breakfast. I growled at him as I grabbed a handful of rags and began sopping up his mess. Then I washed the mudroom floor with bleach before returning to the shower.

I had just finished dressing for the second time when Zack returned. “Why does the house smell of bleach?”

“Because timing is everything, and mine sucks.”

“I think I’m going to need more of an explanation than that.”

I glanced over his shoulder and discovered the peeing perpetrator hovering in the hallway outside my bedroom. “I thought Devil Dog and I had reached an understanding, but apparently he was merely waiting for the right moment to strike.”

Zack followed my gaze. “With bleach?”

“With pee.” Although, I suppose I got off lucky this time, considering he used fluid ammunition on a tile surface. Maybe Mephisto’s liquid landmine was a warning. If I didn’t heel, he’d amp up his attacks.

Zack studied the culprit in question. “How old is he?”

I thought for a moment, trying to remember when Lucille’s previous dog had passed on to that fire hydrant in the sky. Karl had kept his mother at arm’s length for much of our marriage. Even though she lived less than an hour away, we only saw her a few times a year prior to her coming to live with us. I could only offer a rough estimate of the dog’s age. “At least ten years, maybe twelve.”

Zack bent down and scratched Mephisto behind the ears. “Ever have a dog as a kid?”

I shook my head. “My father had allergies.”

“In doggy years this guy is a senior citizen. I don’t think he broke the truce, at least not deliberately. You should schedule an appointment with the vet.”

“Great.” Just what I needed, footing another of Lucille’s expenses. She still owed me for the last time I hauled her pooch to the vet. Now with a prison sentence looming once the police caught up with her, I’d never get reimbursed.

The vet charges more than the pediatrician, and pets aren’t covered under our family health plan. What if Mephisto needs expensive meds? Or worse yet, surgery? I didn’t know which I dreaded more—Devil Dog breaking our truce or having to deal with his leaky bladder syndrome.

Did Pampers make doggy diapers?

~*~

I called the vet and scheduled an appointment for later that afternoon. In the meantime, we commenced on a schedule of walking Mephisto hourly to avoid any further surprises.

“Is this your way of telling me I need more exercise?”

I asked the dog after I bundled up and we made our way outside for our third trip of the day. This time Devil Dog and I braved the elements minus Zack who’d run off to a dentist appointment.

Heaven only knew what I’d do from now on with no one home for hours each day. I suppose I’d have to hire a dog walker. Yet another Lucille-incurred expense.

The sweet gum tree several doors down the street momentarily captured the dog’s attention, but after a few sniffs, Lucille’s picky pooch changed his mind and continued on his search for the perfect peeing spot. He took his sweet time while the chill air invaded my bones.

“Aren’t you cold?” I asked. His legs were so short that his belly skimmed the surface of the snow, but it didn’t seem to bother him.

Mephisto finally chose to grace a red maple in front of the next house, but instead of trotting back home, he maintained a soldier-like stance at the tree. He pulled back his jowls, emitting a low growl as he focused on a gray Ford pickup parked directly across the street.

I followed his laser stare, expecting to see a squirrel, a cat, or another dog lurking somewhere near the truck, but all thoughts of four-legged beasts disappeared when I noticed the oil slick black hair of the two-legged animal in the driver’s seat.

Tommy Three held a phone to his ear, his left elbow propped against the driver’s side window. He faced straight ahead. Although he couldn’t have missed me as I ambled down the sidewalk with Mephisto, given the way his arm blocked his peripheral vision, he obviously hadn’t noticed me catching sight of him. Since he had no idea I knew who he was, I’m not sure it would have mattered.

Had Mephisto’s heightened doggy senses picked up some sort of malevolence emanating from Tommy Three? Was he warning me? He’d already saved my life once before.

“Good dog,” I whispered as I yanked on his leash. Despite my racing heart, I forced myself to continue strolling to the end of the block. I then turned around and retraced my steps, ushering Mephisto back toward the house, but as I approached the pickup, I zeroed in on the license plate. As much as I wanted to, I hesitated to pull my phone out and snap a photo. I didn’t want to tip my hand and alert Tommy Gravino I was on to him. Instead, I committed the plate to memory.

After I’d put enough distance between the pickup and myself, I pulled out my cell and called Detective Spader. “Tommy Gravino is parked on my street,” I said when he answered.

“I know.”

“You know? How do you know? And why aren’t you doing something about it?”

“We’re keeping an eye on him, Mrs. Pollack.”

“Really? I don’t see any unmarked cars on the street.”

“Thank you. That’s a testament to our fine police work.”

I glanced skyward. Did Union County now employ drones? I neither heard nor saw any. And if so, were those drones armed? Because as far as I could see, at this moment absolutely nothing and no one prevented Tommy Gravino from rolling down his window and shooting me.  “Instead of ‘keeping an eye on him’ how about if you arrest him?”

“And charge him with what?”

“Stalking?”

“Has he been following you, Mrs. Pollack?”

“I don’t know. Maybe. This is the first time I’ve caught sight of him.”

“Then I don’t have enough evidence for a stalking charge.”

“Fine. What about loitering?”

“Loitering is a misdemeanor. He’d walk in five minutes. Besides, he hasn’t been sitting there long enough for a loitering charge.”

“How do you know?”

“Like I said, we’ve been keeping an eye on him.”

“Then arrest him for burglary.”

“Did he break into your house?”

“No, but I’m pretty sure he broke into Betty Bentworth’s house.”

“What makes you suggest that?”

“Her silver is missing.” I explained how I knew.

“Tommy Gravino didn’t take Mrs. Bentworth’s silver.”

“How can you possibly know that?”

“Because I took it.”

“You?” I knew every police force had an occasional bad apple cop, but I never would have suspected Spader of being one of them. “How could you? You’re supposed to be one of the good guys!”

“I am.”

“Not if you stole Betty’s silver.”

“I didn’t steal it.”

“You just admitted you took the silver.”

“Took it, yes. Stole it, no.”

“That makes no sense.”

“If you’ll stop making accusations, I’ll explain.”

“This I’ve got to hear.”

“The silver was the only thing of value in that entire house. I took it for safekeeping, tagged it, and locked it in the evidence room until we found Mrs. Bentworth’s next-of-kin.”

“Oh.” Chalk up another leap for the Queen of the Conclusion Jumpers. If I had a tail, it would now be firmly tucked between my legs as I ran off to bury myself in the nearest hole. “I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion, Detective.” Yet again.

“Apology accepted, Mrs. Pollack. I know you’re under a bit of stress lately.”

A bit? Lately? Talk about gross understatements!

“Bottom line, Detective, my life is in danger. How do you plan to keep Tommy Gravino from killing me?”

“He’s not going to kill you, Mrs. Pollack.”

“I suppose you saw that in your crystal ball?”

He let loose an enormous sigh. “In a manner of speaking. Look, Tuttnauer doesn’t want you dead; he wants to make your life miserable.”

“So I’m a thorn in his side.”

“Exactly.”

“Until he gets tired of toying with me and decides to put me out of his misery.”

“I don’t think so.”

Mephisto and I had reached the house. I unlocked the back door and stepped in out of the cold. “Why is that, O Soothsayer?”

“Because he’s still got feelings for your mother, and he wouldn’t cause her that kind of pain. You’re safe. Your kids are safe. If he wanted you dead, you’d already be dead.”

“I’m not sure how comforting that is, but I suppose you have a point.” I paused for a moment as I bent to unclip Mephisto’s leash, then added, “But if you’re correct, that gives more weight to my theory.”

“Which one of your numerous theories is that?”

“The one about Shane Lambert’s innocence in the murder of his ex-wife.”

Spader let loose another sigh, this one gruffer than the last. “I’d like nothing better than to exonerate the man.”

“You would?”

“Yes. I actually like the guy. But until I uncover evidence to the contrary, he’s my prime suspect.”

“I guess that means I need to dig up some evidence for you, Detective.”

“No, Mrs. Pollack. That means you continue to keep your nose out of my investigation and allow me to do my job. Have I made myself clear?”

“As clear as mercury glass, Detective.” I held my breath, waiting for him to comment on my snide remark. However, much to my delight, the detective had limited knowledge of crafts, thus no idea of mercury glass’s lack of clarity. “Don’t be a stranger, Detective.”

Spader ended the conversation by saying, “Wouldn’t think of it, Mrs. Pollack,” before hanging up.

~*~

An hour later Zack still hadn’t returned from the dentist, so I bundled myself up and hauled Mephisto into the car for his trip to the vet. As I drove down Central Avenue toward the We Care Animal Clinic, I glanced in my rearview mirror. A white Honda Civic followed behind me. A gray Ford pickup trailed the Honda. The Civic blocked my visibility. I could see neither the driver nor the license plate of the pickup. “There must be tens of thousands of gray Ford pickups driving around New Jersey, right?” I asked Mephisto.

He barked once. Too bad I didn’t speak dog. I could have used some reassurance.

At the next intersection the Civic turned right, but the pickup stayed too far behind for me to make a positive identification. Two blocks later I slowed as I approached a red traffic light. The pickup swung around and pulled alongside me. I glanced to my left. An older man with a full salt-and-pepper beard sat behind the wheel.

Five minutes later I pulled into the parking lot of the animal clinic. Mephisto took one look at our location and refused to budge from the car. I finally had to haul him out in my arms and carry him into the waiting room.

I took a seat, wrestling the lummox of a dog to stay put on my lap. I knew if I allowed him onto the floor, he’d bolt for the door, most likely dislocating my shoulder in the process. However, the longer I sat with my arms firmly around his body, the greater my risk of receiving a golden shower.

Finally, after twenty minutes we were ushered into the examining room. I needed the aid of two veterinary assistants to hold Mephisto in place on the table while the vet examined him. “I’d like to keep him overnight to run some tests,” he said.

In my mind I saw hundred-dollar bills sprouting wings and taking flight, but I had no choice. “Do you have any ideas at this point?”

“He’s old. It’s not uncommon for dogs to begin experiencing incontinence at this age, but we have treatments.”

“What sort of treatments?”

“Meds. In more severe cases, surgery.”

A flurry of additional Benjamins flew off toward the horizon.

“We’ll call when we have the test results.”

I thanked him and left the office. As I walked across the parking lot, I noticed a gray pickup parked next to my silver Jetta.

NINETEEN

Detective Spader stood, arms crossed over his chest, between the two vehicles. As I drew closer, he strode across the parking lot to meet me. “Unfortunately, the officers didn’t arrive soon enough,” he said.

“Soon enough for what?” I glanced over at my Jetta. “Tell me he didn’t key my car.” Could this day get any more expensive?

“A bit worse than that, I’m afraid.”

I sidestepped Spader and jogged the remainder of the way across the parking lot to where I’d parked. The Jetta’s front end was jacked up on the driver’s side, and my tire and wheel were missing.

“He slashed your tire,” said Spader, coming up behind me. “At least we got him before he destroyed all four.”

Was that supposed to make me feel better? “Did you arrest him?”

“I will.”

“When?”

“After Officers Harley and Fogarty return with him.”

“From where?”

“They escorted him to the Volkswagen dealership where he’s purchasing a new tire for you and having it mounted and balanced. Then he’s going to place it back on your car before we haul his keister to booking.”

“He agreed to this?”

“Let’s say we gave him no choice. Would you like to wait in my car until they return?”

Since I couldn’t sit in my own car, and I didn’t relish the thought of freezing my buns off while I waited for the Jetta to be put back together, I accepted Spader’s offer.

As it turned out, we didn’t have long to wait. Harley and Fogarty arrived with Tommy Gravino and my brand-new mounted tire ten minutes later.

I jumped out of Spader’s car and confronted the vandal, stepping so close to him that he cringed as I screamed in his face. “Lawrence Tuttnauer is playing you for a fool, you stupid Soprano wannabe. You think doing his dirty work is going to make you a made man? All it makes you is a freaking moron.”

Spader placed his hand on my arm. “Mrs. Pollack—”

I shrugged off his hand. “No. This snot-nosed juvenile delinquent needs to understand exactly what’s going to happen if he keeps doing Tuttnauer’s business.”

I turned back to Tommy. “If you ever so much as come within a mile of me, any of my family, or any of my friends and neighbors, I’m not only going to sue you for stalking, I’m going after your family’s assets, including their restaurant.”

“His eyes widened. “You can’t do that!” He turned to Spader. “She can’t do that, can she?”

“Son, you picked the wrong woman to mess with. Better listen to her. She’ll make your life so miserable, you’ll wish we locked you up and tossed the key in the Atlantic.”

 I placed my balled hands on my hips and stepped between Spader and Tommy. “Do I make myself clear, young man?”

Tommy nodded.

“I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good. Now fix my car.” I turned on my heels and marched back to Spader’s vehicle.

A moment later the detective joined me. “Wow!” he said, plopping his butt into the driver’s seat. “Remind me never to get on your bad side. You’re tougher than the nuns I had back in elementary school.”

I didn’t bother to remind him he was already on my bad side if he continued insisting Shane had murdered Tammy. “I never thought my teaching degree would come in handy once I left the classroom.”

“Maybe you should go back. No way any kid would dare mess with you.”

“No thanks. I hated teaching.”

“Too many Tommys?”

“Among other things.” I sighed. “I have to tell you, though, now that I’ve confronted him, I don’t think Tommy Gravino killed Tammy.”

“Why is that?”

“He caved too quickly. That kid doesn’t have the stomach for murder.”

Spader nodded. “My feeling, as well. Hopefully between the two of us, we’ve scared him straight.” He paused for a moment, then added, “Does this mean you’re coming over to my camp?”

I shifted in my seat to face him. “If you’re asking, do I now believe Shane Lambert is a killer, absolutely not. I’m merely ruling Tommy Gravino out as a suspect.” Lawrence was too devious. Chances are he hired someone else to do the real dirty work. Tommy was a sacrificial lamb used as a diversionary tactic.

~*~

By the time my new tire and I arrived home, Zack had returned from his dental appointment. I found him in the apartment in front of his computer. He was sorting through the photos he’d taken of the demise of Betty Bentworth’s house, which was now a leveled, empty lot surrounded by dirty mounds of snow. Ralph watched with rapt attention from his perch on Zack’s shoulder.

“Why is Ralph up here?”

“I thought he might like a change of scenery and some company.”

“You realize he’s got you wrapped around his beak, right?”

Zack fished a sunflower seed from his pocket and offered it to the bird. “I have no idea what you mean.”

“Would you like to hear what happened after you went to the dentist?”

The mirth in his eyes morphed into worry. “What?”

I filled him in on my afternoon escapade.

“Makes me want to put out a hit on Lawrence,” he muttered under his breath.

I gaped at him in disbelief. “You are joking, right?”

He rose from his chair and turned to face me. Placing his palms on either side of my face, he stared into my eyes. “Of course, I’m joking. You think I want to risk spending the rest of my life behind bars?” He paused for a moment before cocking his head and adding, “Although eliminating Lawrence would eliminate one big problem in your life.”

“And create a bigger one. Besides, I don’t think they allow conjugal visits in prisons anymore, do they?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Let’s not learn the answer from personal experience, okay?”

Zack chuckled before planting a peck on the tip of my nose. “I said I was joking, didn’t I?”

“Next thing, you’ll be suggesting we take out a contract on Lucille.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never fantasized about that scenario.”

I bit down on my lower lip and glanced away. “All I’ll admit to is that I’m looking forward to her forced vacation at the taxpayers’ expense.”

“Ha! I thought so.”

Since the boys had evening plans to go skating and out for pizza with a group of friends, Zack suggested we try one of the new restaurants that had recently opened in town.

“Just you and me?” I asked after we returned to the house. “You don’t want to make it a threesome with Ralph?”

Zack removed the bird from under his coat and placed him in his cage. Ralph protested with a flap of his wings and an angry squawk. “Sorry, Ralph. The restaurant doesn’t allow parrots. We’ll bring you a doggie bag. I promise.”

I raised an eyebrow. “A doggie bag?”

Zack bowed to the bird. “Pardon me, Ralph. I stand corrected. A parrot bag.”

Ralph answered with a second squawk before adding, “Then here’s a man stands, that has brought his pardon. All’s Well That Ends Well. Act Two, Scene One.”

“I hope that means he’s accepted my apology,” said Zack.

I eyed Ralph. He offered me a blank stare in return. “I’d say it depends on the contents of the parrot bag.”

~*~

Thanks to a last-minute cancellation, Zack secured us a reservation at Café Jacqueline, one of the newer restaurants on the Southside across the street from the train station. After handing over our coats, we followed the maître D’ to a table in front of a large plate-glass window etched with the restaurant name in flowing script surrounded by filigree embellishments. A rope of white twinkle lights ran around the window’s perimeter. Evergreens and holly, interspersed with crystal candlesticks and faux-lit candles, lined the windowsill.

“Our chef’s special this evening is duck l’orange,” said the maître D’ as he handed us menus and the wine list.

I perused the menu as Zack studied the wine list. “Good grief!” I whispered.

Zack glanced up. “What?”

I continued to whisper, “I had no idea this place was so pricey. Good thing we’re not going Dutch. I’d have to hand over my entire paycheck for the week.” I’m not often prone to hyperbole, but the prices at Café Jacqueline rivaled the finest Manhattan restaurants.

Before Zack had a chance to answer, the sommelier approached our table. “Would you like to order a bottle of wine, sir?”

Zack looked over at me questioningly. “I finish the antibiotic tonight,” I said. “I don’t think it’s an issue at this point.”

He accepted the wine list from the sommelier, quickly glanced at it, then passed it back and said, “We’ll have a bottle of Cristal.”

I raised an eyebrow. At least one of us wasn’t fazed by the enormous charge that would hit his AmEx this evening.

“Excellent choice, sir.”

After the sommelier returned, uncorked the champagne, poured it, and departed, I asked, “Are we celebrating something?”

“Two somethings, actually.”

“And what would they be?”

Zack lifted his flute. “First, Tommy Gravino didn’t kill you today.”

I lifted my flute and clinked it against his. “I’ll definitely drink to that.” It’s always a good day when someone doesn’t succeed in killing me. I took a sip of the champagne. “And the second something?”

“I sold the photos I took today for an obscene amount of money.”

My jaw dropped open. I set my flute on the table and held it with both hands to keep from shaking. “How obscene?”

Zack grinned. His eyes twinkled along with the lights around the window as he continued to hold his flute in the air. “Obscene enough that this dinner won’t put a dent in it.”

“Even if I order dessert?”

“Even if we both order dessert.”

I raised my flute again. “Congratulations! I’ll drink to that, as well.”

We had just clinked flutes for the second time when someone called out, “Celebrating?”

Zack and I turned to find Trey Krause hovering several feet from our table. He wore the same Burberry camel hair topcoat as when he dropped in at Shane Lambert’s house. He crossed the short distance, pulled out one of the two empty chairs at the table, and joined us without waiting for an invitation.

“What a fortuitous coincidence,” he said.

“And why is that?” asked Zack.

“I’m about to offer you another reason to celebrate.” He paused, a look of anticipation on his face. I suppose he was waiting for one of us to ask him what that reason might be, but Zack and I simply continued to stare at him.

He concentrated his attention on Zack. When he didn’t receive a response, he shifted his gaze to me, but I remained stone-faced and mum. The seconds ticked by.

Finally, as it became apparent neither of us had any plans to break the awkward silence, he cleared his throat and continued. “I’m about to offer you the opportunity of a lifetime. You have a chance to get in on the ground floor of a new IPO guaranteed to make you a bundle of money.”

Finally Zack spoke. “No, thank you.”

“What?” Krause’s mouth dropped open. He stared dumbfounded at Zack. “How can you say no? You haven’t even heard the deal yet.”

“We don’t need to hear it,” I said. “We’re not interested.”

His face reddened. “That makes no sense,” he said. “No one in his right mind would turn down a deal like this. It’s a sure thing.”

“Mr. Krause—” said Zack.

He turned to Zack and applied all the charm he could muster. “Call me Trey.”

“Mr. Krause,” continued Zack, “you and I both know there are no sure things in the stock market.”

“Well, of course, nothing in life is one hundred percent guaranteed, but—”

“And,” continued Zack, “any time a broker offers a sure thing, the only person who stands to make money on the deal is the broker.”

“No, you’ve got this all wrong.” Beads of sweat broke out on his upper lip. “I’m only approaching you because I know you’re friends with Shane Lambert, and—”

“Has Shane invested with you?” I asked.

“That’s privileged information.”

The waiter arrived to take our order. “Will the gentleman be joining you this evening?”

“He was just leaving,” said Zack. He turned to the interloper. “If you don’t mind, Mr. Krause, you’re interrupting our evening.”

Krause stood so abruptly the chair tipped over backwards. The waiter’s hand shot out, preventing the chair from crashing to the floor. “You’ll be sorry,” said Krause, his voice rising.

TWENTY

Diners at the nearby tables turned to stare at us. The waiter signaled the maître D’ who rushed over to our table and asked, “What seems to be the problem?”

“This gentleman is annoying our dinner guests,” said the waiter.

Surprise filled the maître D’s face. “He’s not dining with you?” he asked Zack.

“Absolutely not.” 

“My apologies, sir.” The maître D’ then took hold of Krause’s arm. “I’m going to have to ask you to leave, sir.”

Krause dug in his heels and shouted at us. “I was about to offer you the chance to make a fortune.”

“I must insist,” said the maître D’ tugging on Krause’s arm. “If you don’t leave immediately, I’m going to have to call the police.” He nodded to the waiter who grabbed Krause’s other arm. The two men marched him from the restaurant, depositing him on the sidewalk.

Krause stepped in front of the window and pounded on the glass with his fist. “You had your chance,” he shouted. Then he turned and stormed down the street.

The maître D’ and the waiter returned to our table. “I’m terribly sorry about that,” said the maître D’. 

“It’s not your fault,” I said.

“But it is. When he walked in, he told me he was with you.”

“Definitely not,” I said.

“Please allow me to make it up to you,” he continued. “Dinner is on us this evening.”

“That’s very generous,” said Zack, “but it’s not necessary.”

“I insist,” he said. “Please, order whatever you’d like. I do recommend the duck l’orange, though.” He then signaled for the sommelier and said, “Bring this table another bottle of Cristal on the house.”

After the maître D’ left and we’d placed our order, going with his recommendation of duck l’orange for our entree, I asked Zack, “Do you think Trey Krause showing up here was a coincidence?”

Zack shook his head. “My guess is he was stopped at the traffic light in front of the restaurant and happened to notice us sitting inside. He saw an opportunity and grabbed it.”

“I’m sure he wouldn’t have accosted us had we been eating burgers at Five Guys.”

“No, I’m guessing he figured anyone who can afford to dine here has money to invest. That was an act of desperation if ever I saw one.”

“So you think he’s in debt up to his designer haircut?”

“I’d bet on it.”

“Hmm.” I grew thoughtful as I sipped my champagne.

Zack smiled at me. “I sense something percolating in that brain of yours.”

“You sense correctly. Trey Krause has access to quite a bit of money, both from his brokerage clients and as treasurer of a nonprofit.”

“True.”

The waiter arrived with our salads. I speared a piece of marinated asparagus but before placing it in my mouth, I continued my thought. “One thing life has taught me since Karl’s death is that when it comes to money, desperate men often resort to desperate measures.”

Zack nodded. “Our federal prisons are filled with white-collar criminals who embezzled funds from their clients and employers.” He grew thoughtful for a moment as he chewed on a cherry tomato. Then he added, “I wonder when the food bank last had an independent audit of its books.”

“Should we let Shane know of our suspicions?”

“Definitely. He handed Krause a sizeable check the other day.”

“He didn’t particularly care for Krause showing up for that check when he did. And he was certainly clear about not being interested in investing with him.”

“Yes, but Shane strikes me as the sort of man who would put his personal feelings aside if his contribution would help a large number of people.”

“The food bank certainly does that,” I said.

Zack pulled out his phone. “I want to make sure that money goes were Shane intended it.”

“You’re calling him now?” Café Jacqueline struck me as the sort of restaurant that frowned upon cell phone use at their tables.

“Sending a quick text, asking if we can stop by later this evening.”

After a few seconds, Zack’s phone dinged, notifying him of an incoming text. He glanced at the screen, then nodded to me before returning the phone to his pocket.

~*~

An hour and a half later, having consumed one of the best meals either of us had ever eaten, Zack left a sizeable tip for both the waiter and the maître D’ before we departed for Shane Lambert’s home.

Much to my surprise, I discovered Alex’s Jeep parked in the driveway. Half a dozen other cars I recognized as belonging to some of his friends were parked on either side of the street. As we approached the house, music and teenage laughter sounded from inside.

“Other Westfield parents must agree with us,” I said.

“About?”

“Shane’s innocence.” I cocked my head toward all the cars. “Alex and Nick aren’t the only high school kids here.”

“And?”

Zack is such a natural with Alex and Nick that I sometimes forget he’s never had kids of his own. I spelled it out for him. “If you thought the father of one of your kid’s friends killed someone, would you allow your child in the same house as the accused?”

Zack rang the doorbell. “Definitely not.”

“Shane should take some solace in knowing we’re not the only people in town who believed he didn’t kill Tammy.”

The front door swung open. “You’re not the pizza delivery guy,” said Shane, stepping aside to allow us entry.

“Sorry to disappoint,” said Zack.

“I’m not the one you’re disappointing. I’ve already eaten, but I’ve got a dozen starving teens fading fast.”

“Is that the pizza?” called Sophie from somewhere down the hall.

“Afraid not,” Shane called back.

“I thought they were eating at the skating rink,” I said.

Shane shrugged. “So did I, but apparently the pizza at the rink doesn’t meet the high standards of their discerning palates. Sophie generously offered our house.” He checked his watch. “They called in the order nearly an hour ago. Half of Westfield must be ordering take-out pizza tonight.”

We handed over our coats, and as Shane hung them in the hall closet, the doorbell rang again. Zack opened the door to find a pizza deliveryman balancing eight large pies.

“Finally!” said Sophie, running down the hall with Alex on her heels.

“What are you guys doing here?” he asked, stopping short in front of me.

“Hello to you, too,” I said.

My son had the decency to blush but tried to cover up his embarrassment by turning to the delivery guy and relieving him of his load. Since the telltale rosy flesh extended to his ears, he failed miserably. The pink had faded only slightly when he closed the door behind the deliveryman and turned around.

“Sorry, Mom,” he mumbled, not looking directly at me. “I’m was just surprised to see you and Zack.”

Sophie pulled on his arm. “Come on. Everyone’s starving, and the pizzas are cooling off by the millisecond.”

Alex glanced up, waiting for me to say something. I nodded toward the kitchen. “Go. Enjoy your pizza.”

He offered me a sheepish grin. Then he and Sophie bolted for the kitchen.

“Should I grab you a few slices before they’re all inhaled?” asked Shane.

“No thanks,” said Zack. “We already ate.”

“Something to drink, then? Wine? Beer?”

We declined that as well. After two bottles of champagne, the last thing either Zack or I needed was more alcohol.

Shane suggested we talk in his office, as far away as possible from the teenage cacophony in the kitchen and great room. Once inside, he closed the French doors behind him, not that it helped much to muffle the noise.

Shane led us to a burnt sienna leather sectional sofa off to the side of the room. The sofa wrapped around two sides of a live-edge teak coffee table that held another bronze Remington, this one of a cowboy on a horse.

Once we were seated, Zack filled Shane in on our encounter with Trey Krause. He finished by adding, “His unsolicited—not to mention downright desperate—sales pitch raised suspicions in both of us.”

Shane nodded. “He tried to hook me with a deal too good to pass up yesterday, refusing to take no for an answer. But at least he buttonholed me at home; he didn’t ambush me at a restaurant. Still, I nearly had to drag him out the door to get rid of him.”

“I thought I saw him on your street yesterday afternoon,” I said.

Surprise crossed Shane’s face. “You were here?”

I told him about stopping to see Ira’s new house. “On the way home I caught a glimpse of a man who looked very much like Krause, but I couldn’t be a hundred percent certain.”

“What was he doing?” asked Shane.

“Standing across the street. He looked anything but happy.”

Shane shook his head. “Something about that guy doesn’t sit well with me.”

“That makes three of us,” I said.

“He could be running some sort of scam,” said Zack.

“Or up to his eyeballs in debt and desperate for more clients,” I added.

“Maybe both,” said Shane. “I just hope that check I gave him buys food for the needy and not another Rolex.”

“That’s why we decided to stop by,” said Zack. “You might want to contact the board president to alert him. I’m assuming the board knows of your initial offer to match whatever amount the kids raised?”

“Yes, but unless Krause told them, they don’t know I doubled the amount when I wrote out the check. He may have pocketed the difference.”

“Exactly our concern,” said Zack.

“And if so,” I said, “he might have to hock his Rolex to post his bail.”

Before leaving, I poked my head into the great room to wave goodbye while Zack followed Shane to the foyer to retrieve our coats. The kids were camped out in front of the television, watching one of the Marvel superhero movies, while consuming copious amounts of pizza. Alex, Nick, and Sophie jumped up and ran over to me.

Alex spoke in a whisper, “Mom, do you have plans for tomorrow?”

“Why are you whispering?”

“It’s a secret. We don’t want Mr. Lambert to hear.”

I nodded as I whispered back, “Other than chores? No, why?”

Sophie answered for him, also in a whisper, “Would you mind if I used your kitchen tomorrow morning, Mrs. Pollack? I want to surprise Dad by baking some of his favorite Christmas cookies.”

“I can pick Sophie up before I go to work,” whispered Alex. “We’ll stop to buy the ingredients when I drop Nick off at work, then I’ll drive her to the house.”

I turned to Sophie. “You’re not working tomorrow?”

“Not until three o’clock.”

“Sure,” I said, “I’ll even help you if you’d like.”

She threw her arms around me and whispered in my ear, “Thanks, Mrs. Pollack. You’re the best!”

~*~

On the ride home I told Zack about my cookie baking date with Sophie. “I’ll make myself scarce tomorrow,” he said.

“Why?”

“I think Sophie would benefit from some pseudo-mother-daughter bonding, don’t you?”

His comment startled me. I shifted in my seat to look at him. “You think that’s what this is really about?” I had taken Sophie’s request at face value. Shane was under house arrest. How could she surprise him if she baked the cookies at home?

“I think Sophie admires you, but more importantly, I think she needs a positive female role model in her life, especially now.”

I mulled over his words. “Well, Dr. Freud, I suppose I can’t disagree with your analysis.”

“The bigger question, though,” said Zack, “is how do you feel about stepping into that role?”

Did I have a choice? My son’s relationship with Sophie had thrust me into the middle of the Lambert family drama, whether I wanted a part in it or not. “I like Sophie, even if she does come with baggage.”

“So do I, but I think we both know that’s not the point. What happens if she and Alex split up?”

“Which, given their age, is more likely than not.”

If that happened, Sophie might feel abandoned all over again. Yet, how could I deny her a relationship she so desperately needs? I sighed. “Right now, I think I’ll pull a Scarlett O’Hara and think about that tomorrow.” Or next week. Or next millennium.

We arrived home to find a voice message on the house phone. “Mrs. Pollack, this is Officer Harley. I wanted to let you know we found your mother-in-law and her cohorts. Give me a call. I’m at the station.”

I punched in the non-emergency number for the Westfield Police. Harley picked up. “Good evening, Mrs. Pollack.”

If only Caller ID worked as well for all the spam and scam phone calls I receive! I pushed the speaker button so Zack could listen. “Where did you find them?” I asked.

“Islamorada, Florida.”

“In the Keys?”

“Kleinhample’s old VW buggy broke down on one of the connector bridges. Tied up traffic for miles. When the local cops showed up, they ran the plates and realized they had a baker’s dozen of felons on their hands.”

“What happens now?”

“We haul them back to New Jersey to stand trial. I’ll keep you posted.”

After he hung up, I said to Zack, “Ira suggested they might make a run for Cuba.”

“Looks like he may have been right.”

“Too bad they didn’t succeed. It would have been a fairy tale ending.” 

Zack raised an eyebrow. “For you, at least.”

“For everyone.”

“How so?”

“Think about it.” I clicked off the reasons on my fingers. “First, Lucille and her revolutionary sisters would probably be treated like octogenarian rock stars in Cuba. Second, I’d be rid of her. Third, the boys would get their own rooms back. Fourth, Mephisto would no longer have to put up with her s’mothering. And last but not least, New Jersey taxpayers would be spared the cost of extradition, a trial, and the incarceration of thirteen little old Bolshevik ladies.”

“A win-win, huh?” He chuckled. “You do have a unique way of putting a positive spin on things.”

I sighed. “I could have used a fairy tale ending.”

~*~

Alex dropped Sophie and two bags of groceries off at eight-thirty the next morning. As she unpacked the cookie ingredients, Zack entered the kitchen. “I’m off,” he said, wrapping an arm around my waist and planting a kiss on my lips. “I’ll see you later this afternoon.”

Was he headed to Macy’s to buy underwear or on a secret spy mission for his alphabet agency of choice? He hadn’t mentioned his itinerary for the day. I tamped down my curiosity. The mundane didn’t matter; the extraordinary would, as usual, remain a secret. I told him to enjoy himself and turned my attention to Sophie and Christmas cookie baking.

I had mixed feelings about spending several hours alone with Sophie. For one thing, I was used to teenage boys, not girls, and the two sexes really do hail from completely different planets. With thoughts of my own teenage years uppermost in my mind, I’d hoped for sons during both my pregnancies. In hindsight, my mother deserved sainthood for surviving those years.

Add to that all the baggage Sophie carried around from Tammy’s desertion and Shane’s arrest, and I could have been in for one rollercoaster of a morning. However, much to my delight, Sophie checked all her baggage at the curb, and we spent a comfortable and surprisingly enjoyable few hours baking cookies. At times it felt like we’d known each other her entire life.

The experience had me reconsidering my dread of hormonal teenage girls. If I weren’t on the cusp of my mid-forties, I might even consider trying for a daughter. Then again, I’m sure even Mama would admit I’d had a few good days every so often back in the day. I glanced over at Sophie as she packed up five tins of Christmas cookies. Having witnessed enough of her emotional highs and lows the last few days, it was a good thing I was in no position to contemplate another pregnancy.

~*~

My cell phone rang as I pulled into Shane’s driveway later that afternoon. I placed the car in Park and engaged the handbrake, then checked the phone’s display. Naomi. “I’d better answer this,” I told Sophie. “It’s work. I’ll come inside to say hello to your father as soon as I’m through with the call.”

“Okay.” Sophie fished her house key from her coat pocket and opened the car door. Then with the five tins of cookies clutched against her chest and anchored with her chin, she hopped out of the car. Before closing the passenger door with her hip, she stuck her head back inside and said, “I’ll leave the front door unlocked for you.”

I nodded to her as I answered the phone. “Hello, Naomi.”

“Anastasia, I wanted to let you know power has been restored to the office.” 

“So back to business as usual Monday?”

“Absolutely. I’m scheduling a staff meeting for first thing in the morning since we’ve all been working from home for several days. Do you have anything you want me to include on the agenda?”

“Yes, I have a few new layout ideas I’d like to propose and would also like some feedback on one of my upcoming projects.” I rattled off a list of items. Naomi jotted notes, interspersing an occasional comment as I spoke. After a few minutes we hung up from each other. I cut the engine and exited the car.

As I entered the house, I heard Sophie’s panicked screams coming from the kitchen. “No! Let me go!”

“Not a chance, kid.”

My initial instinct was to race down the hall, but I froze when Sophie let loose a bloodcurdling shriek. “Oh my god! He’s dead! You killed him!”

TWENTY-ONE

“He ain’t dead,” answered a muffled male voice.

“He’s not moving,” cried Sophie.

“And you’ll wind up just like him if you don’t quit struggling. We can do this the easy way or the hard way, your choice. Makes no difference to me.”

Calling 911 at that moment wasn’t an option. I couldn’t make a sound for fear of giving myself away. How did I stop that guy from taking Sophie? What if he had a gun?

What if?

Of course he had a gun! Why wouldn’t he? So how in the world was I supposed to disarm him without getting both Sophie and myself killed?

Sophie choked back a loud sob and asked, “What do you want?”

“What I’m owed.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Your old lady promised me a huge payday if I helped her, and I aim to collect. You’re my meal ticket.”

“What are you going to do to me?”

“If you behave yourself? Nothing. We’re just going for a ride. When your old man pays up, you get to go home. Not before. Now move it.”

I ducked into Shane’s den before either Sophie or her assailant saw me. Somehow I needed to incapacitate the guy, but gun or no gun, for all I knew, he stood seven feet tall and weighed four hundred pounds.

I scanned the office and caught sight of the bronze Remington statue on the coffee table. Working as quickly and quietly as possible, I dropped my purse on the sofa and removed my coat. I then slipped off my boots so my footsteps wouldn’t give me away. With both hands I hoisted the statue, cradled it against my chest, and positioned myself inside the office entrance, hoping to remain hidden as Sophie and her captor headed toward the front door.

As I heard them drawing near, I hefted the horse and rider over my head. While I waited, I sent up a silent prayer to the ghost of Frederic Remington and every weightlifter who had ever lived. I had no idea how much the Remington weighed, but the spasms creeping into my arm muscles seriously hampered my attempted transformation into Wonder Woman.

“Oww! You’re hurting me!” cried Sophie. “Stop twisting my arm. You’re going to break it.”

“You think this hurts? Pick up your feet and walk, or I’ll break every bone in your body.”

I heard Sophie’s sobs grow louder as they approached. Then I watched as they passed the entrance to the den. He held Sophie from behind, one hand twisting her arm behind her back, the other gripping a gun pressed against her ribs. I took a deep breath, and silently crept out into the foyer.

“Open the door,” he said.

As Sophie reached for the doorknob with her free hand, I slammed the statue against the back of his head.

A sickening crack echoed in the foyer followed by the assailant slumping onto the foyer area rug. Sophie turned, took one look at me, and threw her arms around me, sandwiching the Remington between us. We both stared at the body sprawled on the floor. A black ski mask covered his head and face. Blood soaked through the fabric and the rug.

“Is he dead?”

“I don’t know.” I kicked the gun away from his body. When it hit the hardwood, it skittered down the hall, landing halfway to the kitchen.

“I hope he is, but maybe you should hit him again just to be sure.” She dropped her arms, stepped back, and pointed toward the gun. “Or shoot him.”

The man didn’t make a sound. No moans. No groans. I nudged his leg with the tip of my boot. He didn’t move. “I don’t think that’s necessary. He’s not going anywhere.”

I placed the bloody Remington on the foyer table next to the other one. Then I hurried down the hall and stooped to retrieve the gun before Sophie took matters into her own hands.

“He hurt Dad.” Sophie ran past me into the kitchen. I jogged behind her, trampling on broken cookies strewn across the floor once I entered the kitchen. Shane lay motionless alongside the island. Sophie had dropped to her knees beside him. Her body draped across his torso, she sobbed uncontrollably.

I placed the gun on the island and grabbed the kitchen phone to call 911. That’s when I noticed an ominous typed note on the island.

As I waited for the call to go through, I crouched down to check Shane’s pulse and noted the huge goose egg on the side of his head.

Sophie raised her head. Her entire body trembled. “Is he going to be okay?”

I had no idea, but I didn’t want to scare her. “He’s breathing, and his pulse is strong. Those are good signs.”

“911. State your emergency.”

“I need the police and an ambulance.” I gave Shane’s address, my name, and told the operator two men had sustained head injuries. “Both are unconscious.”

“We need to do something now,” said Sophie. “We can’t wait! Shouldn’t we raise his head? Or is it his feet?” She shook her head from side to side and wailed, “I can’t remember! I took First Aid, and I can’t remember what to do!” She looked up at me, her eyes wide with fear. “Why can’t I remember?”

The dispatcher heard Sophie and asked me to describe Shane’s injuries. His color looked good. From what I could tell, he wasn’t in shock, although I didn’t know if someone could even be in shock while unconscious. But his skin wasn’t gray. I didn’t see blood anywhere.

“Wait for the paramedics,” said the dispatcher.

I placed my hand on Sophie’s shoulder in an attempt to calm her. “No, we shouldn’t move him. We don’t know what other injuries he has.”

I returned to the dispatcher. “I also need Detective Spader here immediately.”

“Why is that, ma’am?”

“One of the men is the killer he’s looking for.”

“Help is on the way, ma’am. Stay on the line.”

Sophie raised her head again. Her jaw dropped open. “That’s the man who killed my mother?”

I nodded. She eyed the gun. “No, Sophie. That won’t help.”

She sighed. “I know, but if Dad dies, I’m going to sue that detective.”

I changed the subject. “Do you have any duct tape or rope in the house?”

“I think Dad has a roll of duct tape in his workshop.”

“Get it for me.”

“Why?”

“In case our killer wakes up before the police come.”

She sprang to her feet, opened the door to the basement, and flew downstairs. A moment later she returned with a roll of gray tape.

I took the tape from her and before heading back to the foyer, grabbed the gun and stuck it in my waistband. Not that I didn’t trust Sophie, but why take chances with a still maturing teenage brain? Kids didn’t always make the best decisions. Besides, I might need the gun if the killer woke while I worked. I had just finished securing his hands when I heard the wail of sirens approaching.

I opened the front door. An ambulance and two squad cars pulled up to the curb. The paramedics rushed inside, stopping short when they saw the duct-taped killer.

“No!” cried Sophie as they bent over him. She pulled at the arm of the female paramedic. “Leave him.”

Startled, both paramedics stared at Sophie and me.

“He’s a killer,” I said.

“You have to help my dad,” sobbed Sophie. 

“He’s in the kitchen,” I said.

“Hurry!” Sophie pleaded.

“Go with her,” the paramedic said to her partner. “We’ll need backup. I’ll radio for a second ambulance.”

Like Sophie, I wanted them both concentrating their attention on Shane, but I suppose that went against some sort of paramedic code of ethics. My callousness startled me at first, but I quickly rationalized my decision. What if they only had time to save one victim? Wasn’t Shane’s life more worthy than that of a killer?

Now wasn’t the time to ponder existential philosophy and the worthiness of individual life. The police had followed on the heels of the paramedics, entered the house, and began to question me.

Detective Spader arrived before I got very far, and I started over. When I’d finished, he bent down, slipped a pen under the edge of the ski mask, and pulled it up to expose the man’s face. “I don’t believe it!”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Our eyewitness.”

“The guy who claimed he saw Shane with Tammy at the motel? I thought you checked his alibi.”

Spader grimaced. “We did, but as you so recently reminded me, Mrs. Pollack, alibis can be bought. Looks like you were right all along.”

Discretion being the better part of valor, I bit my tongue and refrained from saying, “I told you so.”

But then again, I didn’t have to. At that moment the paramedics headed toward us, wheeling Shane on a gurney. Sophie jogged alongside holding one of Shane’s hands. “I told you my Dad didn’t kill anyone,” she screamed at Spader when she caught sight of him. “You should have listened to us. If my dad dies, it’s your fault!”

Spader eyed me as he spoke. “Maybe I should have, but I had to follow the evidence. Cops can’t rely solely on intuition.” He turned to Sophie. “Or daughters who claim their fathers are innocent. All daughters think their fathers are innocent.”

I raised an eyebrow at Spader. Cynthia Tuttnauer Pollack died because she knew her father wasn’t innocent and had threatened to expose him. However, once again I held my tongue. Sophie had fewer qualms. She stuck hers out at Spader as she passed us on her way out to the ambulance. At least she refrained from mentioning a lawsuit.

After Sophie exited the house, I indicated the man at our feet and asked, “Do you think he’ll survive?”

Spader studied the body and shrugged. “Hard to tell. The second ambulance is on the way.” Then he turned to me. “You all right, Mrs. Pollack?”

“Not really. I already have his blood on my hands.” I held them out to show him. “Literally. I don’t want his death on my conscience.”

“Taking a life is never easy, even when justified.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

He shrugged. “I suppose not.”

~*~

Sophie rode with Shane in the ambulance to the hospital. After Spader finished questioning me and allowed me to leave, I followed in my car, first sending a text to Alex, asking him to cover Sophie’s shift.

“Y?” he texted back. “Everything OK?”

I replied with a thumbs-up emoji and “Will explain later.” Then I started to send Zack a text but struggled with exactly what to say. I deleted what I’d typed, deciding to call as soon as I arrived at the hospital.

Once I parked in the hospital garage, I placed the call to Zack. It went straight to voicemail. I sighed. Leaving a message was only slightly better than sending a text, but at least he’d hear my voice and know I was okay. “Hey, there’s been an incident. Shane’s in the hospital. Call me.”

Sophie and I were forced to wait outside the room while the doctors worked on Shane. She paced up and down the hall, chewing on her thumbnail and jumping at every sound. With little else to do, I slumped against the wall and watched her.

All that pacing finally exhausted her, and she joined me. “He’ll wake up soon, won’t he?”

“He’s a healthy man, Sophie. That counts for a lot.”

But what if it didn’t? What if Shane had sustained irreversible brain damage? Somewhere else in this hospital doctors worked on the man whose greed could very well make Sophie an orphan. I wrapped my arm around her shoulders and hoped for the best.

“How did you know that man was my mom’s killer?”

“From what I heard him say to you.”

Puzzlement clouded her face. “I don’t remember what he said. All I could focus on was what he’d done to Dad, and that he was trying to drag me away from him.”

“He said your mother was his accomplice. He called you his meal ticket. I think he and your mother planned to kidnap you and force your father to pay to get you back.”

“Do you think he killed her because he didn’t want to split the ransom money with her?”

“I don’t know. We might learn more after Detective Spader questions him.”

She pulled away and faced me. Rage filled her voice, but tears streaked her cheeks. “I’m glad I never knew her, and I’m glad she’s dead. She was a monster. What kind of mother would do something like that?”

I drew her back into my arms. “I can’t imagine.”

One of the doctors exited the room and held the door open for us. “He’s awake. We’re going to keep him overnight for observation, but you can see him now.”

Sophie pushed past him and flew toward her father, stopping short when she saw him hooked up to a myriad of machines. “Dad! Are you okay?”

Shane forced a smile. “I will be.”

She grabbed his hand. “I was so scared. I thought you were dead.”

“It’s going to take a lot more than a knock to the head to get rid of me, Soph.” He looked at me and said, “I hear I have you to thank for saving the day.”

“She was awesome, Dad! Alex was right. His mom is Wonder Woman.”

My son thinks I’m Wonder Woman? I filed that thought away for a later date. “I couldn’t have done it without your dad’s help, Sophie.”

Confusion spread across both their faces. “Me?” said Shane. “I was knocked out. How did I help?”

“You collect Remington bronzes. Without the one sitting on your office coffee table, I wouldn’t have been able to thwart Sophie’s kidnapping.”

“She clobbered him with it.”

Shane chuckled, then winced.

“Dad?”

“Hurts to laugh. Along with a concussion, I have a few cracked ribs. He must have kicked me after I passed out.”

Sophie’s features clouded with concern. “But you’re going to be okay, right?”

He offered her a weak grin. “Good as new in a few weeks, Sweetheart.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

A knock sounded on the door. I stepped across the room and swung the door open. Detective Spader and an officer I didn’t recognize stood in the hallway. “I’d like to speak to Mr. Lambert,” he said, “but first I need a word with you, Mrs. Pollack.”

I stepped into the hall, closing the door behind me.

“I thought you’d like to know you didn’t kill the perp,” he said.

“How badly did I injure him?”

“Not bad at all. He came to in the ambulance. Either you’re not as strong as you think, or he’s got an extremely thick skull.”

“But I heard bone shatter, and there was so much blood.”

“Head wounds tend to bleed a lot. The scalp has lots of blood vessels close to the surface of the skin. As for what you heard?” He shrugged. “Who knows? Chalk it up to all that fear and adrenaline coursing through your veins at the time. Good thing you had the presence of mind to bind him up, though. He could just as easily have come to before we got there.”

A shudder skittered up my spine. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“You okay?”

I nodded. “Yes, thank you for telling me, Detective. I didn’t relish the thought of living the remainder of my life knowing I’d killed someone.”

“Even if he deserved it?”

“Even if he deserved it.” I nodded toward the door. “You said you wanted to speak with Shane?”

“I do. I’ve got some good news for him.”

The two of us, followed by the other officer, entered the room. Sophie narrowed her eyes at her nemesis. “Why are you here?”

“I came to remove the monitoring device from your father’s ankle.” He addressed Shane. “In light of today’s events, the district attorney believes he indicted the wrong person. You’ll be happy to know all charges against you have been dropped, Mr. Lambert.”

“It’s about time,” said Sophie.

Spader ignored her comment. He nodded to the officer. “Go ahead, D’Amato.”

The officer approached Shane’s hospital bed and removed the device. After he left the room, Spader addressed Sophie. “I hope someday, young lady, you’ll understand that this was never personal. I was only doing my job.”

She glared at him, her fists on her hips. “That’s what the Nazis said at Nuremberg.” She affected a mimicking, singsong voice. “I was only following orders. I was only doing my job.”

“Sophie!”

She spun around to face her father. “Well, it’s true, Dad. We learned about it in history class.”

“Apologize.”

“For what? Telling the truth?”

“For your insolence.”

“Sure.” She cocked her head in Spader’s direction. “When he apologizes for arresting you.”

“Now, Sophie!”

“Whatever.” She turned to Spader. “I’m sorry, Detective Spader.”

Spader nodded his acceptance, even though we all knew Sophie didn’t mean a word of her apology. He redirected his attention to Shane. “I have other news if you’re interested.”

“Of course,” said Shane.

“The guy who assaulted you and tried to kidnap your daughter is Boone Calvin.”

Shane’s eyes widened. “Not Trey Krause?”

Spader’s eyebrows knit together, his forehead wrinkling. “The stockbroker?”

“You know him?” asked Shane.

“Of course. His firm handles the county employees’ pension fund. Why on earth would you think Trey Krause attacked you?”

Shane glanced in my direction. “After last night—”

Spader spun around to face me. “What happened last night?”

“I didn’t realize you thought it might be Krause,” I told Shane. “I was about to mention I didn’t recognize the guy.”

“I see,” said Shane. He pinched the bridge of his nose. “Would you mind explaining everything to the detective? My brain is still scrambled. I don’t want to leave anything out.”

“Tell me what?” asked Spader, pivoting his head back and forth between Shane and me. “What’s going on here?”

Spader was not going to like what I had to say, but given that he’d spent most of his career working in Essex County, maybe he didn’t have too much invested in the Union County pension fund. Hopefully, Krause didn’t also handle pensions for Essex County employees. “I may have some bad news for you, Detective.”

I then proceeded to tell him how Krause accosted Zack and me. “Shane has also been the recipient of his extremely aggressive sales tactics on two separate occasions. Between those incidents and what happened last night at the restaurant, we suspect there’s something fishy going on regarding his finances.”

“Fishy in what way?” asked Spader. “I hope you’re not suggesting what I think you’re suggesting.”

“Embezzlement? I am. The guy seems over-the-top desperate for money.”

“I have a call into the food bank board president to alert him,” said Shane, “but I haven’t heard back from him yet.”

“We could be completely wrong,” I said, offering Spader a crumb of hope.

Spader ran his hands through what was left of his hair. “Damn, I sure as heck hope you are wrong.” Then he locked eyes with me. “The trouble is, Mrs. Pollack, I’m beginning to realize you’re rarely wrong.”

“Told you so,” muttered Sophie under her breath.

Spader grimaced. “I’ll notify my captain of your suspicions.” He turned back to Shane. “So Boone Calvin. Ring a bell?”

Shane shook his head. “Should it?”

“I thought maybe you knew him from back in the day. He was your ex-wife’s partner-in-crime.”

“They must have hooked up after Tammy walked out on us. I’ve never heard of the guy.”

“The two of them were arrested numerous times for running scams but convicted only once.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Some of Calvin’s many talents are witness tampering, intimidation, and bribery. Witnesses would either refuse to testify or claim they couldn’t remember. In a couple of cases evidence disappeared. His other major talent is hacking.”

“Hacking?” I looked from Spader to Shane, then back to Spader. “The burglary?”

“We think so. That’s also how he entered the house today and got a jump on Lambert.”

“I changed the password,” said Shane. “There’s no way anyone could have guessed it.”

“Passwords don’t seem to be a problem for this guy,” said Spader. “That’s how good he is.”

“Did he admit to killing Tammy?” I asked.

“Not in so many words, but we’ll tie him to it.”

“If he and Tammy were longtime partners,” asked Sophie, dropping her confrontational attitude, “why did he kill her?”

“When your mother learned your father had won the lottery,” said Spader, “she and Calvin hatched the plan to kidnap you and hold you for ransom. It appears once she saw you at the crafts fair and spoke to you, she got cold feet and refused to go ahead with the scheme.”

Sophie turned to me. “So I guess she was only half a monster.”

I had no response. Shane may have assumed they’d dealt with Sophie’s anger issues years ago, but how could the kind of damage Tammy inflicted by abandoning her daughter ever completely disappear? In Sophie’s case her rage had apparently laid dormant, sizzling just beneath the surface, only to return with a vengeance when Tammy reentered their lives. I feared the havoc Tammy had wreaked by her brief reappearance would require years of painstaking work to undo. I made a mental note to talk with Shane about getting more counseling for Sophie.

Spader continued with his take on the murder. “I suspect Calvin flipped out when she tried to call things off,” he said. “Whether he killed her accidentally or intentionally, we don’t know at this point. A crew is combing through his motel room as we speak. They’ve already discovered signs of a struggle and an attempted cover-up of evidence. The D.A. is confident the crime scene unit will uncover enough to get a conviction.”

“But you said he’s gotten away with all sorts of stuff before,” said Sophie. “What makes you think he won’t this time?”

“He’s never killed anyone before,” said Spader. “DNA doesn’t lie.”

My phone rang. I glanced at the screen, saw Zack was returning my call, and stepped from the room. “What happened?” he asked, after I answered.

I filled him in. “The good news is Sophie wasn’t harmed, Shane will be okay, and the D.A. dropped all charges against him.”

“That is good news. I have some news, too.”

“What’s that?”

“I can explain Krause’s aggressive behavior and why he’s so desperate to sign new clients.”

TWENTY-TWO

“Why?” I asked.

“He’s got a drug habit.”

“How did you discover that?”

“I witnessed a drug buy going down.”

“What! Where were you? Irvington?” And if so, what was Zack doing in that crime-infested hellhole?

He chuckled. “You think I’m crazy enough to drive my Boxster into Irvington and risk a carjacking?”

“I hope not. So, where were you?”

“I was sitting in a long line of traffic on Route 22 in North Plainfield and happened to glance to my right. I saw Trey Krause standing beside a car in the empty parking lot of a boarded-up strip mall. At first, I thought maybe he’d had car trouble and pulled off the road. I considered turning into the driveway to ask if he needed help when a black Escalade with tinted windows entered the parking lot from the side road entrance and parked next to him. I put two and two together, grabbed my trusty camera off the passenger seat, and captured the entire deal going down.”

“Talk about coincidence.”

“Yeah, nothing like being in the right place at the right time.”

Or was it? A part of me wondered how much coincidence played in Zack witnessing that drug deal. Maybe he’d spent the day shadowing Krause. I decided against voicing my suspicions. Instead I asked, “What are you planning to do with the photos?”

“I’ve already presented them to the drug task force. They confirmed the two guys in the photos with Krause are known dealers. Both have outstanding warrants. The officer I spoke with ran the Escalade’s plates while I was there. Turns out they were reported stolen off a Kia at the Linden train station yesterday.”

“Detective Spader will be interested in seeing those photos.”

“Why? He’s homicide.”

“He was homicide in Newark. Now he handles a variety of crimes. He told me Krause administers the county employees’ pension fund.”

Zack whistled under his breath. “Time to hire a forensic accountant.”

“Maybe they can team up with the food bank and get a two-for-the-price-of-one deal.”

I hung up from Zack and reentered Shane’s hospital room. “The plot thickens,” I said.

As I explained what I’d learned, I watched anger harden Detective Spader’s features. His hands balled into fists, and muttering under his breath, he stormed out of Shane’s hospital room.

A few minutes later I convinced Sophie we needed to leave to allow Shane some rest. She reluctantly agreed.

“Might I impose on you once again?” asked Shane before we exited the room.

I nodded, knowing he didn’t want Sophie spending the night alone in their house. “Sophie’s more than welcome to stay with us tonight.”

“Thank you.”

On the way home we stopped to pick up some clothes for Sophie, sweep up the broken cookies, and put the house back in order. The crime scene unit had taken the blood-soaked Navajo area rug from the foyer and the Remington bronze as evidence. At least I didn’t have to deal with cleaning up Calvin’s blood.

“All that work,” said Sophie, frowning as she dumped pecan lace, shortbread, raspberry almond, and gingerbread cookies into the kitchen trashcan. She scanned the floor. “We’re missing a tin.”

I looked around and discovered a tin with its lid still secure under one of the bar stools. “Here it is.” I retrieved the tin and pulled off the lid. “These survived.” Only a few of the iced sugar cookies had sustained minor damage.

“But most didn’t,” said Sophie, frowning again at the accumulation of broken cookies we’d tossed into the trash.

“If you’re up to it, I think I have enough ingredients in the pantry to bake several new batches after dinner.”

She immediately brightened.

~*~

Zack’s cell phone rang Sunday morning. “That’s your father,” he told Sophie as she helped clear the breakfast dishes.

She held out her hand. “Can I answer?”

Zack handed her the phone. “Hi, Dad! Are you coming home soon?”

“As soon as I sign the release forms. Let me speak with Zack, okay?”

She passed the phone back to Zack. “He wants to talk to you.”

“I guess that’s why he called me,” said Zack.

Sophie blushed. “Guess so. Sorry.”

Zack grinned at her and placed the phone on the counter. “You’re on speaker, Shane.”

Shane said, “Hey, Zack, you and Anastasia have been so kind to Sophie and me. I really hate to ask for another favor, but—”

“Need a ride?” asked Zack.

“I can call an Uber if you have plans.”

“My plan was to pick you up.”

Shane chuckled. “Man, do I ever owe you and your girlfriend big time.”

“Not in the least,” said Zack. “We’ve enjoyed getting to know you and Sophie.”

“Even under these conditions?”

“That’s all behind you now.”

“And you have no idea what a relief that is.”

“I’ll see you in half an hour,” said Zack before disconnecting the call.

“Can I come?” asked Sophie. She bounced up and down on the balls of her feet, her hands clasped in front of her. “Please?”

“As long as I can borrow a car,” said Zack. “Mine only seats two.”

Sophie cast pleading eyes first toward me, then Alex. We answered at the same time.

“Of course,” I said.

“Take my Jeep,” said Alex.

Zack opted for the Jeep. “Better traction,” he said, noting the gathering clouds outside.

“Not for Mom,” said Alex, deliberately ignoring the Mom Look I leveled at him.

A few minutes later Zack and Sophie drove off in Alex’s Jeep. We agreed that if Shane felt up to it, Zack would bring him back to the house where we could help care for him the remainder of the day.

Ninety minutes later the three of them returned as a light mix of icy rain and snow began to fall. “I hope this doesn’t last,” I said, frowning at the sky. Winter was still officially ten days away. Snows this early in the season were often a harbinger of wicked weather throughout the next few months. “I hate snow.”

“So I’ve heard,” said Zack, hanging coats in the hall closet.

“I take it you’re not a skier?” asked Shane.

“She’s more the stay-in-the-lodge-sipping-hot-cocoa-by-a-roaring-fire type,” said Zack.

“While the crazy people risk frostbite and colliding into trees,” I added. “I’m no dummy.”

“Noted,” said Shane, punctuating his comment with a chuckle.

For a man who’d suffered a concussion and was out cold less than twenty-four hours earlier, he showed no outward signs of his ordeal. If anything, he looked like a new man, robust even. The dismissal of a murder rap definitely trumped a whack on the head and a kick to the ribs. Even so, Sophie insisted her father camp out on the sofa and allow her to wait on him. Shane wisely didn’t object.

After lunch Sophie suggested we all watch a Christmas movie.

“Now?” said Nick, his eyes widening with shock.

“Why not?” she asked, holding up several DVDs she’d pulled from the bookshelf next to the television. “How about Elf? Or maybe The Grinch Who Stole Christmas or The Santa Clause?”

“We’re not watching a Christmas movie,” said Nick.

“It’s Sunday,” said Alex.

“So?” asked Sophie. “Is there some law against watching Christmas movies on Sundays?”

“Heck, yeah,” said Nick. “It’s called the NFL Law.”

Sophie turned to me for support. I shrugged. “Sorry, Sophie. Short of a power outage, nothing comes between my guys and football on Sunday afternoons during pigskin season.” Or Sunday nights or Monday nights or Thursday nights, for that matter.

She huffed a resigned sigh. “Fine. We’ll watch football.” Then she plopped onto the sofa between her father and Alex.

Shortly after the Giants scored their first touchdown, we heard the nails-on-blackboard screeching of brakes, followed by a loud crash and the intermittent wail of a car alarm. Zack jumped up and hurried from the room. I followed. As he swung open the front door, he yelled back to me, “Call 911.” Then he raced outside, without bothering to grab his coat and leaving the door wide open.

I pulled my phone from my jeans pocket as Zack sped toward a gold Audi that had jumped the curb and barreled into my oak tree. While I waited for the call to connect, an ominous creak filled the air in-between the alarm wails. I watched in horror as the tree dove in slow motion toward the car.

“Look out!” I screamed to Zack.

“911. State your emergency.”

Zack’s head jerked up. He jumped back from the car as the massive trunk landed with a loud thud across the car’s roof, the skeletal branches swallowing up the vehicle.

“911. State your emergency,” repeated the operator. “Ma’am?”

“Sorry,” I said, heading toward Zack and the car. A dusting of snow covered the sidewalk and street, and I soon discovered—after my feet nearly slid out from under me—masked a thin coating of ice. I let loose an involuntary gasp, as I fought for purchase. The last thing I needed was to fall and reinjure my wrist.

“Ma’am? Are you there? What’s your emergency?”

I apologized again. “A car plowed into a tree.” I then gave the operator the location.

“Are there injuries?”

“Probably. I can’t tell. The tree came down on the car. The roof is crushed, and the limbs are blocking access to the doors.”

“Can you tell how many people are in the vehicle?”

“Any passengers?” I asked Zack.

“I won’t know until we cut away some of these branches. I can’t hear anyone, not even the driver.”

I relayed the information to the operator.

“The police are on their way,” she said. “Stay on the line.”

Zack ran to the garage, returning with a saw and a tree pruner. He began hacking through the larger limbs surrounding the driver’s side door while I used the pruner on the medium-sized branches. Sirens in the distance grew louder as the emergency vehicles approached.

Alex, Nick, Shane, and Sophie joined us. Shane reached for the pruner. “Are you kidding?” I said, refusing to release my grip on the tool. “You’ve got cracked ribs.”

“I’ll do it,” said Alex, taking the pruner from me.

Two patrol cars turned onto the street and came to a stop behind the tree-covered Audi. Officers Harley and Fogarty stepped from one of them, two officers I recognized but didn’t know by name stepped from the second squad car.

A fire truck followed, then an ambulance. The firemen and policemen immediately took over for Zack and Alex. In no time they’d exposed the driver’s side door but couldn’t force it open. The firemen grabbed the Jaws of Life, prying open the vehicle to free the driver.

Two firefighters reached into the car and extricated the driver. He pushed their arms away and staggered to his feet. My jaw dropped to my toes when I saw the man’s face.

TWENTY-THREE

“Well, look who it is,” said Officer Harley. “We’ve been looking for you, Mr. Krause.”

Trey Krause cast a glassy-eyed, loopy expression at the collection of people staring at him and grinned. “Is that so?”

“Yeah, there’s a BOLO out on you.”

 “Guess I’m a popular guy.”

“Not the word I’d use,” said Harley.

“What’s a BOLO?” asked Sophie.

“Be on the lookout,” said Alex.

I zeroed in on my son. “How do you know that?”

“Really, Mom? With everything that’s happened to us over the last year?”

He had a point.

Krause reached into his coat pocket, pulled out a zip-locked plastic sandwich bag, took one look at the contents and said, “Oops! Wrong pocket.”

He quickly shoved the bag back and reached into his other coat pocket, withdrawing a stack of crumpled business cards. “I guess my reputation precedes me,” he said, attempting to press a card into the palm of each policeman, fireman, and paramedic.

Everyone glared at him, making no effort to accept the cards. No doubt Spader had spread the word about our suspicions, and they were all worried about the money in their pension funds.

When he got to Zack, Shane, and me, hope waved the cards in the air and said, “Any chance you’ve changed your minds?”

“You have to ask?” I said.

He shrugged. “You can’t blame a guy for trying to make a living.”

“He’s definitely on something,” said one of the paramedics.

“No duh,” said Fogarty. He slipped his hand into Krause’s coat pocket and removed the sandwich bag. “Is this what I think it is?” he asked one of the paramedics.

The paramedic took the bag and studied the contents. “Fentanyl,” he said.

One of the other officers crawled into the car and opened the glove box. “Well, look what we have here,” he said, holding a pad of blank prescription slips once he exited the vehicle.

Harley grabbed Krause’s arms and cuffed him. “Trey Krause, you’re under arrest for possession of a controlled substance and driving under the influence, and that’s just for starters.”

Fogarty then read Krause his rights before handing him off to the two other officers who placed him in the back of their squad car.

After they drove away, Officer Harley turned to us. “I’ll need statements from all of you.”

I hugged my torso, rubbing my hands up and down my arms. The icy rain and snow had tapered off, but the temperatures had plummeted. “As long as I can give mine in the house. I’m about to turn into a Popsicle.

Once inside, the boys and Sophie returned to their paused football game. Harley and Fogarty joined Zack, Shane, and me in the kitchen. Harley pulled out his spiral notepad and began questioning me while I made a fresh pot of coffee. “You have any idea why Krause showed up at your house, Mrs. Pollack?”

Startled by his question, I stopped scooping grounds into the filter and turned to face him. “You think he was headed here? Why?”

“From the position of the car it appears he was attempting to park. My guess is he hit the gas instead of the brake. The vehicle hopped the curb and slammed into the tree. Sound familiar?”

“Shades of Harriet Kleinfeld,” said Zack.

“Exactly,” said Harley. “I guess you don’t have to worry about her doing battle with that tree anymore, not that she’ll have a chance any time soon.”

I sighed. If it weren’t for Harriet’s repeated assaults, my oak tree might have survived today’s attack. “I figured Krause was on his way somewhere else when he skidded on a patch of black ice and plowed into the tree.”

Although, given the thousands of homes in Westfield, it did seem rather coincidental that he’d crash in front of mine. We didn’t live on a main thoroughfare; we lived on a small side street.

Then I remembered the gun in his glove compartment. Every nerve in my body stood at attention, vigorously waving red warning flags. I turned to Zack. “Is it possible he discovered you’re responsible for turning over evidence against him to the police?”

“What sort of evidence?” asked Harley.

Zack explained how he’d stumbled upon Krause and the dealers on Route 22, captured the drug buy, and turned the photos over to the police.

“That explains the BOLO,” said Fogarty. “Good thing you were in the right place at the right time and happened to have your camera with you. No telling how long this has been going on.”

“I suppose you’ll find that out after an audit,” said Zack.

“If that guy’s pulled a Bernie Madoff with our pensions,” said Harley, “every cop and firefighter in the county will want to string him up by his thumbs.”

“It won’t get our money back,” Fogarty muttered under his breath.

~*~

Detective Spader showed up shortly after we’d gathered around the dining room table for dinner that night. “What now?” I asked when I opened the front door and reluctantly ushered him inside. The man had a habit of arriving with bad news, and I’d had more than my fill lately, as had our guests. I shot a quick glance into the dining room and noted the tension on Shane’s face and the anger on Sophie’s.

“No need to panic,” said Spader, following my gaze. “I came to thank Mrs. Pollack and Mr. Barnes. I figured under the circumstances their efforts warranted more than a phone call.”

“Thank us for what?” asked Zack. He pushed away from the table and joined us in the foyer.

Spader nodded toward me. “Once again Mrs. Pollack has helped crack a case, this time a crime we had no idea had even been committed. I thought you deserved to know what we’ve learned.”

“About Krause?” I asked.

Spader scowled and mumbled something better left unrepeated under his breath. I offered him a smile and waved my arm in the direction of the dining room. “Why don’t you join us, Detective? Have you eaten?”

“I…well…”

I doubted the detective encountered many such offers in the course of his investigations, especially from residents friendly with a former suspect and particularly when that former suspect currently sat at our dinner table.

Noting Spader’s hesitancy, Zack added, “Please, have a seat, Detective. We have more than enough to go around.”

I doubted the amount of food had anything to do with Spader’s hesitation. However, I knew Zack wanted him to feel welcome. Spader glanced in Shane’s direction. When the former murder suspect nodded, Spader heaved an audible sigh and said, “In that case, thank you.”

He settled into one of my dining room chairs. Zack headed to the kitchen, returning a moment later with a place setting for Spader.

Shane had insisted on ordering take-out to repay us for our hospitality. As we passed around platters of chicken scaloppini, spaghetti with meat sauce, fried eggplant, and salad, Spader documented Trey Krause’s tailspin from successful stockbroker to opioid addict. 

“About two year ago,” he said, bypassing the salad and helping himself to a large serving of chicken, spaghetti, and fried eggplant, “Krause took a bad spill while skiing in Vail with his family. As a result, he needed back surgery. Like so many people these days, afterwards he got hooked on prescription pain meds.”

“And when he couldn’t obtain more pills through legal channels, he turned to drug dealers?” asked Zack.

“Precisely. And those dealers have a way of bleeding their customers dry. Krause started draining his savings. When his wife noticed the missing funds and discovered his addiction, she gave him an ultimatum: go into rehab or else.”

Sophie’s eyes widened. “He chose the ‘or else’?”

Spader swallowed a mouthful of chicken before answering. “He tried rehab, but sometimes it takes more than one stint to get clean. These opioids are brutal, worse than heroin. Too often they kill. After three failed trips to rehab, his wife had had enough. A few months ago she cleaned out what was left of their savings, kicked him out, and filed for divorce. That’s when he resorted to some creative bookkeeping at his brokerage firm and the food bank to feed his addiction.”

“And no one suspected anything?” asked Shane.

“Addicts are very good at covering up their addictions,” said Spader.

Of course, they are,” I said. My kids and I can certainly attest to that.

“His wife didn’t tell anyone?” asked Sophie.

“She probably kept quiet to protect herself and her children from hurtful gossip,” I said.

Alex and Nick glanced my way, but neither said a word. Zack reached under the table and squeezed my hand. Been there, done that. Only, unlike Mrs. Krause, I’d never had the opportunity to issue Karl an ultimatum over his addiction.

“How much did he steal?” asked Shane.

“Luckily, not too much,” said Spader, “thanks to these two.” He waved his fork at Zack and me. “He’d only recently started dipping into the tills and cooking the books. Otherwise he’d be in much bigger trouble. My guess is the D.A. will offer him a plea deal.”

“What sort of deal?” asked Alex.

“A light or suspended sentence in exchange for giving up his brokerage license and paying restitution.”

“How will he pay back what he stole if he has no money?” asked Nick.

“I guess for starters he’ll have to sell that fifty-thousand-dollar bauble he wears around his wrist,” said Spader.

Shane leaned back in his chair, his expression growing thoughtful as he chewed a mouthful of food. Finally he asked Spader, “This was a first offense?”

Spader nodded. “The guy was well respected and as clean-cut as they come prior to getting hooked.”

“So you’d agree he deserves a second chance?”

“If he can kick his habit. He’s got a long road ahead of him, though. Why do you ask?”

“I’d like to help him get that chance,” said Shane. “I’m assuming you can contact him?”

“I can.”

“Tell him I’ll pay for his rehab at a residential clinic, no strings attached.”

Spader’s eyes widened. “That’s an incredibly generous offer, Mr. Lambert. Why would you do such a thing? You hardly know the guy.”

“And now, Detective,” said Sophie, “you know exactly the kind of man my dad is.”

Spader stared at Sophie. “You’re absolutely right, young lady.”

“Told you so,” said Sophie.

EPILOGUE

A week later life had returned to normal—or as normal as life ever gets at Casa Pollack. Mephisto had returned to the fold, his diagnosis the best I could have hoped for under the circumstances. All his tests came back negative. The vet attributed his piddle puddle to old age.

“Walk him as late as possible each night,” he said, “and don’t let him sleep in. As soon as you’re awake, get him up and take him for his morning walk.”

Of course, that resulted in a tug-a-war between the sleepy dog and whichever of my sons had morning Mephisto duty, but so far it had prevented any further piddle puddles.

Unfortunately, our Lucille reprieve was short-lived. She and her cohorts arrived back in New Jersey the day after the start of Judge Roland’s annual winter vacation. The judge presiding in his stead was new to the bench and either unaware of Lucille’s history or unwilling to take past transgressions into consideration. Perhaps she reminded him of a favorite eccentric elderly aunt. Whatever the reason, the judge seemed more amused than appalled and let the entire Commie Cotillion off with a stern warning to respect the law and behave in the future.

Little did he realize the Sisters of the October Revolution were unwilling to follow advice, directives, or rulings handed down by the court or any law enforcement or government official. He’d soon learn. I had no doubt Lucille and her minions would wind up back in his courtroom before Judge Roland returned from his four-week vacation.

~*~

Alex, Nick, Zack, and I had spent Monday evening decorating the Christmas tree that now stood in all its glory in front of the living room bay window. Zack and I were sitting on the sofa, admiring our work, and the boys had retreated to their bedroom to finish homework, when Alex returned to the living room. “Mom, we need to talk.”

Rarely does anything good come from a conversation that begins with we need to talk, and the solemn expression on Alex’s face told me this conversation would be no exception.

Once again, my Worrywart Gene jumped right to early-onset grandmotherhood. No matter how many times Alex had assured me he and Sophie hadn’t taken that giant leap into adulthood, hormones will be hormones. Couple those teenage hormones with the emotional stress of the last two and a half weeks, and sex had probably entered the equation.

I fought to tamp down my dread and remain calm—at least until I learned the topic of this talk. After that, all bets were off. “Have a seat,” I said, patting the cushion next to me. “Do you want Zack to leave?”

Alex shook his head. “Definitely not.”

I swiveled my head between my son and Zack. Whatever was up, I sensed I was the only one in the dark. I wasn’t sure whether to be annoyed that Alex had confided in Zack first or grateful that he had a man in his life he could go to for advice.

“Does this concern Sophie?” I asked, hoping the Queen of Jumping to Conclusions was once again wrong.

“In a way,” said Alex.

I threw my head back against the sofa cushions and closed my eyes. In as calm a voice as I could muster, I said, “Alex, you promised the two of you hadn’t—”

“What? No, Mom! We haven’t!”

My eyes sprang open. “Then what’s going on?”

“I got into Harvard early decision.”

Two emotions immediately took up battle inside me as I processed my son’s words—pride over his accomplishment and sorrow that he wouldn’t be able to attend the school of his dreams. At the same time I fought back tears of frustration. “You know I can’t afford Harvard, not after what your father did. Why did you even apply?”

Then another question popped into my head. “How did you apply?” My son had neither a checking account nor a credit card. “How did you pay the application fee?”

“I wrote the check for him,” said Zack.

I spun around and faced him. “Behind my back? Do you plan to pay his tuition and room and board as well? Because I certainly don’t have that kind of money.”

“It’s all taken care of, Mom.”

“What!” I swiveled to face Alex, then turned back to Zack once my son’s words sank in. “Absolutely not! I can’t permit you to do this. It’s not right.”

Zack held up his hands. “Hey, all I did was write the check for the application fee. And Alex gave me the money for that.”

“Then where’s the money coming from?” I asked Alex. “Did a money tree suddenly spring up in our back yard?”

Alex forced a laugh. “Wouldn’t that be nice?”

There was only one other possible explanation. “It’s Ira, isn’t it? He offered to pay your tuition.” I didn’t know which disturbed me more, accepting such a huge sum of money from my lover or from my deceased husband’s half-brother.

“It’s not Uncle Ira,” said Alex. He handed me a sheet of paper I hadn’t noticed he’d been clutching in his hand. “I’ve been offered a full ride.”

I scanned the email Alex had printed out from Harvard and sighed. I was about to burst my son’s bubble. I handed the paper back to him and shook my head. “I’m afraid this is a scam. I’ve read about bogus emails like this being sent to students. You can tell because it doesn’t even mention the name of the scholarship you were awarded.”

“It’s legit, Mom. I called the school earlier today to verify it. They said the scholarship came from an anonymous donor. I’m pretty sure I know who.”

I glared at Zack. “Anonymous donor, huh?”

Once again, he held up his hands. “Not me. I swear.”

“Then who?” I asked Alex.

“Mr. Lambert.”

“Shane? Why would Shane pay for your college education?”

“To thank us for all we did—believing in his innocence, protecting Sophie, finding the real killer. Mom, without you Mr. Lambert would have gone to prison for the rest of his life.”

“But why would Shane do this without even telling us?” I asked.

“Because Sophie said that’s what he does. He’s like a multi-millionaire Secret Santa.”

“He didn’t keep his donation to the food bank a secret,” I reminded him.

“That was different. He wanted to help Sophie make friends at school. It’s hard being the new kid, especially arriving senior year. But most of the time he helps people anonymously because he doesn’t want the publicity.”

“That’s understandable,” said Zack, “when you consider how people reacted after word got out that he’d won the lottery.”

“But that’s hardly the case with us,” I said. “Alex, did you tell Sophie about your father gambling away your college fund?”

He nodded. “She’s the one who convinced me to apply early decision. I told her there was no point, but she said I’d always regret not knowing whether or not I could get in. I bet she told her dad, and the scholarship came from Mr. Lambert’s foundation.”

“It makes sense,” said Zack.

“Still, it would be nice to thank him,” I said. “He doesn’t have to worry about unwanted publicity from us.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and scrolled down to Shane’s number. When he answered, I said, “I’m calling to thank you.”

“For what?”

“You know for what,” I said, choking back tears. “I’m overwhelmed by your generosity—to Alex and to me, for what you’ve done.”

“Anastasia, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course, you don’t. Good night, Shane.”

“Good night, Anastasia.”

Anastasia’s 

No-Crafting-Talent-Required

Glass Ball Christmas Ornaments

(Find more Christmas ornament designs on Anastasia’s Killer Crafts & Crafty Killers blog.)

With only a few basic craft supplies (available at craft stores, fabric stores, and online) and a minimal amount of time, even readers who claim they were born without a crafting gene will be able to create these decorative and sophisticated-looking Christmas ornaments.

Note: All the ornaments will require a piece of ribbon for hanging. You’ll need approximately 9”-12” of 1/4”-1/2” wide satin or grosgrain ribbon in a complementary color. As an alternative to the ribbon, you can use yarn, twine, thin braid, or a thin strip of fabric.

Marbled Paint Ornament

Materials: clear glass ball ornament, 2-3 colors DecoArt Americana Crystal Gloss Enamel paint (or any glass paint in squeeze bottles), disposable plastic cup

Carefully remove the metal cap from the glass ball.

Squeeze a small amount of paint into the glass ornament. Rotate the ball to swirl the paint around the interior of the ornament. Repeat with the second color. Add a third color if desired.

Allow paint to dry. To keep paint from pooling at the bottom of the ornament, turn the ornament upside-down and set over the disposable plastic cup. Any excess paint will drain into the cup.

Reattach the metal cap. Tie ribbon through the loop for hanging.

Sequin and Glitter Ornament

Materials: clear glass ball ornament, decoupage medium (you can also use either liquid floor wax or thinned tacky glue), disposable plastic cup, assorted sequins, glitter

Carefully remove the metal cap from the glass ball.

Pour decoupage medium or thinned tacky glue into the glass ornament. Rotate the ornament to swirl the glue around the interior to coat the entire ornament. 

Turn the ornament upside-down and set over the disposable plastic cup to drain excess glue. 

Add sequins, rotating to distribute around inside of ornament.

Pour glitter into ornament. (You can make a funnel from a piece of rolled paper for easier pouring.) Place your finger over the opening and shake the ornament to distribute the glitter. Pour out excess.

Allow glue to dry with cap off until glue turns clear. This may take up to several days, depending on temperature, humidity, and the type of glue used.

Reattach the metal cap. Tie ribbon through the loop for hanging.

Melted Crayon Ornament

Materials: clear glass ball ornament, two crayons in the same color family or opposites (examples: pink and red, yellow and orange, blue and yellow, blue and pink, etc.), crayon sharpener or craft knife, hair dryer

Use the crayon sharpener or craft knife to shave pieces from the crayon. 

Carefully remove the metal cap from the glass ball.

Place a small amount of the shavings into the glass ball. Hold the hair dryer close to the area of the ornament where the shavings are and heat the ornament to melt the crayons. Be careful you don’t touch the ornament with the hair dryer. As the crayon begins to melt, turn the ornament to spread the color. Alternate colors, continuing until the desired look is achieved. 

Reattach the metal cap. Tie ribbon through the loop for hanging.

Note: If the ornament becomes too hot as you’re working, take a break to allow it to cool. You may also want to use an oven mitt or glove to protect your hand from the heat.

Metallic Braid Ornament

Materials: clear glass ball ornament, 5-yds. 5mm braided metallic cording (choose silver, gold, or 2-toned combination colors such as red/gold or black/silver) 

Carefully remove the metal cap from the glass ball.

Feed metallic braid through opening into ornament.

Reattach the metal cap. Tie ribbon through the loop for hanging.

Basket Filler Ornament

Materials: clear glass ball ornament, crinkle-cut paper or excelsior (the kind used for gift basket filler) in your choice of color/colors

Carefully remove the metal cap from the glass ball.

Fill the ornament with the paper or excelsior.

Reattach the metal cap. Tie ribbon through the loop for hanging.

Other Ideas for Filling Ornaments

•      Scraps of yarn

•      Scraps of fabric cut into strips with pinking shears

•      Crumpled colored tissue paper

•      Plastic beads

•      Small-scale potpourri

•      Small feathers

•      Tinsel

•      Pieces of faux Christmas greenery

•      Mini jingle bells

•      Pompoms

•      Confetti glitter

•      Tulle

•      Netting

•      Ribbons

•      Rickrack

•      Mini pinecones

•      Miniature gift packages

•      Lego pieces

•      Sand and small seashells

•      Twigs

•      Ribbon roses

•      Assorted silk florals

•      Cloves and/or cinnamon sticks

•      Bottle brush trees and fake snow

•      Family photos

•      Candy

•      Popcorn

About Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide

An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery

By Lois Winston

Two and a half weeks ago magazine crafts editor Anastasia Pollack arrived home to find Ira Pollack, her half-brother-in-law, had blinged out her home with enough Christmas lights to rival Rockefeller Center. Now he’s crammed her small yard with enormous cavorting inflatable characters. She and photojournalist boyfriend and possible spy Zack Barnes pack up the unwanted lawn decorations to return to Ira. They arrive to find his yard the scene of an over-the-top Christmas extravaganza. His neighbors are not happy with the animatronics, laser light show, and blaring music creating traffic jams on their normally quiet street. One of them expresses his displeasure with his fists before running off.

In the excitement, the deflated lawn ornaments are never returned to Ira. The next morning Anastasia once again heads to his house before work to drop them off. When she arrives, she discovers Ira’s attacker dead in Santa’s sleigh. Ira becomes the prime suspect in the man’s murder and begs Anastasia to help clear his name. But Anastasia has promised her sons she’ll keep her nose out of police business. What’s a reluctant amateur sleuth to do?

Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide

An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery

By Lois Winston

Dedication

In loving memory of my oldest and dearest friend Janice Kerr Boot, a woman who epitomized the true meaning of friendship.

Acknowledgements

Where would authors be without readers? I love my readers and often run contests in my newsletter to show my appreciation for their enthusiasm for my books. While writing Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide, I couldn’t decide on a craft to feature in the book. So I asked my readers, offering a gift to the person whose suggestion I used. Judy Weaver and Faith Creech both emailed me with the same idea within seconds of each other. How could I not award gifts to both of them?

I’ve been to various mystery conventions where auctions are held to raise money for local charities. Readers love to bid on having a character named for them. So I ran a second contest for the naming of a character in Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide. That honor and a copy of Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide went to Robyn Konopka.

Sometimes readers will write to me with suggestions for future books. Awhile back I heard from Nancy Eady. She loved Tino Martinelli from Decoupage Can Be Deadly and asked if I had plans to bring him back in a future book. I hadn’t thought about doing so until Nancy planted the idea in my head. So if you, too, loved Tino, you can thank Nancy for his return.

I’m always grateful for the experts who take the time to answer my questions. Special thanks to Michael Maloof for answering my questions regarding computer security and tracing a remote connection back to the source. Also, thanks to Kia Dennis and Wally Lind for answering my questions regarding subpoenas.

And finally, as always, special thanks to Donnell Bell and Irene Peterson for their superb editorial skills.

ONE

Ira, the unwelcome elf, had struck again. At least, I assumed Ira was the culprit. Who else would fill my postage stamp front lawn with more than a dozen enormous inflatable cartoon characters? I sat in my car and stared out the window in disbelief. The entire Peanuts gang, half a dozen yellow Minions, and a smirking neon green Grinch, all decked out in Christmas finery, swayed and bounced to a recording of “Santa Claus is Coming to Town.” The music was so loud I heard it through my Jetta’s closed windows—with the engine running and the radio currently giving the four-day weather forecast.

Two-and-a-half weeks ago I’d arrived home from one of the worst days of my life (no hyperbole, given someone had tried to kill me and nearly succeeded) to find my house ablaze with enough Christmas lights to be seen by the astronauts on the International Space Station. Now this.

Enough was more than enough. I’d asked. I’d pleaded. I’d demanded. Nothing got through to Ira Pollack, the half-brother-in-law who’d shown up at my front door last summer and who continued to try to weasel his way into my life with unwelcome gifts.

But Ira can’t take a hint, even when you club him over the head with it, and although I’ve repeatedly asked him to stop, I can’t bring myself to go full rhymes-with-witch on him. Being too nice is one of my many failings.

Besides, Ira means well. And I have to admit, albeit grudgingly, I am indebted to the man. Case in point, my used Jetta, which he insisted on selling me at cost when I was forced to put my Hyundai rust bucket out to pasture. Given my precarious financial state, I don’t know what I would have done if not for Ira’s generosity. However, he’s but one more complication I don’t need in my already overly complicated life.

My name is Anastasia Pollack. Look me up in Webster’s, and you’ll find I’m defined as the epitome of the clueless wife.

Speaking of my Jetta, the vehicle’s interior filled with light as another car pulled behind me. I killed the engine and stepped out into the frigid December night, my boots crunching on the driveway’s packed snow, to find Zack exiting his Boxster.

Zachary Barnes is the one good thing that has happened in my life since my husband dropped dead in Las Vegas last winter—after raiding our joint piggy bank and racking up a Mt. Everest of debt.

In one of my first cost-cutting measures, I rented out the apartment above my garage, formerly my home office/studio, to Zack. He’s since become considerably more than a tenant.

“Ira?” he asked, simultaneously hooking his backpack over one shoulder and cocking his head toward the lawn circus.

I shrugged. “Who else?”

Zack crunched his way over to me, and we headed toward the back door. “Seems odd he’d wait so long. I wonder why he didn’t include these when he surprised you with the light display.”

“Don’t know, don’t care. I’m pulling the plug as soon as I figure out where it is.” Which would probably entail scrambling through the snow-covered shrubbery to find the power source. I’d deactivated more than half the lights first chance I got. I didn’t care if they were the eco-friendly LED variety. They’d still run up my electric bill.

“Here.” Zack handed me his backpack and retraced his steps to the front of the house. He crunched his way across the snowy lawn and headed for the rear of Snoopy’s doghouse. Bending down, he found the spot where the power cord connected to the doghouse. With a quick yank he dislodged the snow camouflaging the cord as it snaked toward the house. He then followed the cord to where it plugged into an indoor/outdoor power strip nestled under an azalea bush. A second power strip sat beside it. Zack flipped the switches on both. The music died, and the characters slowly melted into the snow.

“Thank you, Dorothy!” I said as he retraced his footsteps.

He chuckled. “I suppose that makes you one of the flying monkeys?”

“This flying monkey is freezing her tootsies off. Let’s get into the house.”

We stripped out of our coats and boots in the mudroom and stepped into the kitchen where I inhaled the inviting aroma of roasting chicken with onions and carrots. At least one of my sons had arrived home ahead of us and remembered the text I’d sent to take dinner out of the refrigerator and place it in the oven at five-thirty.

We found both boys doing homework in the bedroom they now shared, thanks to their father permanently sticking us with his semi-invalid mother, an octogenarian communist who’d never had a kind word for me. Karl Pollack was the gift that kept on giving, though certainly not in a good way.

“Where’s your grandmother?” I asked Nick and Alex, noticing her dog camped on Nick’s bed. Ralph, the Shakespeare-quoting African Grey I’d inherited from my great-aunt Penelope Periwinkle, kept watch from atop a bookcase under the windows, but as soon as he spied Zack, he flapped his wings and made a beeline—or should I say parrot line?—for him, landing on his shoulder and nuzzling his beak against Zack’s five o’clock shadow. Zack reached into his shirt pocket and offered the bird a sunflower seed.

“Haven’t seen her,” said Alex.

“Would I had never seen her,” squawked Ralph after devouring his treat. “Anthony and Cleopatra. Act One, Scene Two.”

Ditto, Ralph. The parrot had an uncanny knack for spouting the Bard’s most appropriate quotes for any given situation.

“She wasn’t here when we got home,” said Nick.

“Did either of you walk Devil Dog?” Devil Dog, aka Mephisto, was my mother-in-law’s French bulldog, although she’d named him Manifesto after the communist treatise. However, when he first invaded our home, he acted more like a hell-raising devil. So I dubbed him Mephisto. The boys simply called him Devil Dog.

Lately Lucille has abdicated all responsibility for her pet and spends most of her time with her fellow Daughters of the October Revolution. I suspect she’s punishing the dog because he now prefers our company to hers. So be it. Although his nicknames have stuck—mostly because we all refuse to call him Manifesto—he’s mellowed in his old age, which is more than I can say for his owner. I’ll take Devil Dog over Lucille Pollack any day.

“I took him out about an hour ago,” said Nick. “Those blow-up cartoon characters in the yard scared the crap out of him.”

“They didn’t do much for me, either. Do you know how they got here?”

“Uncle Ira?” asked Alex.

“That’s my guess.”

“They were up when we got home,” said Nick.

“They’re down now, and they’re staying down,” I said. “After dinner I’m returning them to him.”

~*~

Lucille hobbled into the house within minutes of dinner coming out of the oven. Worse yet, Harriet Kleinhample, her mini-me minion, followed close behind her.

So much for a peaceful dinner. Of all Lucille’s cohorts, Harriet, who bears an uncanny resemblance to the actress who played Maude’s mother in Golden Girls, was her staunchest ally. As such, she was second only to my mother-in-law in her contempt for me.

Harriet was also the primary mode of transportation for the Daughters of the October Revolution, all the others having given up driving—either voluntarily or involuntarily—before I met them. Since Harriet had recently been involved in a hit-and-run, she should no longer have a valid driver’s license. She probably didn’t, but that wouldn’t stop her from getting behind the wheel of her ancient, battered VW minibus.

Nick had already set the kitchen table. As he scooped up the plates and utensils to move everything to the dining room table, Lucille poked her head into the kitchen. “Harriet is joining us for dinner,” she announced.

“Of course, she is,” Nick muttered behind her departing back as I quietly indicated he should leave the plates on the stove.

Luckily, Lucille hadn’t heard her grandson. She was already off on a rant about the tacky deflated Christmas decorations littering my front lawn.

“We didn’t put them up,” I heard Alex tell her. “Besides, they’re not staying.”

“So, this is the work of that imposter?” she asked. “The lights weren’t enough of an abomination? He has to turn us into a sideshow exhibit?”

“If you mean Uncle Ira, probably. We don’t know for sure.”

“That man is no more your uncle than I am,” she said. All evidence to the contrary—including the fact that Ira looked the spitting image of Karl in his younger, thinner, less bald days—Lucille refused to believe that her beloved Isidore had walked out on her and subsequently married and fathered a second son.

According to my mother-in-law, J. Edgar Hoover had abducted and murdered Karl’s father. She even once claimed the FBI had buried his body under the goalposts at Giants Stadium. Isidore may have been a union activist once upon a time, but he was no Jimmy Hoffa. Besides, no bodies were ever discovered buried under the goalposts or anywhere else in the stadium—not Karl’s father and not Jimmy Hoffa.

Lucille and Harriet settled themselves at the dining room table and waited. “What if you don’t serve them?” asked Nick.

Lately I’ve noticed both boys becoming more intolerant of their grandmother. Not that I blame them. We’d all enjoyed a recent, if short-lived, reprieve when Lucille and her scofflaw cohorts went on the lam and headed for Cuba. Unfortunately, they never made it.

Lucille was never supposed to become a permanent resident of Casa Pollack. Of course, when she temporarily moved in with us, I still thought my husband was a fine, upstanding human being. Live and learn.

I turned to my son. “Really, Nick? I need to instigate World War III over roast chicken?”

“Sorry, Mom. I—”

Before he could finish his thought, Lucille bellowed, “We have no plates, Anastasia!”

“Should I bring out the plates?” asked Alex.

“Not yet,” I said.

The last time I’d served family style, Lucille and Harriet had helped themselves to half the food before the rest of us had taken our seats around the table. For a woman who stood several inches shy of five feet tall, Harriet Kleinhample could eat us all under the table and come back for seconds. And thirds. Only Lucille packed away more food at each meal than her diminutive disciple. Tonight I’d turn the tables on them.

As soon as Zack had finished carving the chicken, I placed a slice of breast meat and a normal serving of carrots and roasted potatoes on two plates. Handing one to each boy, I said, “For your grandmother and Harriet. Then come back to help yourselves.”

Nick glanced down at the plate in his hands. “They are going to be so pi—angry,” he said, before carrying the plate into the dining room.

True, but everyone would have a fair share of dinner this evening.

From the dining room I heard Lucille ask Alex, “What’s this?”

“Dinner,” he said.

“We’re not children,” said Harriet. “We can serve ourselves!”

“Not tonight,” said Nick.

I heard an undercurrent of grumbling from Lucille and Harriet but couldn’t make out what they said.

Nick and Alex returned to the kitchen without engaging further with the curmudgeonly commies. “How much should we take?” asked Alex, picking up a plate and serving spoon.

“As much as you’d like,” I said. “Just leave enough for Zack and me.” After serving themselves, the boys headed into the dining room.

Zack and I filled our plates with the remaining food and carried them into the dining room. If looks could kill, those octogenarian vultures would be picking at our bones.

Lucille and Harriet maintained a torrent of complaints throughout the meal. The four of us refused to respond until Zack pounded his fist on the table. “Enough! One more complaint, and I take your plates away.”

“You wouldn’t dare!” cried Lucille.

“Try me.” He stood and reached across the table for Lucille and Harriet’s plates. Both women grabbed hold of their dishes and held on as if they were in the siege of Leningrad instead of my dining room. Zack returned to his chair. “That was your final warning.”

Sullen silence commenced, broken only by the sounds of silverware clattering on dishes. I turned to my sons and initiated normal dinnertime conversation. “How was school today?”

Nick grinned. “Pretty cool, Mom. We learned all about the collapse of the Soviet Union in history class.”

I nearly choked on a carrot. Was he deliberately trying to get a rise out of his grandmother and Harriet? I glanced over at the two women. Both had turned a deep shade of purple. At any moment I expected to see steam shooting from their ears.

“What did you learn?” asked Alex.

Had they rehearsed this act of defiance? If so, it worked. Lucille and Harriet shoveled the last bits of food on their plates into their mouths and stormed out of the dining room. A moment later the sounds of some inane reality TV show blared through the house.

“How much longer do we have to put up with her?” asked Nick.

“’Til death we do part,” I said, silently adding thanks to your father.

“Can’t that be arranged?”

“Nick!”

“Chill, Mom. I’m just kidding.” He grinned sheepishly before adding, “Although we do know a guy who knows a guy, right?”

More than one, actually, including Karl’s former bookie and my mother’s ex-husband. Both now reside in federal prisons on murder convictions.

“This is New Jersey,” said Zack. “Everyone knows a guy who knows a guy.”

Including my sons’ father who’d arranged a hit on his mother a year and a half ago, only to have her survive. But Alex and Nick didn’t know half of what I’d learned about their father after his death, and if I had my way, I’d take those secrets to my grave.

As for Lucille, she’d never believe me anyway. She refused to accept what little I’d told her about Karl gambling away our life savings and sticking me with debt equal to the GNP of Uzbekistan. In her eyes, Karl was the communist equivalent of a saint—if there is such a thing.

~*~

After dinner the boys, Zack and I bundled up in our winter gear to wrestle the Grinch and his now-deflated fellow inflatables into the trunk and backseat of my car. They barely fit. Leaving Alex and Nick at home, Zack and I headed across town to Ira’s new McMansion.

Ira had surprised us a few weeks ago with the unwelcome news that he’d bought a home in Westfield. I didn’t care all that much for Ira when he lived on the other side of the state. I’d prefer he lived on the other side of the country. Having him not only on the other side of town, but on the same street as Alex’s girlfriend Sophie Lambert and her father Shane thrilled me no end. At least the two houses were about a mile apart.

Ira had closed on his five thousand square feet of new construction last Friday and moved in over the weekend. He’d driven me past the house before he took possession. When he’d called on Sunday to invite us over for brunch and a tour, I’d begged off with the standard sorry-but-we-have-plans excuse, even if the only item on my schedule for the day was to avoid Ira and his brood.

We hit traffic shortly before passing the Lambert house. Vehicles crept along as though we were stuck on the Garden State Parkway in the middle of rush hour instead of the normally quiet residential area. Parked cars lined the curb on both sides of the street for as far as we could see. “What gives?”

Zack shrugged. “Beats me. An accident? I see flashing lights up ahead.”

“Must be a bad one. I’m not willing to spend an hour in traffic to return the Grinch and his pals to their rightful owner.”

“Agreed. I’ll turn at the next intersection.”

However, before we inched our way to the cross street, we saw Shane and Sophie standing on the sidewalk in front of their house. Zack tapped the horn and pulled into their driveway.

“Come to see the show?” asked Shane when Zack killed the engine and we stepped from the car.

“Show?” I asked.

“Can’t you hear the music?” asked Sophie.

Now that she mentioned it, I did hear what sounded like a brass band playing Christmas carols. “Is something going on at the elementary school tonight?”

“Not the school,” said Shane.

“You don’t know?” asked Sophie.

I didn’t like the sound of that. “Know what?”

“You have to see it to believe it,” said Shane. “Up for a crisp moonlight walk?”

“Is it worth it?” I asked.

“Trust me,” said Shane. “You’re going to want to see this.”

I turned to Zack. “I’m game if you are.”

He nodded to Shane. “Lead on, Macduff.”

Sophie giggled. “You sound like Ralph.”

“They’ve developed a symbiotic relationship,” I said. If Zack and I ever split up, he’ll probably sue me for custody.”

“I guess you’d better not split up, then,” said Sophie. “I’d miss Ralph.” When I raised my eyebrows, she added, “And Zack, too, of course.”

“Of course.”

As we walked up the street, the lights grew brighter, and the music grew louder. Multi-colored lasers arced across the sky.

Several families passed us, heading in the opposite direction. The adults shook their heads and muttered comments like, “unbelievably tacky” and “This is Westfield, not Staten Island.” But the children had huge grins on their faces.

“How much farther?” I asked after we’d hiked along the sidewalk for about ten minutes.

“About half a mile,” said Shane.

I was beginning to have a queasy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It had nothing to do with dinner and everything to do with my half-brother-in-law. I stopped short and confronted Shane. “Tell me we’re not headed to Ira’s house.”

“I wish I could.”

I had no idea Ira celebrated Christmas. Then again, we’d never discussed religion. Perhaps his father had jettisoned the “opiate of the masses” indoctrination and returned to the religion of his youth when he and Lucille split. However, those particular religious beliefs aren’t supposed to include Christmas. Since I knew nothing about Ira’s first wife, other than she’d passed away, perhaps he’d converted when he married her.

“Didn’t he just move in?” asked Sophie. “Dad and I spent half a day decorating the outside of our house, and we only strung lights and hung some wreaths on the windows and front door.”

“I’m sure his employees handled the installation,” said Zack.

“Or he hired a professional decorating crew,” I said.

After the unwelcome surprise he left at my house, it didn’t shock me that Ira was a card-carrying member of the Over-the-Top Christmas Decorators Club. Although I suspected his motivation had less to do with impressing his neighbors and more to do with his need to impress his kids. Whatever Melody, Harmony, and Isaac wanted, Melody, Harmony, and Isaac got.

The closer we drew to Ira’s house, the louder the music and brighter the lights became, launching a full out assault on my senses. A bass drum keeping time to “The March of the Toy Soldiers” reverberated in my head, nearly drowning out an undercurrent of shouting. Not the happy shouts of excited children in awe of a spectacle that belonged on Main Street in Disneyland but angry adult shouting, interspersed with four-letter name-calling.

We pushed our way through a crowd that had gathered on the sidewalk. More people wandered around the display, even coming and going from the backyard, where I assumed there were more decorations.

Ira stood in the middle of his front lawn. A group of extremely irate adults surrounded him. They wildly gesticulated as they verbally bombarded my extremely perplexed-looking half-brother-in-law.

“Neighbors,” said Shane, raising his own voice to be heard over the commotion.

Exceedingly unhappy neighbors from the looks of it. Not that I blamed them. Ira had turned his home into a three-ring circus. Row upon row of multi-colored string lights wrapped around every vertical surface of his house, snaked up and down his roof, and wound around the porch columns and railings. More lights blanketed the shrubbery in front of the porch. If my house had blazed with enough lights to be seen from the International Space Station, Ira’s would be visible to aliens in the outer regions of the solar system.

Larger-than-life mechanical nutcrackers festooned with more lights stood at attention, saluting along either side of the path leading to the house. Inflatables of every cartoon character imaginable filled the lawn. Laser lights, choreographed to the music blaring from speakers, shot into the sky.

But the coup de grace was the railroad track that encircled the house. At a break midway between the nutcrackers, it crossed over the path leading from the sidewalk to the porch. On it ran eight life-sized mechanical reindeer pulling a sleigh. Inside the sleigh a waving Santa bellowed “ho-ho-ho” every few seconds. And of course, the reindeer, Santa, and sleigh were also covered in hundreds of twinkling lights. Luckily, the reindeer pranced at a slow enough pace that no one heading to the house risked getting trampled—as long as they stopped, looked, and listened before crossing the tracks.

“I’ve seen enough,” I said, turning to inch my way back through the crowd of gawkers. No way was I getting involved in Ira’s battle with his neighbors. As far as I was concerned, they had every right to be annoyed with him. What was he thinking? Then again, Ira doesn’t think. He constantly acts on impulse, assuming his actions will be appreciated.

I had nearly cleared the mass of onlookers when a bulldog of a man barreled into me and kept going without so much as an “excuse me” or an “I’m sorry.” Luckily, he’d shoved me into Zack, who broke my fall.

“Hey!” I yelled, but he ignored me as he continued on his path, shoving aside anyone who didn’t move out of his way.

Seconds later the crowd gasped. A woman screamed. All at once the music died, and darkness descended over the house and yard. The night filled with the sound of air simultaneously rushing from dozens of deflating cartoon characters—and blaring sirens growing louder by the second. People grabbed their children and quickly disappeared into nearby homes while others, protectively clutching their offspring, hurried down the street toward parked cars, leaving Ira flat on his back across his snow-covered lawn.

TWO

Zack, Shane, Sophie, and I rushed toward Ira. “What hurts?” I asked as Zack and Shane helped him to his feet.

“I think he busted my nose.” A trickle of blood ran from one nostril and dripped onto Ira’s ski jacket. I scrounged for a pack of tissues from my purse, removed several, and handed them to him.

Zack pulled out his phone and shined a light on Ira, scrutinizing his face, while Ira gingerly dabbed at the sticky moisture on his upper lip. “Doesn’t look like he hit you that hard. Luckily, the snow cushioned your fall. I don’t see any obvious signs of concussion.”

No concussion and what appeared to be an unbroken nose. Ira’s nasal cartilage seemed unfazed by its recent encounter with an assailant’s fist. I wondered if he’d even wind up with a black eye. Time would tell. The guy may have had the build of Jake “Raging Bull” LaMotta, but the visual evidence showed he threw a punch more like Ferdinand the Bull.

The front door opened, and Ira’s kids rushed onto the porch. “I called the cops,” yelled Melody—or Harmony—I could never tell Ira’s pre-teen identical twins apart.

Suddenly the Christmas lights covering the house blazed back on. I glanced up at the porch to find nine-year-old Isaac tapping away on a tablet. The music started playing again. Then the nutcrackers lit up and saluted. The fans whirred, struggling to spring the deflated inflatable characters back to life, but most failed to rise from the dead. Finally, the reindeer resumed pulling Santa and his sleigh around the house.

The guy who’d punched Ira had killed the inflatable characters, but not by yanking the plug on the holiday horror show. Apparently he’d slashed quite a few before disappearing into the departing crowd. Isaac had pulled the cyber-plug on the remainder.

“Let’s get you inside,” Zack told Ira.

However, before we took more than two steps toward the house, a police cruiser with siren blaring and lights flashing, drove up to the curb, and out stepped Officers Harley and Fogarty.

I first met the local Westfield cops nearly a year ago after Karl’s bookie broke into my house. Since then, we’ve interacted on multiple occasions. At times I’ve wondered if I’ve had more face time with both men over the last year than their fellow officers, the police chief, or possibly even their wives—assuming they’re married. Neither has ever offered up any personal information, even though at this point they know some pretty intimate details about my family and me.

Meanwhile, the two cops took one look at me and shook their heads in unison. “Didn’t expect to find you here, Mrs. Pollack,” said Harley, the older, shorter, and stockier of the two.

“That would make two of us,” I said.

“Someone called 9-1-1 from this address to report a brawl in progress,” said Fogarty. “Looks pretty calm to me.”

“It was nothing,” said Ira. “My daughter shouldn’t have called you. She overreacted.”

“I did not overreact!” shouted Melody—or Harmony. She stomped down the porch steps and headed toward us. Her sister followed. With hands on hips, she confronted the officers. “They were ganging up on my father, and one of them slugged him.”

Harley and Fogarty stepped around the girls toward Zack and Shane. “Which one of you threw the punch?” asked Harley.

“It wasn’t them,” said Ira. “They came to my rescue.”

“So who hit you?” asked Harley, withdrawing a notepad and pencil from inside his jacket pocket.

Ira shook his head. “I don’t know. It all happened so fast. The guy came out of nowhere.”

Harley and Fogarty glanced around at the empty street. “Just like that and you didn’t notice him until he was in your face?”

“There was a huge crowd of people here at the time,” said Ira. “They came to see the light display.”

“And all of a sudden the crowd vanished into thin air?” asked Harley. “You got David Copperfield hiding in Santa’s sleigh?”

“No, they dispersed after the guy attacked me. Ten minutes ago the street was lined with cars and the sidewalk crowded with onlookers.”

“Yeah, we did see more traffic than normal for this time of night as we headed down the street,” admitted Fogarty.

“I guess they got scared and took off,” said Ira. “I can’t blame them. You never know with crazies these days, right?”

I noticed Ira had failed to mention the group of angry neighbors accosting him over his million-megawatt extravaganza.

“I’m confused,” said Harley. “Your daughter said they were ganging up on you. You claim one person punched you. Care to explain?”

“She’s mistaken.”

“I am not!” cried the twin in question. “There were all these people yelling about our Christmas lights.”

“We were having a discussion,” said Ira, “and the guy who socked me wasn’t part of the group I was speaking with. I told you, he came out of nowhere.”

“I can attest to that,” I said. “He nearly pushed me to the ground as he barreled his way through the crowd to get to Ira.”

Pencil poised, Harley turned to me. “Can you describe the guy, Mrs. Pollack?”

I shook my head. “Other than his build?”

“Which was?” asked Fogarty.

“Average height. Stocky.”

“That’s all?” asked Harley.

“He was bundled up in a puffy black ski jacket. So maybe he wasn’t really all that stocky but only looked stocky, and he wore a dark knit ski hat pulled low over his forehead.”

“That’s it?” asked Fogarty. “What about the rest of you?” he asked Zack, Shane, and Sophie.

“We were walking away when it happened,” said Zack. “Our backs were turned to Ira. We didn’t realize the guy punched him until someone screamed and Ira’s kid turned off the lights and music. Everyone else quickly fled the area.”

Harley turned his attention to Melody, Harmony, and Isaac. “Which one of you turned off the display?”

The twins motioned toward their brother on the porch.

“Come down here, son,” called Harley.

“I’m not your son.”

“Get down here anyway.”

Isaac took his time walking the several feet to where we all stood.

“Why did you turn everything off?” asked Harley.

“To get them to leave.”

“Who?” asked Fogarty. “The people who’d come to see the display?”

“No, the guys yelling about it. It’s our house. Why can’t we have as many lights as we want?”

“Yeah,” piped in Harmony—or Melody. They have no right to tell us what we can and can’t do.”

“So who were the people yelling at your father?” asked Harley.

“The stupid neighbors,” said one of the girls.

“No one was yelling at me,” said Ira.

“They were, too,” said Isaac. “I hate this town. Why’d we have to move here?”

“Yeah,” agreed one of his sisters. “The people here suck. Everyone loved our Christmas displays at our old house.”

Her sister chimed in. “There were contests each year for who had the best display. We did a new one each year and always took First Place.”

I suppose that explained all the lights and inflatable characters that found their way to my house. Ira had probably gifted me with some of last year’s winning decorations.

“People here hate Christmas,” said Isaac.

Harley turned back to Ira. “Who were the neighbors arguing with you?”

“I told you,” said Ira, “we weren’t arguing.”

Harley sighed his impatience. “Let me rephrase, then. “Who were the neighbors having a discussion with you about your Christmas display?”

“They didn’t introduce themselves.”

“You don’t know any of your neighbors?” asked Fogarty.

“We just moved in this past weekend.”

“I’m guessing they didn’t bring a basket of muffins to welcome you to the neighborhood,” said Fogarty.

His partner frowned at him. “So, if you’re only here a few days, and you claim there were crowds of people clogging the street and sidewalk,” he waved toward the house, “how’d people know about all of this?”

Ira glanced down at his son. “I posted on Snapchat and Instagram,” said Isaac.

Why did that not surprise me?

“Were the neighbors upset over the crowds of strangers on the street?” asked Harley.

Ira nodded.

“Nothing else?”

“Everything,” said Isaac. “They said it was tacky and trashy.”

The officers eyed the display just as the eight reindeer rounded the house once again and Santa waved at us from his sleigh. “Can’t imagine why they’d think that,” said Fogarty.

Seriously? I certainly hoped he was going for sarcasm. I have nothing against tasteful holiday décor. I’ve seen some truly elegant, brightly lit displays over the years in our town, but what Ira had created was neither tasteful nor elegant.

“I know,” said Isaac, nodding in agreement with Fogarty. “Isn’t it the coolest thing ever?”

Sophie looked over at me and executed an exaggerated eye roll. I thought she’d burst out laughing at any moment.

“Getting back to the guy who punched you,” said Harley, returning his attention to Ira. “Anyone else ticked off with you for some reason?”

Ira smiled at them. “Of course not, Officer. To know me is to love me.” He nodded toward me. “Just ask my sister-in-law.”

My jaw dropped as Harley and Fogarty turned to face me. What was I expected to say? The only words that came to mind sounded really lame when I uttered them. “Half-sister-in-law. He’s my deceased husband’s half-brother.” Maybe they already knew that. At the moment I couldn’t remember if the officers had ever met Ira on one of their many visits to my home.

Meanwhile, my toes had officially morphed into ice cubes. I’d witnessed murder investigations that entailed less questioning. Someone needed to move this encounter along before we all succumbed to frostbite. Since no one else was stepping forward, I nominated myself. “I don’t know what more we can tell you, Officers.”

Harley flipped his notebook closed. “Not much to go on here, especially if you don’t care to cooperate, Mr. Pollack.”

“You know what I know, Officer.”

Harley eyed Ira skeptically. “Keep in mind perps often strike again. You’re absolutely sure you didn’t recognize the guy?”

Ira shrugged. “I’m sure whoever it was probably just had too much to drink. Maybe he was on the wrong block.”

Right. Too bad Harley and Fogarty couldn’t question Santa, the reindeer, the nutcrackers, and the inflatable cartoon characters. They’d probably be far more forthcoming than Ira. Maybe the Elf on the Shelf had been staring out the window and witnessed something.

Before leaving, Harley said, “Mr. Pollack, if you want to maintain a good relationship with your new neighbors, I suggest you lower the volume on your music and shut everything down for the night at a reasonable hour. You wouldn’t want anyone filing a complaint against you.”

“For what?” asked Isaac. “We haven’t done anything wrong. They were doing all the yelling and punching.”

“Disturbing the peace,” said Fogarty.

“And keep your son off social media,” added Harley. “We don’t need an influx of lookie-loos blocking our streets and creating a traffic nightmare.”

Too late for that. Once something is posted on social media, it lives forever.

“Who do they think they are?” asked Melody—or Harmony—as Harley and Fogarty returned to their squad car.

“They can’t make me stay off social media,” said Isaac.

I doubted Ira had enough control over his kids to get them to do anything they didn’t want to do. I certainly had never seen any effort in that direction. Melody, Harmony, and Isaac had their father wrapped around their spoiled pinkies. Did Ira realize he could face charges should Isaac’s actions jeopardize public safety from the increased traffic?

Isaac stomped off toward the house, followed by his sisters. The last one to cross the transom slammed the door.

“Why don’t you all come in?” suggested Ira. “I’ll make hot cocoa.”

“I don’t think so,” I said. “It’s getting late. I’m sure you have to get your kids ready for bed.”

“And I have homework to finish,” said Sophie.

Ira looked like we’d just told him there was no Santa Claus. “What about Christmas?” he asked. “You will come for Christmas, won’t you, Anastasia?”

“I don’t know, Ira, I—”

“We could do brunch. Or lunch. Or dinner. You choose. Please say you’ll come.”

At some point I’d run out of excuses for avoiding Ira and his brood, especially now that they lived in the same town. I hated to hurt his feelings, but the last thing I wanted was to spend Christmas with Ira. Besides, my sons would never forgive me for ruining their holiday if I forced them to spend it with their half-relatives.

For the second time that evening my brain went AWOL. Before I could send out a search party, Sophie said, “Anastasia and her family are spending Christmas with Dad and me. We’re having brunch together, then spending the day serving Christmas dinners to the homeless in Plainfield.”

Nothing like having your teenage son’s girlfriend save your bacon, even if these plans were news to me. Had Sophie made them up on the spot, or had Alex forgotten to mention he’d nominated us for a day of volunteering? Not that I was complaining. What better way to spend Christmas than to remember its true meaning?

Ira studied us, as if trying to ascertain whether Sophie had told the truth. Finally, he said, “That’s very…noble of all of you.” Then he added, “Why not drop by for some eggnog afterwards? I’m sure you’ll be ready to relax at that point.”

Relax with Ira and his kids? Being with Ira, Melody, Harmony, and Isaac was the complete antithesis of relaxation.

I suppose I could put off the inevitable only so long, though. At some point I’d have to accept an invitation from Ira, and a cup of eggnog definitely outweighed a meal. With any luck, we could be in and out in under an hour. “That sounds lovely,” I told him. “I’ll text you when we’re on our way.” Maybe we’d be too exhausted, and I could use that as an excuse for not showing up. Or if we did go, we could plead fatigue and only stay long enough for a quick house tour.

“Wonderful! I promise, you’ll be thrilled you came.”

Thrilled? What did he imply by that? And did I really want to know?

~*~

As we hiked back toward Shane’s house, he asked, “So what brought you to the neighborhood this evening if not to see Ira’s sideshow? You never did say.”

I told him about the Peanuts gang, the Minions, and the Grinch, all currently cooling their collapsed tootsies in the trunk and across the backseat of my Jetta.

“We could drive back over there now to return them,” said Zack.

“I think I’ve had enough Ira drama for one night. I’ll drop them off before work tomorrow morning. It’s on the way, and I’ll have an excuse for not staying.”

“And if you’re lucky, Ira will have already left for the day?”

“That, too.” Zack knew me too well, but sometimes life is easier if you take the coward’s way out.

I turned to Sophie. “So…about Christmas?”

“What about it?”

“Am I the last to know?”

In the glow of a nearby streetlight, I saw her brows knit together in confusion. “Alex didn’t tell you?”

“No.”

“I texted him earlier.” She withdrew her phone from her jacket pocket. After yanking her mittens off with her teeth, she tapped the screen several times, then handed me the phone. Sure enough, there was a text to Alex about feeding the homeless on Christmas.

“He was helping load all of the unwanted lawn decorations into my car,” I said, returning the phone. “He must not have heard his phone ping.”

“You’ll come, won’t you?” she asked.

“Of course.” After what Shane had recently done for Alex, there wasn’t anything I wouldn’t do for him and his daughter. Spending a few hours helping the homeless hardly compared to a full ride at Harvard.

After Karl had drained the boys’ college accounts, Alex had resigned himself to attending community college next year. We could no longer afford Rutgers, let alone his Ivy League dream school. Meeting Shane and Sophie changed all that. Karl may have pulled the rug out from under us, but Shane and his private foundation had supplied a cushioned landing after I thwarted a kidnapping and cleared him of a murder rap.

When we arrived back at his house, the benefactor in question said, “I know you turned down Ira, but I make a mean Mexican hot cocoa.”

“I’d love some,” I said. “I need something to thaw me out.”

“I thought that was my job,” said Zack.

“There’s thawing and then there’s thawing,” I said.

“TMI,” said Sophie.

~*~

The next morning, I left the house half an hour early in order to deliver the Grinch and company to their rightful owner. I heard Lucille snoring away as I passed her bedroom. Alex and Nick had already driven to school, and Zack had taken off earlier for a meeting in D.C.

Zack is a world-renowned photojournalist who works for the Smithsonian, the National Geographic Society, and the World Wildlife Fund, among others. Personally, I think the photo gig is a cover for his real work as a government operative for one of the alphabet agencies—FBI, CIA, NSA—take your pick. He claims I’m delusional, but isn’t that what every spy would say?

A fresh inch or two of snow covered the world while flurries continued to dance in the air. I cranked the Jetta’s engine, turned the heater to full blast, and set about brushing snow from my car.

Ten minutes later I pulled out of my driveway as daybreak filtered through the remnants of the frigid night sky. I took my time, wary of hidden black ice that could result in a fender-bender. Or worse.

I arrived at Ira’s house to find his Christmas lights on, half the cartoon characters still dead in the snow, the remainder waving in the breeze, and the reindeer still hauling Santa around the track. At least Ira had had the common sense to turn off the music overnight. Or maybe he’d adjusted the app so Isaac could no longer control the sound feature.

I stepped from my car, leaving the motor running while I fulfilled my task. As I walked toward the house with my first armload of Peanuts characters, I realized not a single interior light was on, at least none I could see. I climbed the steps and deposited Lucy and Linus on the porch floor. Then I peered through one of the windows that looked out onto the porch. The entire downstairs was enveloped in darkness. I listened at the front door for movement within but heard nothing other than the whirring of the fans that kept the lawn decorations inflated and the clickity-clack of the reindeer and sleigh as it made its way around the track.

I hadn’t planned to dump and run. Really. However, it didn’t appear that anyone was awake yet. Wouldn’t it be better to leave everything on the porch and call Ira later to explain? I saw my decision as considerate rather than cowardly. At least that’s what I convinced myself as I headed back to the car for another load.

I wrestled the Grinch from the car and half-carried, half-dragged him along the path. The reindeer and I arrived at the intersection of the path and tracks at exactly the same moment. I had no choice but to allow them the right of way. I waited. And waited. And waited. They were definitely taking their time this morning, hardly traveling at prancing speed. Then again, even mechanical reindeer probably grew sluggish after pulling Santa all night.

But I needed to get to work. My fingers and toes were turning to icicles, and I still had quite a few characters to remove from my car. Rather than wait any longer, I dropped the Grinch in front of the tracks and returned to the car to haul out Snoopy and his doghouse.

The last reindeer was crossing the path as I returned, Santa’s sleigh following closely behind. As the giant red sleigh pulled in front of me, I realized why the reindeer were struggling to pull their load. Santa had company. Dead company.

THREE

With all the bodies I’ve encountered over the last year, you’d think I’d become used to seeing dead people. I hadn’t, and I seriously doubted I ever would. As the sleigh crossed my path, I let loose a scream guaranteed to wake everyone on Prospect Street, if not all of Westfield.

Strangely enough, no one came running. Were all the surrounding homes soundproofed, or did people no longer care about their neighbors? Perhaps some had glanced out their windows but chose to turn a deaf ear, given where I stood. Too many of them had come to verbal fisticuffs with the property’s new homeowner last night—not to mention one person who’d employed an actual fist.

By this time the reindeer and sleigh had rounded the house and were out of sight. Although it traveled at a snail’s pace, I hadn’t been able to identify the corpse. He—although it could very well be a she—was sprawled facedown across Santa’s lap. A blanket of snow covered the body, leaving only a lumpy mound.

Was it Ira? Is that why there was no sign of activity within the house? Were his kids still sleeping, unaware their father was lying dead in Santa’s sleigh?

I dropped Snoopy and his doghouse alongside the Grinch, raced back to my car, slammed the trunk, climbed into the driver’s seat, and locked the doors. Then I pulled out my phone, called 9-1-1, and waited for the police to arrive.

Within minutes I heard police sirens. Shortly thereafter a squad car pulled up behind me, followed seconds later by an unmarked car. Two officers I didn’t know stepped from the squad car while Detective Sam Spader hefted himself out from behind the wheel of his unmarked vehicle. When I exited my car, he took one look at me and shook his head. “Why am I not surprised?”

Detective Spader and I had history, going back to last summer when my mother-in-law became the prime suspect in the strangulation murder of her rehab roommate. Since then, we’ve interacted on far too many occasions, but I’ve earned his grudging respect—emphasis on grudging. I doubt any homicide detective likes an amateur upstaging him when it comes to solving a case.

Spader appeared more rumpled and haggard than usual. The dark circles and bags under his eyes made me wonder when he’d last slept. An overabundance of booze, cigarettes, and fast food had taken their toll over the years, and although he’d recently started paying attention to what he put into his body, he had a long way to go to counteract decades of bad health decisions.

Too late it occurred to me that I should have trashed Ira’s unwelcome gifts. That way someone else would have discovered the corpse. Then again, that someone else might have been a group of young children on their way to school.

By arriving at Ira’s this morning, I’d saved any number of parents countless years of therapy for their kids and tens of thousands of dollars. Not that I was giving myself a pat on the back. I should probably be in therapy myself to help me come to terms with all the dead bodies I keep discovering. But since therapy sessions cost Benjamins, and I have none to spare, wine would have to suffice.

“So, where’s this corpse?” asked Spader, scanning the Christmas-cluttered yard. “Other than the dead characters scattered around the yard.”

“Give it a minute,” I said. “It’s on its way.”

If I were anyone else, I’d now be cuffed and in the back of the squad car. Luckily, Detective Spader knew me well enough by now that if I said there was a dead body, he knew there was a dead body, even if he couldn’t see it—yet. So instead of hauling my tush to the hoosegow for reporting a phony crime, he merely heaved a long, loud sigh and said, “It’s way too early in the morning for games, Mrs. Pollack.”

At that moment the reindeer rounded the side of the house and slowly made their way across the front yard. “Here it comes now,” I said. “Check out Santa’s lap.”

Spader and the two uniformed officers strode across the yard to greet Santa. I followed. Spader took one look inside the sleigh, then told the officers, “Fischer, alert CSU to get over here ASAP. Norbert, figure out where the plug is to this thing and pull it.” 

Spader turned to me next. “Any idea who the deceased is?”

“Not without seeing his face. I’m hoping it’s not my half-brother-in-law.”

“Tuttnauer’s son-in-law?” Spader’s eyebrows disappeared under his standard issue knit cop cap. He knew all about Ira and his family ties to Lawrence Tuttnauer, who along with being Ira’s ex-father-in-law, was also a murderer, mob money launderer, and my mother’s ex-husband.

“The only half-brother-in-law I have.” At least I hoped Ira was Karl’s only half-sibling. Who knew what Isidore had been up to after he walked out on Lucille and before he married Ira’s mother? Or even afterwards? Isidore Pollack could have been a serial philanderer for all I knew.

Spader turned his attention to the darkened McMansion. “He lives here?”

I nodded. 

“Since when?”

“Moved in over the weekend.”

“Did you try ringing the doorbell?”

I hadn’t, but Spader didn’t need to know that. “It doesn’t appear anyone is home.”

“Try calling him.”

I jogged back to my car and fished my phone out of my purse. The non-dead Ira answered on the second ring. I exhaled my relief as he said, “Good morning, Anastasia. What a pleasant surprise!”

He wouldn’t think so in a minute. “Where are you, Ira?”

“I’m taking the kids to school. They’re finishing up the semester at their old school. What can I do for you?”

“Hold on a second.” I pressed the phone against my coat so Ira couldn’t hear me as I relayed the information to the detective.

Spader extended his beefy, calloused palm toward me. “Let me speak with him.” He held the phone up to his ear and said, “Mr. Pollack, this is Detective Sam Spader of the Union County Police. I’m afraid there’s been an incident at your home. I need you to return immediately.”

He paused for a moment, then said, “I’d rather discuss that when you get here, sir.” Another pause. “No, not a fire. We’ll wait for you.” Spader ended the call before handing the phone back to me.

“I found a series of power strips,” Norbert called from the porch. “You want me to wait until the sleigh comes around again before shutting down everything?”

“If we keep the body in the backyard,” said Fischer, “we might draw less of a crowd.”

“The more the merrier,” said Spader. “There was an incident here last night. I want the two of you to start taking names as people begin to gather. Get witness statements. We’ll also need to check security footage from surrounding homes.”

“I was here last night,” I told Spader.

“Again, why am I not surprised?” He whipped out his trusty spiral notepad and with pencil poised, said, “Let’s hear it, Mrs. Pollack.”

I told him why Zack and I had driven over last night and related what I’d observed of Ira’s encounter with his neighbors and the punch that sent everyone scurrying for their homes and cars.

“What brought you back this morning?”

“Last night’s rotten timing. I’m not in the habit of kicking a man when he’s down.”

Spader gestured toward the pile I’d dropped near the tracks. “I suppose that explains Snoopy and the Grinch?”

“Lucy and Linus are already on the porch. The remainder of the Peanuts gang and half a dozen Minions are still in my car.”

Spader laughed. “Mrs. Pollack, you’re the only person I know who could make such a statement with a straight face.”

“I don’t suppose I can continue to unload them.”

“I’m afraid not. As I’m sure you’re aware, this is now an active crime scene.”

I was afraid of that. “May I at least leave? I need to get to work.”

“I don’t see why not. After all I know where to find you. But aren’t you dying to know—”

I raised an eyebrow. “Dying? Really Detective?”

“Poor choice of words, but aren’t you curious to know who our victim is?”

“Absolutely. No one I know is missing, though.” At least I hoped that was the case. Wouldn’t I have heard? “And as much as I feel for the victim—whoever that might be—I can’t afford to lose half a day’s pay by hanging around to find out. I’m sure you’ll inform me at some point, right?” If nothing else, I’d hear it on the news.

At that moment CSU pulled up to the house. “Looks like we’re about to find out,” he said. “Stick around, Mrs. Pollack.”

Rather than risking frostbite, I opted to sit in my car until Spader called me back to the sleigh. Not knowing how long I’d have to wait, I cranked up the heat and pulled out my phone to shoot off a text to my usually understanding editor-in-chief: Unavoidably detained. Might be late to staff meeting.

As I warmed my tootsies, a group of curious onlookers gathered on the snow-covered sidewalk. A screaming woman hadn’t roused their curiosity enough for them to venture out into the bitter early morning cold, but a CSU van on their street drew them like vultures to carrion. As the crowd continued to grow, Officers Fischer and Norbert questioned each newcomer.

After about fifteen minutes Spader elbowed his way through the gathering, rapped on my window to draw my attention away from my phone, and beckoned me to follow him back to the sleigh. Before stepping out of my car, this time I turned off the engine and grabbed my purse. For good measure I locked the door behind me. The last thing I needed was someone hopping into my running Jetta and taking it for a joyride. Not that many Westfield residents would pull such a stunt, but anyone who had committed murder wouldn’t think twice about stealing a car.

As Spader shepherded me toward the sleigh, he said, “The crime scene team isn’t finished, but they’ve uncovered enough of the vic to get a look at his face. I want to know if you can ID him. Just don’t touch anything.”

“This isn’t my first rodeo, Detective.”

“Consider it a routine disclaimer, Mrs. Pollack.” Something then caught his attention over my shoulder, and he muttered under his breath, “Son of a—”

I pivoted to see what had riled him and discovered a news van in the process of parallel parking across the street. “We’re going to need backup,” he called to Fischer and Norbert.

“On it, Detective,” said Fischer.

“How many does this make?” asked Spader as we continued toward the sleigh.

Huh? “How many does what make?”

“Dead bodies. What’s your current count, Mrs. Pollack?”

“I’m not keeping score.”

“Maybe you should. At the rate you’re going, you’re probably closing in on Jessica Fletcher’s record.”

“I hope not.” If I never came across another dead body, I’d die happy.

We had arrived at the sleigh. Spader requested the CSU team step aside, then waved me forward. I peered into the sleigh. The snow had been brushed off the body. The man wore a black puffy ski jacket. He lay with the left side of his head cushioned in Santa’s lap, the right side visible. Someone had pulled off the ski mask covering his head and face.

“So?” asked Spader. “Any idea who he is?”

“I’m pretty sure it’s the guy who slammed into me last night before sucker-punching Ira.”

“Only pretty sure?”

I shrugged my shoulders and shook my head. “Sorry. I didn’t see him for more than a split second, and never saw his face. All I can tell you for sure is that this man has a similar build, and his clothes match those of the guy last night.”

“Assuming this is the guy from last night, you’re positive you’ve never seen him before?”

“Positive. I have no idea who he is. He didn’t have any ID on him?”

“None.”

“I wish I could be more helpful, Detective.”

“That makes two of us, Mrs. Pollack.”

“Maybe one of the neighbors can identify him.”

“Or your brother-in-law when he shows up.”

“Half-brother-in-law. And you don’t think Ira had anything to do with this guy’s murder, do you?”

“Shouldn’t I? The victim is most likely the guy who decked him last night. This morning he shows up dead in your half-brother-in-law’s yard.”

“Which is exactly why you should rule Ira out as a suspect. How stupid would he have to be to leave the body on his own property?”

“Point taken. Unless he deliberately left him here because we’d think he’d never do something so stupid.”

“Reverse psychology? I hadn’t thought of that.”

Spader offered me a catbird grin. “Your tax dollars at work, Mrs. Pollack. That’s why you pay me the big bucks.”

Part of me wanted to ask Spader if I could withhold some of my taxes as compensation for the previous murders I’d solved for him. However, discretion being the better part of valor, I held my tongue and only asked, “Okay if I leave now?”

“You don’t want to hang around to help solve this case?”

“As much as I enjoy your company, Detective, I’ll leave you to the wintry elements and opt for my warm office.”

“Wuss.”

“And proud of it.” I waved goodbye and added, “Good luck, Detective. May you swiftly solve your case.”

As I turned to leave, he stopped me in my tracks by asking, “Even if it means arresting Ira Pollack for murder?”

FOUR

I truly believed that Ira wouldn’t hurt a fly, let alone kill another human being, but in the criminal justice system, my opinion meant bupkis. Innocent people are arrested every single day, and often the wheels of justice don’t spin very quickly toward their exoneration.

I also had to admit to ulterior motives in championing Ira’s innocence. Without a doubt, I knew if Spader arrested him, Ira would plead with me to take his kids. Personally, I’d rather have all the Daughters of the October Revolution permanently move in with me.

“You don’t really think…that was all banter a minute ago, wasn’t it?”

“I have to follow every lead, Mrs. Pollack. You know that.”

“I know. But I also know, even though Ira has his faults and he can be a royal pain in my patootie, the man is not capable of murder.”

He cocked his head and stared at me. “Really? You were singing a different tune only days ago when you called me about Tommy Gravino.”

“That was different.” Tommy Gravino was a worthless delinquent hired to intimidate me. His goal in life was to become a made man. By accident I’d discovered his father and Ira were good friends, having grown up next door to each other.

Given the familial connection between Ira and Lawrence Tuttnauer, I began second-guessing Ira’s motives, which led me to freak out and call Spader. “You assured me the Gravinos were upstanding citizens with no connections to organized crime. You claimed Tommy’s the black sheep of the family—with a lower-case f, not Family as in one of the Five Families.”

“All true, but I never offered you the same assurance regarding Ira Pollack.”

Ominous background music began playing inside my head. “Is there something you’re not telling me, Detective?”

“Just that I don’t know what will scurry out when I start turning over rocks. You need to prepare yourself for any and all possibilities.”

Knowing how much Melody, Harmony, and Isaac disliked me, perhaps they’d prefer to attend boarding school in Switzerland. Ira could certainly afford the tuition, even after hiring the best criminal defense attorneys in the state. Maybe I was needlessly tying myself up in macramé knots. Surely the real killer would crawl out from under one of those overturned rocks.

However, telling myself not to worry was like force-feeding amphetamines down the gullet of my worrywart genes. As a result, I spent the next sixty-five minutes driving to work with one worst-case scenario after another bombarding my brain.

~*~

I work as the crafts editor for American Woman, a third-rate monthly women’s magazine sold at supermarket checkout lines. We used to be headquartered in Manhattan. Commuting had entailed a short walk to the train station, followed by half an hour on NJ Transit. When Trimedia gobbled up the Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company in a hostile takeover a few years ago, the conglomerate moved us to the outskirts of a cornfield in Morris County, New Jersey.

I now spend most days in hour-long or worse, bumper-to-bumper traffic on my daily commute. This morning I’d given myself plenty of extra time to drop the Christmas critters at Ira’s house. Of course, I hadn’t factored in being waylaid by a snow-covered corpse, not to mention an overturned tractor-trailer on the highway.

By the time I arrived at work, I was two hours late. After dumping my coat, purse, and tote bag in my cubicle, I raced to the conference room, knowing our monthly staff meeting was well underway. When I opened the door and stepped inside, the room grew silent as everyone turned in my direction. “Sorry, I’m late,” I mumbled as I took my seat next to Cloris McWerther, our food editor and my best friend.

“You look frazzled,” said Naomi Dreyfus, our editor-in-chief. “Everything okay?”

“Things could be better. There was an incident in Westfield this morning.”

“Don’t tell me you stumbled across another dead body,” said Cloris, punctuating her words with a chuckle.

When I didn’t immediately answer, her mouth dropped open. “You did, didn’t you?” She jumped up and headed for the coffee pot. A moment later she returned, placing a mug of steaming java and a freshly baked croissant in front of me. Cloris believes caffeine and baked goods always help you get through the worst of circumstances. I am a devout disciple.

“Jeez!” said fashion editor Tessa Lisbon. “You’re a regular Typhoid Mary.”

I clutched the coffee mug with both hands. “I don’t go around spreading killer germs.”

“Does it matter? People still wind up dead.”

What was it about fashion editors? Although not as nasty as Marlys Vandenberg, her predecessor and the first dead body I’d discovered in a year of dead bodies, Tessa was still an arrogant snob. She took great pleasure in continually reminding us that fashion represented the lion’s share of our magazine’s ad revenues. In other words, we owed our ongoing employment to her.

“Who was it?” asked Jeanie Sims, our decorating editor.

I shook my head. “I don’t know. Neither do the police at this point.”

“Where did you find him?” asked health editor Janice Kerr.

I had no desire to explain what had led to my early morning discovery. Thankfully, Naomi put a stop to the conversation with a loud clearing of her throat. Had she picked up on my discomfort, or did she merely want to regain control of her staff meeting? The reason didn’t matter to me as long as I no longer found myself the center of attention.

“We’ve already picked the theme and outlined the editorial features for the May issue,” said Naomi. “Except for the crafts segment. We’re switching things up rather than doing a traditional Mother’s Day theme.”

“We’re not doing Mother’s Day?” I asked. “Isn’t that a bit risky?”

“We’ll still do Mother’s Day,” she said, “just not in the usual sense. We’re going to incorporate some unusual May holidays along with Mother’s Day.”

Naomi passed me a sheet of paper. “These are the various daily, weekly, and monthly holidays for May. Each editor chose one holiday to incorporate with Mother’s Day. You need to choose one.”

A quick scan revealed a list of the usual May holidays—May Day, Cinco de Mayo, Mother’s Day, and Memorial Day—along with some rather unusual ones. Who knew there was a Lumpy Rug Day? Or a World Naked Gardening Day? Or that the entire month of May was devoted to an ongoing celebration of vinegar?

I studied the sheet of paper in greater detail. With few exceptions, most concerned health or food. There were designated holidays to bring awareness to obscure diseases, people I’d never heard of, and dozens of foods and beverages, ranging from chocolate chips to mimosas. Easy pickings for Cloris and Janice. Our beauty, fashion, and travel editors had fewer options, but I could see where several would work for each of them.

“National Scrapbooking Day would’ve been the obvious choice,” I said, shaking my head.

“If we hadn’t featured scrapbooking in a recent issue,” agreed Naomi.

Decorating editor Jeanie Sims and I often dovetailed our spreads. I turned to her. “What did you choose?”

“National Photography Month. I’ll do something on unique ways to frame and display family photos and memorabilia.”

I sighed. “The only other option I see is National Creativity Day. At least it gives me a wide variety of options.”

“What about National Lost Sock Memorial Day?” asked Jeanie. “Aren’t there plenty of craft projects you can make with socks?”

I laughed. “As gifts for mothers? How many women do you know who would appreciate a sock monkey for Mother’s Day?”

She shrugged. “I suppose only the ones who collect sock monkeys.”

“I doubt many of our subscribers fall into that category,” said Naomi. “Go with National Creativity Day, Anastasia. Brainstorm with the other editors. Maybe you can come up with an idea that complements one of their features.” After I nodded in agreement, she said, “All right, ladies. Let’s move on to status reports for the issues already in various stages of production before we break for lunch.”

~*~

“So exactly what happened this morning?” asked Cloris as we headed back to our cubicles after the meeting.

I filled her in on everything from finding the Grinch and his buddies camped out in my front yard last night to discovering the dead guy sprawled across Santa’s lap this morning.

“You do lead an interesting life,” she said.

“Dull and boring are far less stressful.”

“I have a couple of chocolate amaretto cupcakes hidden away if you need one later.”

“Boozy cupcakes? Why wait?” Along with caffeine and baked goods, chocolate and booze are the other two staples of my diet.

Between the items Cloris constantly receives from food companies, the goodies she bakes for her monthly recipe column, and my lack of both willpower and exercise, I’d long ago resigned myself to accepting my slightly overweight, pear-shaped figure. She, on the other hand, ate whatever she wanted, whenever she wanted, and never added a pound to her size-two figure.

I envied her metabolism. If she weren’t my best friend and hadn’t once saved my life, I’d probably hate her. Instead, I loved her like the sister I’ve never had. “I’ll grab two cups of coffee. You break out your secret stash.”

Five minutes later we were holed away in her cubicle, savoring those alcohol-soaked cupcakes. My taste buds were luxuriating in gastronomic nirvana when my cell phone rang. I glanced at the display and groaned. “Ira.”

“You could ignore the call,” said Cloris.

“I’d only be putting off the inevitable.” I took a final swig of coffee to fortify myself, then answered the phone. “Hello, Ira.”

“Anastasia, did you leave the Grinch and Snoopy on my walk and the other Peanuts characters on my porch?”

“That’s what you’re calling about? Not the dead body in your sleigh?”

“Well, I don’t know who he is. The guy was obviously drunk last night. He probably returned, passed out in the sleigh, and froze to death.”

“Is that what Detective Spader told you, that he froze to death?”

“No, he said they won’t know cause of death until the medical examiner performs an autopsy, but what else could it be?”

“Gee, Ira, I don’t know. Maybe murder?”

“You don’t think I had anything to do with his death, do you?”

“Of course not, but dozens of people saw him punch you in the face last night. If he didn’t die of natural causes, you’re the prime suspect.”

“I’m not worried. I never touched the guy. I’m the one who landed flat on my back. Now, about those lawn ornaments, I don’t understand why you returned some of them.”

“My intention was to return all of them. That dead body prevented me from completing my task.”

“But why?”

I pointed to my phone and mouthed, “Clueless” to Cloris. She rolled her eyes at me.

“Why did finding a dead body on your property keep me from finishing?” I asked.

“No, why would you return them? I thought you and the boys would love my surprise.”

“Look, Ira, I really don’t want to hurt your feelings, but no more surprises, please.”

“I didn’t buy them for you. They were from last year’s display.”

“It’s not about the money, Ira.”

“Then what?”

“Just promise me you’ll ask first next time. About anything. Okay?”

He let loose a long sigh. “All right. If you insist. I suppose I can use them in place of the ones that were destroyed last night, even though the kids insist on a new display each year. However, I really don’t understand why you have so much trouble accepting gifts from me. After all, we are family.”

He never would understand, and judging from past experience, he’d comply with my request only until he decided to gift me with something else. Still, I had to keep trying. Even the most difficult-to-train dog eventually learns not to pee in the house—at least until he grows old and infirmed. Ira was neither old nor infirmed. “I insist.”

~*~

I spent the remainder of the workday answering reader mail, uploading a new craft project to our website, and waiting for inspiration to strike regarding the May issue. The afternoon mail brought a pile of Christmas cards from vendors and one from Tino Martinelli. “Hey,” I called across the hall to Cloris. “Look who sent me a Christmas card.”

She stepped into my cubicle and grabbed the card from my hand. “Tino Martinelli? What’s he up to?”

Tino and I had crossed paths when Trimedia’s former CEO Alfred Gruenwald had hired me to find his mistress’s killer. The thirty-something ex-marine had worked as Gruenwald’s private right-hand guy. I hadn’t seen him since the police made an arrest in the murders of Philomena Campanello and Norma Gene. After scanning the enclosed letter, I said, “He parted ways with Gruenwald shortly after the arrests and took a position with a security firm. Says the pay is good but the work is boring, nothing like our little adventure. He misses me.”

Cloris rolled her eyes. “That little adventure could have gotten you killed.”

“Don’t remind me.”

“If you write back to him, tell him to stay out of trouble.”

“I think he got that message a while ago. He made a huge mistake and nearly paid dearly for it, but he learned his lesson.”

“I hope so. That one lapse of judgment could have ruined his life—not to mention yours.”

“But he did the right thing in the end.”

“Yeah, all in all, he was a pretty cool dude.”

“Not to mention easy on the eyes?”

“That, too.”

At five o’clock I powered down my computer, packed up, and set off on my nightly bumper-to-bumper, homeward bound commute. Detective Spader called shortly after I exited Rt. 78 in Scotch Plains. “We’ve ID’d the deceased,” he said. “His name is Dion Leonides. Ring a bell?”

I mulled the name over in my head as I coasted to a stop for a red light. “I don’t think so. Should it?”

“Have you seen any local news today?”

“No, why?”

“An arsonist struck a home in Mountainside last night, across Rt. 22 not far from Pollack’s home.”

“Now that you mention it,” I said, “I remember hearing quite a few sirens last night, but only one patrol car showed up at Ira’s house after the fight.”

“They were on their way to the fire. Emergency crews from several surrounding towns were called in, including Westfield. Luckily, no one was home at the time.”

“What does the fire have to do with Dion Leonides?”

“It was his house.”

“He torched his own home?”

“I didn’t say that.”

“But you know it was arson.”

“According to the fire marshal.”

The light changed, and I continued toward Westfield. “Well, it certainly wasn’t Ira. He was being harangued by his neighbors at the time I heard the sirens last night.”

“But you and I both know he has connections to men who wouldn’t think twice about torching a residence for the right price.”

“That’s something his ex-father-in-law would do, not Ira. Besides, what would be his motive? Leonides confronted him after the fire started.”

“That’s what I have to find out. And speaking of Leonides, I got the ME’s report.” He paused for a moment. “Interested?”

“Of course.”

“Dion Leonides was murdered.”

FIVE

I suppose, given my track record with dead bodies, it was a long shot to hope the medical examiner’s report would indicate Leonides had frozen to death because he’d been too drunk to know he’d face-planted on Santa’s lap. “How?” I asked.

“Shot.”

“I didn’t notice any blood.”

“That’s because he was killed elsewhere. The body was moved.”

“But why to Ira’s house?”

“That’s the million-dollar question. Along with why the vic attacked Pollack prior to his murder. According to several witnesses who’ve come forward, he yelled at Pollack before punching him and slashing those Christmas balloons. Did you forget to mention that, Mrs. Pollack? Or are you withholding information to protect your brother-in-law?”

“Half-brother-in-law. And no, I’m not. The music was blaring. I don’t remember hearing him shout anything. Besides, I would think, Detective, that by now you know me well enough that I’d never do such a thing, no matter how strongly I believed in someone’s innocence.”

“How I feel about you doesn’t matter. I still had to ask. It’s my job.”

“Fair enough.”

“I also have to investigate any connection between Pollack and Leonides.”

“Ira already told Harley and Fogarty he didn’t recognize the guy who slugged him.” 

“That wouldn’t negate a connection of some sort.”

“What do you mean?”

“Even if he didn’t know Leonides—and I have no proof that’s the case at this point—I’m betting he knows the guy who dumped Leonides in his yard.”

“So you no longer believe Ira’s using reverse psychology to deflect suspicion from himself and send the police on a wild goose chase?”

“I didn’t say that. All options are still on the table.”

“Have you talked to Ira?”

“I wanted to speak with you first.”

“Why? To see if I know of any connection between them? I already told you I’ve never heard of the man. So how would I know of any connection between him and Ira? Ask Ira.”

“I intend to. I’m on my way to his place now.”

“Good. Don’t stop turning over those stones, Detective. Ira isn’t your killer.”

“So you’ve said. But I doubt the D.A. will take your word alone in ruling out a possible suspect.”

“Very funny.”

“I’ll make you a deal. You keep an open mind, and so will I.”

“I’ll do my best, Detective.”

“As will I. You have a nice evening, Mrs. Pollack.”

He hung up before I could wrangle any further information from him. Surely many, if not most of Ira’s neighbors, had home security systems with cameras. One of them should have video of the killer depositing Dion Leonides’ body in the sleigh on Ira’s property, but this early in the investigation his team probably hadn’t collected all the recordings, let alone viewed them.

Then again, no matter what video evidence Spader’s team uncovered, he’d use his standard line on me: “You know I can’t divulge any details of an ongoing investigation.” How many times had I heard that since our first meeting?

~*~

Five minutes later I turned onto my street and groaned at the sight of Harriet Kleinhample’s circa 1969 orange VW minibus parked in front of my house. I don’t know who was trying my patience more lately, my mother-in-law or her devoted sidekick.

Lights were on in the apartment above my garage, but Zack’s Boxster was missing from the driveway. I climbed the steps to the apartment and found Alex and Nick inside doing homework. Ralph sat perched on Alex’s shoulder. Mephisto had made himself at home on one end of the sofa. “They have the TV turned up so loud we were having trouble concentrating,” said Alex. “Even the animals were complaining.”

“It’s bad enough she stole my bedroom,” said Nick. “Now she and her friends are taking over the entire house. It’s not fair, Mom.”

I ran my hand through my hair and exhaled a sigh of frustration. “How many of them are camped out in the den?”

“Just Grandmother Lucille and Mrs. Kleinhample.”

 I left the boys to their homework and headed into the house where my eardrums were immediately attacked by an eighties disco beat. I discovered the two commies sprawled on the den sofa, a plate of cheese from my refrigerator and a box of crackers from my pantry wedged between them. An episode of Dance Moms filled the television screen.

Not that I ever really liked her, but I liked my mother-in-law a lot more back when she referred to television as the opiate of the masses. Ever since her minor stroke, for some unfathomable reason she’s become addicted to reality TV. The woman can’t get enough of everything from Dancing with the Stars to Duck Dynasty.

I spied the unattended remote and swooped in to snatch it off the end table. Then I lowered the volume below earsplitting decibels.

“Hey!” said Harriet, sputtering a mouthful of crackers that I’d later have to vacuum from the carpet and couch cushions.

“How dare you!” said Lucille.

“Your grandsons were trying to study,” I said.

“They’re not even in the house,” said Harriet.

“Because you chased them out with this racket. If you want to watch my television in my den, you’ll be considerate of the other people in this house.”

“See what I mean,” Lucille said to Harriet. “Absolutely no respect.”

Look who’s talking! As I stormed from the den, I cursed my dead husband under my breath. What did I ever do to deserve such crappy Karma? Wasn’t it bad enough he left me in debt up the wazoo? He had to stick me with the mother-in-law from Hades and her communist horde?

“When’s dinner?” Harriet called after me.

My evil alter ego yelled back. “You’re eating it.” I turned the corner from the hall into the living room and nearly collided with Zack.

“Rough day?” he asked.

“I am not feeding that woman every night. I’ve reached my limit. She can cook her own dinner in her own apartment and take Lucille with her.”

He reached for my hand and led me out of the house and back up to the apartment where the boys still had their noses buried in their books. They glanced up and greeted Zack before returning to their homework.

Ralph squawked at the sight of his favorite person in the entire world. Abandoning Alex, he flew to Zack, landing on his shoulder. Then he nuzzled Zack’s cheek until he was rewarded with a sunflower seed.

After we shed our coats, Zack poured two glasses of merlot and handed me one. I collapsed onto the sofa, threw my head back against the cushion, and closed my eyes. He took a seat next to me and asked, “So dare I ask, how was the rest of your day?”

I opened my eyes and downed half the wine before I answered. “Oh, you know, same old, same old. Another day, another murder.”

Ralph flapped his wings and squawked. “How easily murder is discovered! Titus Andronicus. Act Two, Scene Three.”

My sons’ heads shot up from their books and turned to face me, their mouths gaping open. “Not funny,” said Alex.

Was he speaking to Ralph or me?

Nick glared at me before returning to his book. Under his breath he grumbled, “So much for promises.”

Less than three weeks ago I’d promised him I’d keep my nose—as well as the rest of me—far away from murder and mayhem. As of this morning, I’d now broken that promise twice.

“It’s not like I go looking for dead bodies, Nick.”

“I’m beginning to wonder. You’re not a cat, Mom. You only have one life, and we only have one parent left.”

There are few things in life worse than the guilt trips a teenager can lay on a parent. “I’m well aware of that.”

Zack’s brow furrowed as he studied me. “You’re not joking, are you?”

“Afraid not.”

“Is it someone we know?” asked Alex, his face filled with worry.

Nick grew pale. “I didn’t think about that. It’s not, is it?”

Zack held up his hand. “Boys, maybe we should let your mother explain what happened.” When they both nodded, Zack turned to me and said, “The floor is yours.”

Since we hadn’t told the boys what had occurred at Ira’s house last night, I first had to explain why I needed to return there this morning. My sons immediately jumped to the wrong conclusion. “Uncle Ira?” asked Alex.

“The guy who decked him came back and killed him?” asked Nick. 

“No, Ira’s fine.”

“Let your mother continue,” said Zack.

I drained my entire glass of wine before detailing how I’d discovered the guy who’d attacked Ira face down in Santa’s lap. “His name is Dion Leonides, although I didn’t know that this morning. He didn’t have any ID on him.”

“Then how do you know his name?” asked Nick.

“Detective Spader called me on my way home from work. He didn’t say how he learned the man’s identity.”

“Fingerprints, probably,” said Zack.

Of course! Why hadn’t I thought of that? I inhaled a deep breath and slowly released it before continuing. “There’s more to this mystery than a dead body, though.” I turned to Zack. “Remember all those sirens we heard last night that had nothing to do with what was going on at Ira’s?”

Zack nodded. “I figured there was an accident on Rt. 22. What about them?”

“Not an accident. At the same time Leonides’ fist was connecting with Ira’s nose, his house was going up in flames a mile away. Detective Spader said someone torched it.”

“Does he think this Leonides fellow set his own house on fire?”

“He didn’t say. I suppose that’s one possibility if it took time for someone to notice the fire and report it.”

“Maybe the guy who killed him torched the house,” said Alex.

“There’s a third possibility,” said Zack.

“What?” asked Alex.

“As odd as it sounds,” said Zack, “It could be a horrible coincidence.”

“Do you really believe that?” I asked.

“No, but anything is possible. Did Spader offer any other information on Leonides?”

“Only that a few of the neighbors heard him shout something at Ira before he slugged him.”

“Like what?”

“He didn’t say.”

Zack thought for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t remember any one voice standing out over the din of the crowd, but I was focused on keeping you from falling. What about you?”

I shook my head. “Ira and Leonides were at least ten feet from where we stood. Thanks to the deafening Christmas carols, I could barely hear you, Shane, and Sophie.”

“Does Spader believe there’s a connection between Leonides and Ira?”

“None that he’s shared with me, but you know Spader. He never divulges more than he needs to.” I recounted my earlier conversation with the detective. “And you heard Ira last night. He claimed he didn’t know the guy who attacked him. But it was dark and Leonides wore a ski cap pulled down low on his head. So it’s possible Ira wouldn’t have recognized him even if he did know him.”

“True,” said Zack. “None of us picked up on that at the time.”

“Not even Harley and Fogarty. Anyway, as absurd as it seems, right now I think Ira is Spader’s prime suspect.”

Alex’s eyes grew wide. “Do you think Uncle Ira would kill someone?”

“Everyone is capable of murder,” said Zack.

“Really?” asked Nick.

“If pushed beyond their breaking point? Definitely. Just ask your mother.”

“Me? I haven’t killed anyone!”

“No, but you nearly killed Lucille and Harriet a few minutes ago.”

“I did not!”

“This time,” said Zack. He offered me a wink and a knowing grin. “They obviously haven’t pushed you far enough yet.”

Hopefully, they never will. Orange is not my color. And given my pear-shaped body, horizontal stripes in any color are a definite no-no. I gave myself a mental pat on the back. I had nothing to worry about. Zack’s opinion aside, I knew prison garb alone would be enough of a deterrent to keep me on the right side of the law. “Fear not,” I said. “I’m strictly passive-aggressive when it comes to Lucille and her minions.”

Nick pulled out his phone and glanced at the display. “It’s nearly six o’clock. Think the local news will have something about the murder?” Apparently, curiosity about the body I found in Ira’s yard had won out over his concerns for my safety. Not that I had any intention of inserting myself into another murder investigation. I would not break my promise to my son a second time. However, given my track record, I mentally crossed all my appendages.

Zack reached for the remote on the coffee table and flipped on the television. A moment later Eyewitness News flashed a banner with the night’s top story—Murder in Westfield.

One of the news anchors gave a brief intro before turning the story over to an on-scene reporter on the sidewalk in front of Ira’s home. Behind her the Christmas extravaganza stood silent and dark—no blasting music, no saluting nutcrackers. Colorful puddles of deflated nylon fabric dotted the snow-covered lawn. Eight metal reindeer stood frozen in time on the train tracks that circled the house. Santa and his sleigh were conspicuously absent from the scene, most likely now residing in the custody of a Union County evidence locker.

The reporter gave a rundown of events, including last night’s one-sided boxing match. The network had gotten hold of cell phone video of Leonides punching Ira and flashed it across the screen.

As the reporter continued, a smiling publicity photo of the victim filled the screen. He still looked like a short, stocky bodybuilder, but a jovial rather than menacing one. “The deceased is Dion Leonides, a fifty-two-year-old Mountainside real estate attorney who is also a partner in a home flipping business with his brother Paul Leonides.”

The news anchor interrupted with a question. “Darlene, is the man he punched last night a suspect in his murder?”

“Not at this time, Kent, but the police aren’t ruling anyone out.”

“I understand there are a few bizarre twists to this murder, correct?”

“That’s right. First, prior to the murder last night, an arsonist set fire to the victim’s house, burning it to the ground.” The screen filled with the charred remains of the Mountainside home. “Luckily, no one was home at the time, but two firemen suffered minor injuries.”

“Do the police believe the two incidents are connected, Darlene?”

The camera switched back to the reporter. “They haven’t said, Kent. Arson investigators are still sifting through the remains of the house, and the police are in the process of interviewing neighbors at both locations, as well as reviewing security footage from nearby homes.”

“And the second twist?”

“The body was found by Westfield resident Anastasia Pollack, who some have taken to calling the town’s very own Jessica Fletcher.”

I groaned as the television screen switched to an image of Detective Spader walking me toward the sleigh.

I shot Zack a sideways glance and caught his frown.

“Here we go again,” said Nick.

“Gee, I can’t wait for school tomorrow,” said Alex. He buried his face in a throw pillow and muttered, “Not!”

I wanted to tell him to blame it all on his father. If Karl hadn’t royally screwed us before dropping dead in Las Vegas, Lucille and her commie horde wouldn’t have staged the protest rally in Westfield, which ultimately brought Ira into our lives. Instead, as I so often did when it came to my sons and their father, I bit my tongue while the reporter continued to speak. “Over the last year Ms. Pollack, who has no background in law enforcement, has been instrumental in aiding the police in several high-profile cases.”

“I understand you were able to speak with the victim’s family, Darlene.”

“That’s right, Kent.” The screen filled with a middle-aged man and woman, sitting hand-in-hand on a couch in an upscale living room. Across the bottom of the screen a banner read, Paul and Olympia Leonides. “Earlier today I sat down with the victim’s brother and sister-in-law at their home in Westfield.”

As the camera moved in for a close-up of the couple, I realized the wife looked familiar. “I’ve seen that woman before,” I said.

“Where?” asked Zack.

I wracked my brain. “I’m not sure.”

With her free hand the woman silently brushed away a tear streaming down her cheek. Her husband’s voice cracked with anger as he spoke. “Our family is devastated. My brother was my best friend. I want his killer caught and brought to justice as swiftly as possible. To that end, I’m offering a twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward to anyone with information leading to his arrest and conviction.”

The reporter reappeared on the screen. “Anyone with information regarding either the murder or fire is asked to contact the Union County Police, Westfield Police, or Mountainside Police Departments. This is Darlene Jamison coming to you from Westfield, New Jersey. Back to you in the studio, Kent.”

“Thank you, Darlene.” The anchor returned to the screen. “We’ll stay on top of this unfolding story and provide any updates at eleven. In other news…”

Zack flipped off the broadcast.

“Are we eating dinner tonight?” asked Nick. “I’m starving.”

“We’re going out,” said Zack. “Grab your coats.”

I hesitated. “What about Lucille and Harriet?”

“Cheese and crackers, remember? You’re not getting cold feet, are you, Ms. Passive-Aggressive?”

“No, but I’m worried they might try to cook something and set the kitchen on fire.”

“Just to spite you?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them.”

“Have they ever used any appliance besides the microwave?”

“No, but there’s always a first time.”

“Look on the bright side,” said Zack. “You have homeowner’s insurance. If they start a fire, you get a new kitchen.”

Hmm…goodbye cracked linoleum and chipped Formica? Hello hardwoods and granite? Maybe I should tell Lucille from now on she’d need to cook her own meals.

On second thought, that was a monumentally bad idea. She’d probably reduce the entire house to cinders. Not only didn’t I have total replacement coverage, I had a sky-high deductible—both thanks to the cost cutting measures I’d instituted to deal with the fallout from Dead Louse of a Spouse.

I heaved a huge internal sigh as I slipped into my coat. Goodbye hardwoods. Goodbye granite. Hello smack-in-the-face reality.

We were about to leave the apartment when my cell phone rang.

SIX

I glanced at the display and decided to let the call go to voicemail. I wasn’t eager to speak with Ira under the best of circumstances. On an empty stomach—not to mention after the events of this morning—this call fell into the Worst of Circumstances category.

Being part coward, I waited until we’d arrived at La Famiglia and placed our orders before listening to Ira’s message. His voice trembled as he spoke. “Anastasia, I could really use your help. That detective friend of yours thinks I had something to do with the body you found this morning. You can’t possibly think I killed him. You know I’d never hurt anyone. Please call me as soon as you get this message.”

I handed my phone to Zack. “Have a listen.”

He held the phone to his ear. A moment later he passed it back to me. “What do you want to do?”

I glanced at my sons. Both were engrossed in texting or gaming or whatever while we waited for our food. Ordinarily, I had a strict no-devices policy during meals. I’d made an exception this evening when we entered the crowded restaurant, scored the last available table, and were told the kitchen was backed up. “I gave Alex and Nick my word,” I whispered.

That was enough to pull them away from their screens. “What’s going on?” asked Alex.

Nick simply frowned at me.

“I’m not sure, but Uncle Ira wants to talk to me about Dion Leonides. Would either of you object to that?”

“Just talk?” asked Nick.

“Just talk.”

He contemplated my answer before asking, “Nothing more?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Okay, but we come, too.”

I turned to Alex. “Is that okay with you?”

Instead of answering me, he looked across the table to Zack. “Are you okay with it?”

Zack shrugged. “Ira’s in a bad place. What if the roles were reversed?”

Alex grimaced. “I suppose when you put it that way.…” He nodded. “Okay.”

I may have recently been handed a boatload of crappy Karma, but when it came to the men in my life, I’d scored a jackpot. “All right. I’ll text Ira that we’ll stop by after we finish dinner.”

~*~

An hour later we arrived at Ira’s house. He’d turned the Christmas display back on but removed the train tracks. The reindeer now stood motionless, interspersed among the inflatable cartoon characters, the four I’d managed to unload this morning replacing four of the slashed ones. The saluting nutcrackers still lined the walkway from the sidewalk to the house, but the music no longer blared at deafening levels. Perhaps this was either out of respect for the murder victim or a concession to his neighbors. Either way, it probably annoyed the heck out of his kids.

Thankfully, no news vans loitered nearby. The last thing I wanted was some reporter shoving a microphone in my face—or worse yet, in my sons’ faces.

A small crowd had gathered to check out the display but nowhere near the number of people who’d jammed the sidewalk and street the previous night. I wondered how many of them had come to see the Christmas display as opposed to ghoulish voyeurs drawn to the scene of a crime.

I sensed Ira had been pacing his foyer, anxiously awaiting our arrival, because he swung the front door open and quickly ushered us inside as soon as Zack rang the doorbell. “Thanks for coming,” he said. A massive shiner surrounded his left eye, evidence that Ira’s attacker had hit him harder than we’d first realized.

He took our coats and led us into the great room—great being an understatement. Enormous, gigantic, or colossal were more appropriate adjectives to describe the size of the room. “This isn’t the way I expected to invite you to our new home for the first time.”

“You’ve accomplished quite a bit for someone who moved in only a few days ago,” I said, scanning the room where a live Christmas tree topped out within inches of the cathedral ceiling. Every square inch of the room, from floor to ceiling, had been decorated for the holidays, not a single horizontal or vertical surface left unadorned.

Ira puffed out his chest. “I hired a decorator. Her team set up everything before we moved in.”

Silly me to think Ira had done any of this on his own! “New furniture?” I asked, not recognizing anything from his former home.

“Yes. Under the circumstances, I thought it best to make a totally fresh start for the kids and me. Everything is new, even the linens and kitchen items.”

I forced a smile, wondering if Ira had also rid his home of all reminders of his first wife after she died. If so, that would go a long way toward explaining his ill-tempered children. Imagine losing your mother to illness, only to have your father remove all evidence she had ever existed. I parked that thought in the compassion corner of my brain, ready to access next time one of his kids mouthed off at me.

Ira turned to Alex and Nick. “Why don’t you boys head upstairs to the bonus room while I speak with your mother? It’s the last room at the end of the hallway.”

Alex hesitated. “Are your kids up there?”

“Yes, they’ll show you around.”

Nick turned to me. “Mom….”

“Everything okay?” asked Ira, turning to me.

“Everything’s fine.” I pulled my sons aside and whispered, “I’ll fill you in on everything afterwards.”

“Everything?” asked Alex, the word ringing with his skepticism.

I nodded. They silently consulted each other. Then Alex shrugged and said, “I suppose.”

Nick scowled, muttering something unintelligible under his breath before the two of them dragged their feet toward the staircase in the foyer.

“Can I get you anything?” asked Ira as the boys departed.

“We’ve just eaten,” said Zack.

“What did you want to discuss?” I asked. “The boys have homework to finish this evening.” I didn’t know if that were true or not, but it gave me an excuse for moving this impromptu gathering along.

Ira waved toward a seating arrangement in the middle of the room. “Please, sit.”

Once we did, he leaned forward. “I want to hire you, Anastasia.”

“What for?”

“To prove my innocence. I didn’t kill that man.”

“I’m not a lawyer, Ira.”

“No, but you’ve helped catch several killers.”

“Anastasia is out of the sleuthing business,” said Zack. “She promised Alex and Nick she’d leave the detective work to the professionals.”

“But we’re family!” said Ira, panic coloring both his words and his face. “We’re supposed to help each other.”

Zack speared Ira with his official don’t-mess-with-me glare, the one he probably employs while engaged in the undercover operations he claims are a figment of my imagination. “Not when it involves jeopardizing Anastasia’s life.”

And with that, the alpha males began their dance. Ira shot back a look that needed no interpretation, his words pure ice. “Maybe you should let Anastasia speak for herself.”

He then turned back to me, softening his demeanor to that of a desperate puppy in need of a warm hug and asked, “Will you help me, please?”

I shook my head. “I’m sorry, Ira. I nearly lost my own life recently. I can’t put my children through that again.”

He jumped up and began pacing in front of the fireplace, waving his arms frenetically. “What about my life? I didn’t kill that man. I can’t go to prison. What about my kids?”

I quickly launched a prayer into the universe that it wouldn’t come to that. I knew in my heart of hearts I wouldn’t allow Ira’s kids to land in foster care. However, I also knew I’d wind up in a padded cell if I had to step in as a substitute parent to Isaac and the twins. “Did Detective Spader lead you to believe he intends to arrest you?”

“No, but what if he does?”

“Is there any evidence that points to you?”

“Besides the body left on my property?”

“The body of a man who assaulted you last night,” said Zack as a reminder.

Ira glared at him as he shook his head. “I haven’t forgotten, but I also have no idea why he attacked me, and I made that perfectly clear to the detective.”

“What did he shout at you?” I asked.

“The detective?” Confusion settled across Ira’s face.

“Leonides,” said Zack. 

“Nothing.”

“Detective Spader told Anastasia that several witnesses claimed he yelled something before he punched you.”

Ira’s brows knit together. “I don’t remember him saying anything before he hit me. What about either of you?”

“No,” I said.

“Why would someone lie about that?” asked Ira.

“They may not be lying,” I said.

“But you just said you didn’t hear anything.”

“We weren’t close enough,” I said. “And the music was extremely loud.”

“You also might not remember due to the shock of the attack,” added Zack.

Ira returned to the sofa, collapsed onto the cushion, and buried his head in his hands. “None of this makes any sense.” He looked up and cast pleading eyes at me. “All I know is I didn’t kill him. Anastasia, you have to believe me.”

“I do believe you.” 

He turned to Zack. “And you?”

“If what you claim is true, you have nothing to worry about.”

Ira sneered. “Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who was questioned by the police for several hours. What if they can’t come up with any other suspects?”

“If there’s no evidence that points to you,” said Zack, “it won’t matter.”

“Says the man no one is trying to pin a murder on.”

I stood, ready to end this unpleasant get-together. “Ira, Detective Spader is a competent investigator. He’s not out to railroad you.”

“Really? Didn’t he recently arrest your friend Shane Lambert for a murder he didn’t commit?”

Okay, score one point for the Person of Interest. “That was different. Someone tried to frame him.”

“And what if someone is trying to frame me? Why else would a body be left on my property?”

I couldn’t answer that. It did seem quite random unless it was deliberate. “Are you certain you didn’t know Dion Leonides? You’ve never crossed paths with him?”

“Never.”

“You haven’t sold him a car?”

Ira ran his hands through his hair. “Are you kidding? I own half a dozen dealerships around the state. We sell dozens of cars each week. I don’t meet every buyer. I hardly meet any of them.”

“So, it’s possible he purchased a car from one of your dealerships.”

Ira jumped up and began pacing again. “I suppose so. I’d have to check the sales records, but I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

I glanced at Zack and shook my head. “Anastasia is looking for some sort of connection between the two of you. If he bought a car from one of your dealerships and was dissatisfied—”

“And I’m telling you, there is no connection,” said Ira, raising his voice several decibels. “But even if he did buy a car from one of my dealerships, why would he attack me? We offer a hundred percent satisfaction guarantee. There are lemon laws in this state. I may not interact with most of our customers, but if someone had a problem with a car, I’d know about it. We’d either fix the problem or allow the customer to return the vehicle. I can assure you, we never had a problem with anyone named Dion Leonides.”

“What about problems with anyone else?” I asked. “Employees? Vendors? People you interact with outside of work?”

Ira offered me a broad smile. “You know me, Anastasia. I get along with everyone.”

“Including your neighbors?” asked Zack.

Ira shot him a dagger-filled scowl. “I had no idea I was moving into a neighborhood of Ebenezer Scrooges. Do you seriously believe one of them is trying to frame me for murder over a Christmas display?”

“Not necessarily,” I said. “But if someone had a beef with Leonides and witnessed him punch you, he could have seized on the opportunity to misdirect the investigation.”

Ira parked himself on the coffee table across from where I sat and grabbed my hands in his. “See, that’s why I need your help, Anastasia. You think outside the box. That detective isn’t going to consider something like that, not when he’s already made up his mind about me.”

 “I can assure you Detective Spader is looking at all possible angles, Ira, including Lawrence.”

Ira released my hands. His mouth dropped open, and he shook his head. “No, Lawrence would never hurt me. He likes me.” He grew pensive for a moment before adding, “But what if someone wants to harm Lawrence by framing me?” He snapped his fingers. “That has to be it!”

In the world of organized crime, there were far more sinister ways to harm a man like Lawrence Tuttnauer than by framing his ex-son-in-law for murder. Ira’s high opinion of himself aside, it was far more likely that a psychopath like Lawrence would orchestrate a hit and frame Ira simply to amuse himself.

However, since I needed to extricate myself from this situation as easily and quickly as possible, I said, “That’s an interesting theory, Ira. How about if I mention it to Detective Spader for you?”

He grabbed my hands again and squeezed. “Would you? I know he’ll listen to you.” Then he stood, pulling me up with him and grabbed me into a suffocating bear hug. “Thank you, Anastasia! I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

~*~

On the ride home I conveyed the conversation to Alex and Nick. “So that’s all you’re doing?” asked Nick, “Mentioning a theory to Detective Spader?”

“Not even that,” I said. “Lawrence is in solitary confinement for a month. There’s no way he’s connected to Dion Leonides’ murder. I was merely humoring Ira.”

“Uncle Ira doesn’t know about Lawrence?” asked Alex.

“Apparently not.” But that didn’t surprise me. I doubt my own mother knew of her ex-husband’s latest escapade. I certainly hadn’t told her he’d been caught with a contraband cell phone that he’d used to hire a wannabe Mafia thug to intimidate me. She already carried around enough guilt regarding her last marriage.

I decided to change the subject. “Were Ira’s kids civil to you tonight?”

“They totally ignored us,” said Nick. “Never even said hi.”

“The twins were glued to their phones and Isaac to his video game,” added Alex. “They didn’t so much as look up when we entered the room.”

That didn’t surprise me, given Ira’s lack of parenting skills. Someone needed to knock some sense into that man before his spoiling did irreparable damage to those kids—if it hadn’t already. However, talking sense into Ira was like trying to convince a leopard to switch from spots to plaid.

“So what did you do?” asked Zack.

“Shot pool,” said Alex.

“Uncle Ira has a bodacious table,” said Nick. “And four pinball machines.”

Of course, he does.

~*~

We arrived home to find Harriet’s orange VW minibus missing. If the gods were smiling down on me, I’d find Harriet had taken Lucille with her for a commie sleepover. However, the gods rarely smile in my direction lately, and tonight turned out to be yet another example of them turning their backs on me.

We entered the house to find the curmudgeonly communist had locked herself in the bathroom she shares with the boys. At least the shrill sounds of My Big Fat Gypsy Wedding weren’t emanating from the den. With any luck, Lucille would call it a night after her extremely lengthy nightly ablutions. A daughter-in-law stressed to her limits can only hope.

I suggested Zack and I wait it out in the apartment. After our trip to Ira’s, I needed his strong shoulder for resting my head and a bottle of wine for mellowing purposes. I knew he wouldn’t be happy when I told him I wanted to surf the Internet to learn more about Dion Leonides.

SEVEN

Zack laughed.

Not the reaction I’d anticipated. “What’s so funny?”

“I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist getting involved.” He pulled a bottle from the fridge and another from the wine rack on the kitchen counter. Holding up both, he asked, “Red, white, or something stronger?”

“White. And I’m not getting involved. I promised Alex and Nick.”

“I see.”

He didn’t. “I’m simply curious. What harm could a little Googling do?”

“Assuming a little Googling doesn’t lead to a little snooping? Nothing.”

“Exactly.”

He uncorked the bottle of pinot grigio. “Only I’m not convinced you’ll restrict your curiosity to the Internet.”

“Just watch me, ye of little faith.”

“Oh, I plan to.” He filled two glasses, then walked over to the sofa and handed one to me. “Like a hawk.”

“No need. My latest brush with death was my last.”

“It better have been. You’re not sticking me with Lucille and your mother.”

I paused just as I was about to take a sip of the wine. “Are you saying if something happened to me, you’d take care of the boys?”

“And Ralph.”

“Of course. You couldn’t live without Ralph.” Or Ralph without Zack. I doubt there had ever been such a bond between man and parrot.

He wrapped his free arm around my shoulders. “More importantly, I couldn’t live without you.”

“Good to know. However, I can’t help but notice you didn’t mention Mephisto.”

“The jury’s still out on him.”

Zack drained his glass and rose to his feet. He walked over to his desk, grabbed his laptop, and returned to the sofa. “Let’s see what we can find out about Mr. Leonides.”

He proceeded to type the victim’s name into the search bar and hit the Enter key. In less than three seconds numerous links filled the screen. “That was easy,” I said. The late Dion Leonides was on the Internet. Then again, who wasn’t these days?

Zack clicked on the first link. Up popped the landing page of Parthenon Construction, the home-flipping business Leonides, a real estate attorney, had owned with his realtor brother Paul and his architect sister-in-law Octavia.

An animated, toga-clad man, with a hammer in one hand and a fistful of nails in the other, executed a series of back flips across the screen while a sing-song voiceover said, “Parthenon Construction, you’ll flip for our flips.” The acrobatic toga guy then flipped into the black hole of cyberspace, replaced by the website’s menu buttons, including one that linked to Paul’s real estate business and another to Dion’s law firm.

According to the company history, Aristotle Leonides had opened Parthenon Construction shortly after emigrating to the U.S. from Greece in the nineteen-fifties. Fifteen years ago he shifted his business away from general construction to take advantage of the booming house-flipping craze that had hit New Jersey. His sons and Paul’s wife had joined him. When Aristotle died last year, Dion and Paul jointly inherited the business.

“An attorney, a realtor, and an architect walk into a construction company—”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Are you making a joke?”

“No, I’m serious. Think about it: the guy who knows about construction died a year ago. Who’s been doing the actual work on these flips?”

“I’m guessing the same crew they’ve employed all along. They probably hired a general contractor to take their father’s place. Why does it matter?”

“Maybe the changes to the business are tied to Dion’s murder.”

Once again Zack raised an eyebrow. “Because this is New Jersey?”

I shrugged. “Hey, if it walks like a duck and smells like a duck…” Construction was one of many businesses the mob had infiltrated over the decades, but I’d never heard of them targeting residential construction. Commercial construction offered far more revenue streams in the way of graft and extortion.

Zack clicked on the button labeled “Meet our Flipping Family.”

I stared at the images that filled the screen. I immediately recognized Dion, Paul, and Octavia—as well as the fourth and newest member of the company, general contractor Jesse Konopka. “It’s not a duck,” I said.

“What makes you so certain?”

“I know Jesse Konopka. He lives around the corner. His wife and I were in a book club together before Karl died.” Not until that moment did I realize how much I missed getting together once a month for stimulating conversation with the Lit Chicks, as we called ourselves.

Although it didn’t rank in the Top Ten, it was yet one more change Karl’s death had precipitated in my life. Maybe it was time to remedy that—if only I could somehow carve out the time to read a book once a month.

Zack topped off my wine and poured another glass for himself. “I’m confused. Exactly what makes him incapable of murder? That he lives around the corner or that you and his wife belonged to the same book club?”

I sighed. “Point taken.” I certainly hoped Jesse Konopka was incapable of murder. He seemed like a great guy. Then again, once upon a time I thought my dead husband was a great guy—before I learned he tried to kill his own mother.

After reading through the website, Zack clicked on a few other links. We learned that Dion Leonides had studied law at Seton Hall, worked for a firm in Manhattan before leaving to join his father’s company, and had an ex-wife and two kids living in Pound Ridge, New York. His wife, also an attorney, had remarried several years ago. Dion had remained single.

He posted infrequently on social media but from what we could see, nothing controversial that might cause someone to want him dead. Most of his posts were the same before-and-after photos of homes that also appeared on the company website. We also found no evidence of prior arrests or lawsuits filed against him or Parthenon Construction. Dion Leonides was pretty much a nothing burger who seemed to keep to himself when he wasn’t working. So why had he attacked Ira? And why had someone killed him and left his body in Ira’s Christmas sleigh?

“Maybe this is all about drugs,” I said. “What if he was high on something the other night when he slugged Ira?”

“I don’t suppose Spader mentioned the results of a toxicology report.”

“Of course not.”

“Even so, let’s assume you’re right. That might explain his attack on Ira, but who killed him?”

“Maybe it was a drug deal gone bad later that night.”

“And the dealer just happened to dump his body in Ira’s yard?”

“That does sound highly unlikely.”

“You think?”

I stuck my tongue out at him. Sarcasm was my go-to response, not his.

“I hope you’re planning to use that,” he said, a glint in his eye and a challenge in his voice.

~*~

Before Trimedia took over Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing, we received generous holiday bonuses, never stockbroker-sized sums but always enough to cover my Christmas shopping list. Now, depending when Christmas falls, our bonus consists of a limited amount of time off. With Christmas on a Sunday this year, the corporate bean counters had magnanimously decided to give us half of Thursday and all of Friday.

As editorial director, Naomi didn’t have the power to tell us not to come to work on Thursday, but she snubbed her nose at corporate by inviting her entire staff to a morning-long holiday brunch in our conference room. She even snuck in bottles of chilled champagne to make mimosas and vodka for those who preferred Bloody Marys.

Of course, we were sworn to secrecy regarding both the brunch and the alcohol. The head honchos expected us peons to work until noon, and work sober, which precipitated Naomi’s only other rule: no shoptalk allowed during brunch.

Luckily, no one from corporate ever bothered to set foot on our floor. If they wanted to speak with us, we were summoned upstairs. The one exception being former owner and Naomi’s significant other, Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp, but the other mucky-mucks never paid any attention to Hugo’s comings and goings. He had no real power, only a meaningless title.

Rumor had it, Hugo was secretly orchestrating a buyback, but Naomi would neither confirm nor deny that anything was in the works. However, since hope continues to spring eternal, we all kept our fingers crossed. If Hugo regained control of the company, we might even find ourselves back in Manhattan instead of stuck in the middle of a cornfield in Morris County. I’d go back to an easy train commute instead of dealing with daily bumper-to-bumper traffic.

As Cloris and I grazed the spread of gourmet offerings Naomi had assembled for our enjoyment, she asked, “So how are things in Murderville, Sherlock?”

I scooped a spoonful of crab salad onto my plate. “Not funny.”

“Well, at least this time the corpse wasn’t someone you know.”

I continued heaping delicacies onto my plate, adding some ceviche, a deviled egg, a mini quiche, and a stuffed mushroom. “But it involves someone I know, and he thinks Detective Spader is determined to pin the murder of Dion Leonides on him.”

“That sucks, but does Ira really have anything to worry about?”

“Probably not. Ira’s a worrywart, but after Cynthia’s murder and Lawrence’s arrest, I suppose no one can blame him for exhibiting a certain amount of paranoia.”

After grabbing mimosas, we made our way to the conference table. Once we’d settled into two cattycorner chairs, Cloris resumed her interrogation, “What’s your theory on the murder?”

I took a sip of my mimosa before answering. “I don’t have one, at least not yet. All I know is that if Ira were capable of murder—which I don’t believe he is—he certainly wouldn’t be dumb enough to leave the corpse in plain view on his property.”

“And Spader thinks otherwise?”

“He’s floated a reverse psychology theory.”

“With which I take it you don’t agree. Do you believe someone’s setting Ira up?”

“That’s one possibility.”

“Lawrence?”

If only it were that simple. “Definitely not.” 

“How can you be so sure?”

I explained how, given his current solitary domicile, Ira’s ex-father-in-law would have no means of orchestrating such a plot.

“Unless he set the wheels in motion prior to landing in solitary.”

“To what end?”

She executed an eye roll that suggested I’d lost all the sleuthing genes I’d ever possessed. “Making your life a living hell comes to mind. The man does hate you.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Really? I think it makes perfect sense. Lawrence sets Ira up for a murder rap, and you get stuck with his kids—a fate worse than death.”

“Highly unlikely.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Which part? Lawrence setting up Ira? Or you getting stuck with his kids? And don’t lie to me. I know you. Saint Anastasia would not turn her back on Ira’s brats.”

“Fine. You’re right about the kids, but Lawrence likes Ira, at least according to Ira.”

“Maybe, but I’m betting Lawrence doesn’t like Ira as much as he hates you. After all, you’re the reason he’s serving life in prison.”

“Then why wouldn’t he simply take out a hit on Ira? Or me, for that matter? That’s his standard M.O.”

“Are you kidding? Killing you wouldn’t be any fun. He’d want to make you suffer for as long as possible.”

“All the more reason to take out a hit on Ira. Besides, all the evidence against Ira is circumstantial.” Lawrence had to know that barring the most incompetent defense attorneys ever to set foot in a courtroom, Ira would never go to prison for Dion Leonides’ murder. He also knew Ira had the funds to hire the best criminal defense attorneys in the country.

“Because, as you said, Lawrence likes Ira. He doesn’t want to kill him, just get him locked up long enough to torture you.”

“Interesting theory, Watson.”

“I think so.”

I shook my head. “I’m not buying it.”

“Fine. Here’s another one. How about someone from Cynthia’s past?”

I allowed this to percolate in my brain for a minute as I consumed a mini-quiche. I knew nothing about Cynthia’s life pre-Ira and little about her relationship with her husband throughout their brief marriage. I’d only met her once prior to her murder. “Possibly. What if she was cheating on Ira with someone in addition to Pablo the Pool Boy?”

“Or more than one someone.” Cloris grabbed a mini quiche off her plate and popped it into her mouth. As she chewed, I could almost see the wheels turning in her brain. “Perhaps she dumped a previous lover when she fell in love with Ira’s enormous bank account.”

“You’re suggesting this fictitious former paramour has been nursing a grudge against Ira for several years, waiting for the right opportunity to seek revenge?”

She shrugged. “Why not? What if Dion Leonides was an unlucky convenient target, someone the killer didn’t even know?”

“Because anyone would have served the killer’s purpose?”

“Exactly.”

“But why? Cynthia wasn’t that great a catch. She had no money of her own.”

“She stood to inherit her father’s ill-gotten gains, didn’t she? What if the guy was connected? He may have met Cynthia through Lawrence. She rejects him for Ira, and he loses his future life on Easy Street. Maybe he even planned to knock Lawrence off at some point to get his hands on the money sooner than waiting for Lawrence to die a natural death.”

“You’ve been spending too much time with me.” I thought it more likely that someone had it in for Leonides. And that brought me back to Jesse Konopka. I pushed my chair back and stood. “Don’t let anyone clear my plate. I’ll be back shortly.”

Once back in my cubicle, I placed a call to Robyn Konopka. “What a lovely surprise,” she said after answering her phone. “When you didn’t come back to book club after a few months, we weren’t sure what to think. You never returned any of our calls after the funeral.”

“It’s been a tough year,” I said.

“Then the rumors are true?”

“Depends on the rumor, but probably.” I’d tried my best to keep people from finding out what Karl had done to us, but my mother, unable to contain her anger at Dead Louse of a Spouse, had blabbed his sins to half the population of New Jersey. They in turn told the remaining half of the population. Or so it seemed.

“Life is looking up, though,” I said. “That’s why I’m calling. I thought it was time I rejoined Lit Chicks. Are the meetings still at your home the first Wednesday of each month?”

“They are, but I’m going to have to cancel January’s meeting. Jesse had an accident at a job site three days ago. He’s in the hospital recovering from surgery.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?”

“He’s not exactly sure because he suffered a concussion. You wouldn’t believe the size of the goose egg on the back of his head!

“How did he manage that?”

“He thinks he may have tripped and fallen through an opening where they hadn’t finished installing the plywood subfloor.”

“He fell an entire floor?”

“Twelve feet. Even now I grow cold and clammy thinking about it. They were using the basement to store materials. We think he first bounced off a pile of lumber before landing on his back on the concrete floor. Then some of the lumber gave way and toppled over on him. He was probably out for at least twenty minutes before someone found him.”

“He was alone at the time?”

“Yes, he’d gone in early to open up for one of the subcontractors.” She sighed. “I keep telling myself it could have been much worse. He’s banged up pretty badly, has a broken leg, and several broken bones in his hand. He may need some additional surgery, but at least he’s alive, and the doctors say he should make a full recovery.”

“Is there anything I can do?”

“That’s so sweet of you, Anastasia, but I know you have your own problems. Why don’t you plan on coming to the February meeting? We’re reading Shelley Noble’s newest historical mystery. If I have to postpone, I’ll call you.”

“I’ll do that. But before you hang up, is Jesse at Overlook?”

“Yes, why?”

“I’m working half a day today and drive right past the hospital on my way home. I can stop in to say hello.”

“Would you? With everyone at work during the day, he only gets visitors in the evenings. He hasn’t complained, but I can tell he’s going stir crazy.”

“I’m happy to.”

After hanging up from Robyn, I considered the murder timeline and heaved a huge sigh of relief. Jesse Konopka couldn’t have killed Dion Leonides. At the time of the murder he was either on an operating table or in a hospital bed with his leg and hand encased in casts.

Of course, that still left not a single viable suspect to draw suspicion away from Ira. Since Jesse Konopka worked for the victim, perhaps he could offer up a name or two of someone who might have had it in for his boss.

Apparently, the same thought had occurred to Detective Spader because when I arrived at the hospital two hours later, he nearly collided with me as he exited Jesse Konopka’s hospital room.

EIGHT

“What the hell are you doing here, Mrs. Pollack?” Surprise can take many forms—from pleasantly delighted to downright incensed. Spader’s tone put him squarely in the incensed-and-then-some category. He grabbed my arm and marched me away from the hospital room as the door whooshed closed behind him.

Halfway down the corridor he stopped in front of a bank of elevators, turned to face me, and said, “I don’t appreciate you nosing around my investigation, Mrs. Pollack.”

I focused on his beefy right hand, still grasping my upper arm. Then I raised my gaze to his face, smiled, and in a calm voice and as sweetly as possible, said, “And I don’t appreciate being manhandled, Detective.” I saw no point in sounding confrontational, but I wanted to make it clear he’d definitely overstepped his bounds. After all, I certainly wasn’t a suspect in his investigation.

Shock transformed his features. Realizing the inappropriateness of his actions, he quickly dropped his hand, took a step away from me, and mumbled, “Sorry.”

When I nodded my acceptance of his apology, he segued back into cop mode and asked, “Care to explain why you’re here?”

“I’m visiting a friend.”

“Jesse Konopka is a friend of yours? Funny how you failed to mention that, given he works for my murder victim.”

“Really?” I mustered all my minimal acting skills to register my own shock. Then I sent up a swift plea to the God of Prevarication, hoping Spader would buy into my innocent act. “Jesse works for Leonides? Talk about a coincidence!”

He eyed me skeptically. “You telling me you didn’t know that?”

“If I’d known, I certainly would have told you, Detective.”

Spader smirked. “He’s a friend, but you didn’t know what he does for a living?”

“I know him through his wife. We’re in a book club together. I was aware Jesse is a general contractor, but I had no idea he worked for Leonides.”

“I didn’t fall off a turnip truck this morning, Mrs. Pollack.”

So much for the God of Prevarication cutting me a break. I held up the box of chocolates I’d purchased in the hospital gift shop. “When I spoke with Robyn this morning, she told me about Jesse’s accident. She said he’s going stir crazy laid up here. Since I drive right past the hospital on my way home from work, I thought he might appreciate a visit from someone who didn’t want to stick a needle in him.”

“And you expect me to buy that this is all a coincidence?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know what else it could be.”

“Uh-huh.” He wasn’t buying it. Assuming a pose of intimidation that had probably worked on countless suspects over the years, he crossed his arms over his expansive barrel chest and stared down at me from his considerable height advantage.

Since redirecting the conversation might ease me out of an awkward situation, I asked, “Why are you here, Detective? Jesse can’t possibly be a suspect, given the timing of his accident and the murder.”

He studied me for a moment. I’d known Detective Sam Spader long enough to pick up on a few of his tells, and one of them—the way he tilted his head to the left and quirked the right side of his mouth upward—now told me he was in the process of debating whether or not to divulge any new information to me.

“I had some questions regarding Parthenon.”

“Parthenon?” Sometimes the best course of action is to keep playing dumb. Spader didn’t have to know Zack and I spent last night in a threesome with Google, learning everything we could about Leonides and his business.

“The company owned by the Leonides brothers.”

“You think one of their employees killed Dion?”

“Not necessarily.”

“But that’s one of those stones you’re turning over?”

“Exactly.”

“Did you learn anything?”

He huffed out an annoyed gust of air. “Mrs. Pollack, you know I—”

“Can’t divulge information about an ongoing investigation.”

“Precisely.”

Only he had, time and time again, but only whenever it suited him. I refrained from stating the obvious rather than push my luck by reminding him of that fact. “Understood.”

I executed a verbal pivot in another direction. “I don’t suppose you’ve uncovered anything that rules Ira out as a suspect at this point.”

Instead of answering me, he asked, “Have you heard any news today?”

This time there was no need for me to play dumb. I really should download one of those local news apps. However, every time I remember, I’m away from home, and I’ve heard too many horror stories regarding hackers targeting people who use public wi-fi. “No, what happened?”

“Sometime this morning a fire broke out at a house on Fair Ridge.”

“Fair Ridge?” I thought for a moment, trying to place the street.

“It’s parallel to Prospect.”

“Yes, of course.” A wooded expanse of public green space separated the two streets.

“The home on Fair Ridge is owned by Paul Leonides, Dion’s brother. It’s about a football field’s distance from your brother-in-law’s house.”

This time I didn’t bother to correct him regarding my relationship to Ira. The theme from Twilight Zone had begun to play in my head. “I hope you’re going to tell me the fire was sparked by a faulty space heater and not an arsonist.”

“I wish I could.”

A bowling ball settled in my stomach. “Was anyone hurt?”

Spader shook his head. “Luckily the smoke alarm woke Leonides and his wife. They escaped without injury.”

“And their home?”

“Sustained minimal damage.”

“So it seems someone has it in for the Leonides brothers.”

“It appears that may be the case.” Spader didn’t have to state the obvious. Another circumstantial nail had been hammered into Ira’s coffin.

The elevator opened, discharging several people. Spader stepped forward. I followed. He stopped and turned to face me. “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

“Am I?”

He pointed to the box of chocolates. “The reason you’re here?”

Busted! I stepped back and waved to him. “Of course. Have a nice day, Detective.”

He tipped an imaginary hat as he stepped inside and pushed the button. As the doors swept closed, he said, “Stay out of trouble, Mrs. Pollack.”

~*~

Did the man think I go looking for trouble? I’d like nothing better than to turn back the clock to a time when I didn’t have an intimate relationship with dead bodies and the murderers responsible for them. Then again, if I returned to that time, Dead Louse of a Spouse would still be alive and continuing to perpetrate financial malfeasance against his family. And if Karl were still alive, I wouldn’t have Zack in my life. Dead bodies and debt notwithstanding, I was much better off now. The universe certainly works in weird ways.

I headed back to Jesse Konopka’s room and knocked on the door.

“Come in.”

After pasting a smile on my face, I pushed open the door and stepped inside the room. “Hey, Jesse!”

He winced as he tried to paste a smile on a face covered in bruises, bandages, and abrasions. “Anastasia Pollack. This is a surprise.”

Jesse Konopka normally possessed an aw shucks grin and attitude that reminded me of Jimmy Carter. His shock of blond hair, large lips, and twinkling eyes reinforced the resemblance to the point that I once asked Robyn if her husband and the former president were related. They aren’t.

I crossed the room to his bed, handed him the box of chocolates, and quickly explained how I’d learned about his accident. “Robyn said you’re climbing the walls.”

“That’s an understatement. I haven’t spent this much time on my back since the day I clambered out of my crib.”

He tapped the candy box with his good hand. “Thanks for the chocolates. Would you mind opening the box?”

He lifted his left hand, completely encased in a cast that ran from the tips of his fingers halfway to his elbow. Much of the white plaster had been decorated in brightly colored flowers, stars, rainbows, and unicorns. Similar artwork covered the cast on his right leg. Both color-coordinated with the various hued wounds to his face and head. “As you can see, I’m currently useless when it comes to doing just about anything for myself.”

“Looks like your daughters had a blast, though.”

He chuckled. “Nine-year-old twin budding Picassos. They’re not going to be happy when the doctor cuts the casts off.”

“You’ll have to save a few chunks. Mount them in a memory box.”

“A memory of my own stupidity and clumsiness? No thanks.”

I removed the cellophane wrapper, opened the lid, and placed the box on the tray table next to his bed. He chose a dark chocolate nut cluster. After popping it into his mouth, he said, “This sure beats hospital Jell-o. Help yourself.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. I’d never met a chocolate I didn’t love, unless it contained peanut butter. I’m one of the few people on the planet who can’t stand the stuff. I chose a raspberry cream enrobed in milk chocolate and savored the mouthful of pleasure.

When Jesse had finished devouring his nut cluster, he said, “So why are you really here, Anastasia?”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Given that you pretty much dropped out of my wife’s life for nearly a year, then suddenly call her today, and pay me a visit a few hours later….”

“Too much of a coincidence?”

“I’d say so. Besides, I overheard the detective ask what you’re doing here. The two of you obviously know each other.”

Timing is everything. Mine sucks. “Your boss’s body was left in my half-brother-in-law’s front yard.”

He nodded. “When the detective told me his name, I figured there might be some relation. I asked.”

“And he confirmed it?”

Jesse nodded again. “I really wasn’t surprised when you walked into the room. Robyn mentioned you might stop by. Adding two plus two doesn’t take an advanced degree in mathematics, even if I do have one.”

This was news to me. “And yet you work in construction?”

He shrugged his shoulder, and his face immediately clouded over in pain. “Shouldn’t have done that,” he said through gritted teeth.

“Should I get the nurse?”

“No, it’s residual pain from a dislocated shoulder. I really should have zigged instead of zagged the other day. It’s subsiding.”

He took a breath before continuing. “Anyway, as I was about to say, I like working with my hands. If I’d had my way, I would have gone to trade school instead of college. My parents insisted otherwise. Claimed carpentry was a waste of my talents. So I did what they wanted and taught calculus for a few years, hating every minute of it.”

“I can relate. Successful teachers have a passion for teaching. I didn’t.”

“Neither did I. Now I love what I do. And although my parents don’t believe it, you’d be surprised how much math I use on a daily basis.”

“Measure twice, cut once?”

“And so much more.”

Since Jesse knew the real reason for my visit, I changed the subject. “Would you mind telling me what Detective Spader asked you?”

He reached for another chocolate, popped it in his mouth, and spoke around it. “Primarily checking to see if I had an alibi for the night of the murder.”

 “Which you obviously do.”

He lifted his plastered arm and pointed it in the direction of his plastered leg. “Kind of hard to kill someone when you’ve only got one working arm and leg. And I certainly didn’t hobble out of here early this morning to set Paul’s house on fire. Once the detective realized I wasn’t his man, he asked for the names and contact information for my crew, then left, bumping into you on his way out.”

“Do you think someone on your crew had a beef with Dion?”

He shook his head. “I’d know if they did.”

“How well do you know them?”

“They’ve been with me for years.”

“I’m confused. Didn’t you only recently start working for Parthenon, after Dion and Paul’s father died this past year?”

“I did, but when the Leonides brothers offered me the position, I told them I’d only take it if I could bring along my entire crew. My guys are loyal and trustworthy. I wasn’t about to strand them in an unemployment line.”

“What happened to the other crew? Were they all fired?” If so, that could be a motive for someone to seek revenge on both brothers.

Jesse grabbed a third chocolate. “I was told the company had plenty of connections and Octavia—Paul’s wife—would contact other local construction companies to make sure they all found jobs.”

“Did they?”

“I assume so.”

“But you don’t know for sure?”

“How could I? I never met any of them. My primary concern was my own crew, but I didn’t want to be responsible for another group of men losing their jobs. I took Dion and Paul at their word.” He paused for a moment before stating the obvious. “But if they lied to me, one of those men could have killed Dion and tried to kill Paul.”

NINE

I left Jesse’s room confident that Detective Spader now had a long list of possible suspects and would most likely soon drop his suspicions regarding Ira. Jesse might not think any of his crew had issues with Dion and Paul, but just as the wife is often the last to know, the same could be said for the employer/employee relationship. How many times over the past few years had a disgruntled employee settled a score by bringing a gun to work?

Ex-employees often have even more motive to seek revenge. No doubt Detective Spader had gotten hold of Parthenon’s employee records and was in the process of tracking down all the men Dion and Paul had laid off when they hired Jesse.

As I drove away from the hospital, another thought niggled at my brain. Given that any of Parthenon’s former or current employees were much more likely suspects than Ira, why did Dion attack Ira Tuesday night?

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel, mulling the question around in my brain as I waited for a light to turn green. None of it made any sense. Dion lived a mile away and across a major highway from Ira. The lights, noise, and traffic from the Christmas display wouldn’t impact him. How would he even know about Ira’s extravaganza?

The only logical conclusion was that either Ira was lying about not knowing Dion, or someone else had attacked Ira, possibly someone Ira knew but refused to name. And if that were the case, why?

That brought me to Lawrence. Was it possible my mother’s ex-husband had set something in motion prior to landing in solitary confinement? Ira had nothing to do with Lawrence’s arrest and conviction, but Lawrence wouldn’t be the first member of a crime syndicate to continue his operations from behind prison walls, even if he had no chance of parole. What if he’d pressured Ira to do something for him and Ira had refused? Knowing Lawrence, he wouldn’t take no for an answer. Had he sent Ira a message in the form of an underling’s fist?

Too bad none of us heard what the attacker had yelled at Ira before punching him in the face. Contrary to his denial, I suspected Ira clearly remembered what was said but was too scared to tell Spader. If so, that would mean there was no connection between the attack on him and Dion’s murder. But if that were the case, why would the killer dump Dion’s body in Ira’s front yard?

Such randomness stretched coincidence beyond credibility. Maybe it was time for me to have a talk with Ira, just the two of us this time.

Ira had never come right out and admitted it, but I was certain he had a crush on me and harbored a fantasy about the two of us walking hand-in-hand into the setting sun of a happily-ever-after. Zack or no Zack, that was never going to happen. I’d sooner join a convent.

However, Ira saw Zack as an obstacle to his conquest of my heart. He didn’t have to voice his feelings; his attitude toward Zack spoke volumes. He very well may have known the reason for his attack but decided not to divulge it last night in front of Zack.

Of course, that still didn’t explain why he hadn’t told Detective Spader, unless he was too scared to do so—which sent my brain whiplashing back to Lawrence. Either way, I was convinced Ira held the key to at least one part of this mystery.

Christmas was only three days away, and I had planned to spend the afternoon doing some last-minute shopping. Zack and I had agreed not to exchange gifts, but I didn’t feel right going empty-handed to Shane and Sophie’s for brunch or to Ira’s later in the afternoon, especially since I suspected both would have gifts for us.

Besides Christmas presents, etiquette also dictated I bring Ira a housewarming gift. It didn’t matter that he already owned ten times more than any one person could possibly need in three lifetimes. As the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution, Mama would insist I follow Emily Post protocol.

However, since murder trumped shopping, and the stores were open late tonight, I put my afternoon plans on hold. Instead, I pulled into the nearest empty parking space and called Ira. “Sorry to disturb you,” I said when he answered.

“You could never disturb me, Anastasia. I always enjoy hearing from you. What’s up?”

“Do you have any free time today?”

“For you, I’ll make time.”

As it turned out, Ira was at his dealership in Springfield, all of five minutes from my current location. “Perfect. I’ll see you shortly,” I said and ended the call.

Minutes later, as I drove into a spot in the customer parking lot, I glimpsed Ira standing at the glass wall that ran the length of the showroom. Hands in pockets, his expression, both anxious and eager at the same time, reminded me of a little boy hoping that against all odds Santa had come through with the puppy his parents had nixed.

As I approached the showroom, he vacated his observation post and met me at the double-doors, swinging one open for me to enter. I stepped across the threshold and was immediately enveloped in a bear hug. “What a wonderful surprise,” he said.

The overly affectionate embrace lasted far too long. When I was finally able to extricate myself, I noticed several of his employees and a few customers with their heads turned in our direction. Oblivious to their stares, Ira looped his arm across my shoulders and led me across the floor.

The showroom looked more like the lobby of a high-end Manhattan hotel than a car dealership, except for the half dozen luxury vehicles on display in the massive room. Ira never did anything halfway. Everything sparkled, from the crystal chandeliers dripping from the ceiling to the polished chrome, glass, and black leather furnishings scattered in groupings around the room. Rows of glass-walled sales office cubicles lined two walls. A sweeping staircase, leading to the mezzanine, ran the length of the third wall.

“Can I offer you anything?” he asked, waving toward the alcove under the staircase where a complimentary spread of coffee, tea, bagels and donuts filled the surface of a polished ebony credenza. Alongside the credenza a wine fridge held a variety of soft drinks, juices, and bottled water.

“No, thank you.”

“I can have something brought in if you prefer.”

“I’ve already eaten, Ira.” His crestfallen demeanor caused me to add, “We had our annual holiday brunch at work today. I ate so much that I might even skip dinner tonight.”

That seemed to appease him. His smile returned as he led me up the staircase and into his office. Containing a door and privacy blinds covering the showroom-facing glass wall, Ira’s office afforded him an amount of privacy his sales force lacked.

“Let me take your coat,” he said. After I slipped out of it, he hung it on a hook on the back of his office door. Then instead of directing me toward one of the two visitor chairs facing his desk, he ushered me toward a black leather sectional that filled one corner of the room.

This didn’t bother me at first. After all, as Ira so often pointed out, we were family. Besides, I wasn’t here for a business meeting. I took a seat at the nearest end of the couch and placed my purse on the cushion beside me. Ira immediately moved the purse to the glass-topped coffee table and sat close enough that our hips nearly touched, trapping me between him and the arm of the sofa. Could he be more obvious?

He turned sideways, knocking knees with me, grasped my hand, and said, “What can I do for you, Anastasia? Do you need something? Name it, and it’s yours.”

Ira saw the world and everyone in it through the lens of a bank account. In his world money could solve every problem known to mankind. I pulled my hand away. “How about the truth, Ira?”

“I…” His jaw flapped open. “What do you mean? The truth about what?”

“The guy who attacked you Tuesday night.”

He shifted a few inches away from me. “I told you all I know.”

“I don’t believe you, Ira, and I don’t think Detective Spader does, either. Someone had to have heard what that guy said to you. Do you think Spader isn’t going to find out?”

That caused the color to drain from his face, making his bruises and contusions even more prominent. “What did he say to you?”

Instead of answering, I pressed on. “What are you hiding?”

“N…nothing.”

Mama claimed she always knew when I was lying because I couldn’t keep a straight face, which is why I never play poker. With Ira, his entire body gave him away. “Try again. Is Lawrence somehow behind this? Has he threatened you?”

Ira’s entire body shuddered a huge sigh. “It’s not Lawrence.”

“Then who? And why?”

He stood, hugged his arms to his chest, and began pacing the office. “Two weeks ago I was supposed to attend an all-day dealers’ meeting in the city. At the last minute I had to cancel because Isaac got into trouble at school.”

“What kind of trouble?”

“His teacher caught him cheating on a test.”

When he didn’t continue immediately, I prodded. “And?”

“According to his teacher, she marched him down to the principal’s office where he cursed them both out.” His voice grew agitated. “I had no idea he even knew such language. He certainly never heard those words from me.”

“What did the school do?”

“He was given an in-school suspension through Christmas break.”

That seemed like a rather severe punishment for a nine-year-old, especially if he hadn’t become physically violent—unless this was just the latest instance in a pattern of troubling behavior at school. Given what I’d observed of Isaac, I had to assume it was. “Was this the first time Isaac’s gotten into trouble at school?” I asked.

Ira shook his head. “He’s bullied a few kids, picked some fights. But all boys misbehave from time to time, right? I’m sure in the past you’ve been called to school over something Nick or Alex did.”

His eyes pleaded with a confirmation I refused to corroborate. “No, I can’t say I have.”

He stopped pacing and offered me a sheepish grin. “Probably because they got lucky and were never caught. Anyway, it’s a good thing Isaac is switching schools in January.”

What was wrong with this man? Could he not see that a new home with new furniture in a new town was no substitute for proper parenting? If he didn’t do something about his kids soon, all three of them would eventually wind up in serious trouble.

However, now wasn’t the time for a parenting discussion. I’d come for answers. “What does this have to do with your attacker?”

“I was getting to that. I needed to go over a few things with the manager of this dealership, so after I left the school, I drove up here.”

He paused, glancing up at the ceiling as if searching for divine intervention. Then he hung his head and mumbled, “I didn’t bother to call ahead to let him know I was on my way. When I unlocked my office door, I found him and one of my customer service reps naked and....” He pointed to the sectional. “Well, I’m sure you get the idea.”

Eww! I got the idea all right, enough so that I jumped up and stepped away from the scene of the crime, hoping someone had taken a disinfectant wipe to the sectional after the coitus interruptus. “What does that have to do with Tuesday night?”

“I’m getting to that. I fired them on the spot.”

“As you should have.”

Ira collapsed into the chair behind his desk and lowered his head into his hands. “At some point afterwards my manager’s wife found out what happened. She kicked him out and has filed for divorce and full custody of their kids.”

“He’s the guy who punched you?”

Ira raised his head and nodded.

“Why keep that a secret?”

He stared straight at me. “Don’t you think he’s suffering enough? I don’t want him arrested.”

I had no sympathy for any man who cheats on his wife. As far as I was concerned, the creep who attacked Ira got exactly what he deserved, but women often see adultery—not to mention other unacceptable male conduct—differently than men. They tend to employ a boys-will-be-boys standard defense for questionable behavior. Hadn’t Ira just used a version of it to explain away Isaac’s actions?

I tried to get through to him another way. “That man could have killed you, Ira. He stabbed the lawn balloons with a knife. What if he’d stabbed you?”

“But he didn’t.”

How often had I used the same logic over the past year? Hearing similar words from someone else forced me to confront my own stupidity. I shook my head. “You have to tell Detective Spader.”

“I can’t.”

“You’re impeding an investigation.”

“How? What difference does it make who punched me?”

“It makes a huge difference. Resources are being misdirected because the police are operating under the assumption that the person who attacked you is their murder victim.”

“So?”

So? I walked over to the opposite side of the desk, planted my palms on the surface, and leaned over until we were nearly nose-to-nose. “A killer is on the loose, Ira. One man is already dead. Another survived an arson fire. What if the killer strikes a third time?”

Ira couldn’t look me in the eye. He directed a blank stare over my shoulder to a spot across the room. I needed to bring him down out of whichever mind cloud he’d retreated into. I dropped into the chair behind me and softened my tone. “Look, maybe telling Detective Spader won’t make a difference in his investigation. But maybe it will. Do you really want to take that chance?”

He turned his attention back to me and released a long, slow sigh that reminded me of those deflating lawn balloons. “I suppose you’re right.”

I stood and walked back to the coffee table to retrieve my phone from my purse. “So you’ll contact Detective Spader?”

Panic consumed his features as he zeroed in on the phone in my hand. “Now?”

“No time like the present.” I pulled up Spader’s number and initiated the call.

TEN

Spader answered with a variation of his usual greeting to me. “Mrs. Pollack, staying out of trouble, I hope?”

“Trying my best, Detective.”

“What can I do for you?”

“It’s what I can do for you. I’m with my half-brother-in-law. He has some information regarding your case.” Before handing the phone to Ira, I tapped the speaker icon. After all, I’d gotten Ira to confess he knew his assailant. Shouldn’t that entitle me to listen in on both ends of his conversation with Spader?

The seconds ticked by as Ira stared at the phone in his hand.

“Mrs. Pollack?” asked Spader. “You there? What’s going on? I don’t have all day.”

I poked Ira out of his stupor. “Tell the detective what you told me.”

After a few stammered false starts, Ira finally came clean. Then he cringed as Spader reamed him out for withholding information about an ongoing case. Spader finished by hurling the ultimate cop threat. “Do it again, and you’ll find yourself behind bars, understood?”

Ira nodded.

“He can’t hear you nod,” I said and pointed to the phone.

Ira’s voice quaked as he forced out a weak confirmation. “Yes, sir. Understood.”

“One last question, Mr. Pollack. What’s your former sales manager’s name?”

Ira hesitated.

“A name, Pollack!”

“Showalter. Chuck Showalter.”

“Put your sister-in-law back on the phone.”

Ira handed me the phone, and I disabled the speaker. “Yes, detective?”

“Thanks. I owe you one.” He hung up before I could respond.

I turned to find that Ira had collapsed onto the sofa. His body nearly doubled in half, he sat with his head buried in his hands and shaking from head to toe, as if he were in shock. I suppose in a way he was, not from an accident but a mental shock that manifested as tremors. “I hope I did the right thing,” he half-whispered.

I settled beside him and reached over to place a hand on his shoulder but kept half a cushion’s space between us. I needed to calm him down but didn’t want him collapsing into my arms. He might never let go. “You did.”

He lifted his head and turned to me. “One mistake shouldn’t define the remainder of a man’s life.”

Was he speaking about himself or his former sales manager? As far as I was concerned, Ira had made more than one whopper of a mistake in his life—chief among them, his dubious parenting skills. Marrying Cynthia the Gold Digger came in at a close second. Both had already wreaked serious havoc in his life.

Since I had no desire to open up the can of worms that constituted either of the former, I opted for the latter. “The man was cheating on his wife, Ira. I doubt it was the first time, and it probably wouldn’t have been the last if she hadn’t found out. You don’t owe him anything.”

“Still….”

“Still what?” I found it incredulous that Ira’s need to be liked by everyone extended to sleazeballs. “He should be grateful you’re not pressing charges.”

He sighed. “I suppose.”

I shook my head and stood. “Eventually Spader would have found out your assailant wasn’t Dion Leonides, whether you told him or not. And then he may have locked you up to teach you a lesson. Are you really willing to go to jail to protect an adulterer?”

“No, you’re right.”

“I know I am.” With that, I grabbed my coat.

“You’re leaving? I thought maybe we could get a drink. I could sure use one right now.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you have to pick your kids up soon?”

“Right.” He shook his head. “What was I thinking?”

He wasn’t, as usual. But since I’m not the sort of person who pours salt in someone’s wounds, I bit back the words straining to force their way out of my mouth. Instead, I donned my coat, said goodbye, and slipped out of the office before he thought to rise from the sofa to embrace me.

Hopefully, he didn’t have a bottle of whiskey stashed in a desk drawer. Or if he did, he had the common sense not to indulge in a solo pity party.

On my way home I stopped at a gourmet food shop to purchase two breakfast gift baskets. At least that had been my intention when I entered the shop. Sticker shock forced me into a quick about-face and out the door.

Once back in my car, I drove to the supermarket where I purchased the components to assemble two baskets myself. I spent half the money for twice the amount of food, even though I bought gourmet brands instead of the generic store labels.

As I glanced at the total displayed on the cash register, I wondered if I should go into the gift basket business. Those folks had to be clearing a tidy profit, given they were able to buy their components wholesale. If I operated the business from my home and advertised online, I wouldn’t have the overhead of a retail location. Of course, I’d have to figure out how to do without sleep. But since I still had plenty of Karl’s debts hanging over my head, I parked the idea in a corner of my brain to access at a later date. Sleep was overrated anyway.

I arrived home to find Mama camped in my living room.

~*~

My mother was not used to living on her own, having spent her entire life with my grandparents until the day she married my father. After Dad drowned while scuba diving in the Yucatan on their twenty-fifth anniversary, Mama moved in with Karl and me.

As it turned out, Mama needs a man like a fish needs water. Her widowhood didn’t last long. Unfortunately, four months into Mama’s second marriage, Husband Number Two was gored to death by a bull while racing through the streets of Pamplona.

A pattern began to emerge with Husband Number Three, who died from an allergic reaction to shellfish shortly after their first anniversary. Number Four never made it past their honeymoon. He plunged to his death at the Grand Canyon. Within days of Karl’s death, Mama lost Husband Number Five. That relationship only lasted six months, after an ill-fated attempt to kiss the Blarney Stone resulted in a cerebral aneurysm.

Once Nick was born, whenever Mama camped out between husbands, he and Alex were forced to share a bedroom. By the time Husband Number Five slipped his earthly coil, Lucille was permanently ensconced in Nick’s bedroom. That resulted in the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution and the self-appointed leader of the Daughters of the October Revolution becoming reluctant roomies, which in turn triggered World War Three within the walls of Casa Pollack.

Last summer after Ira walked into our lives, he took it upon himself to play Cupid between Mama and his widowed father-in-law. Within days of Lawrence and Mama meeting, they were going at it like teenagers with raging hormones. One day I had the misfortune of arriving home early to find them in the middle of an afternoon delight—an image I will unfortunately take to my grave.

When Mama and Lawrence wed a short time later, Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe became Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe Tuttnauer. However, unlike Husbands Two through Five, Lawrence had money, having sold his commercial laundry upon retiring. Or so he said. We later learned he never laundered garments; he laundered money—for the mob.

Ira, never one to do anything small, had given Mama and Lawrence a townhouse as a wedding gift. Because he hadn’t gotten around to signing over the deed prior to Lawrence’s arrest, the government couldn’t seize the place when they scooped up Lawrence’s other assets.

However, although she now had her own home, Mama often spent more time in mine than her own, habitually dropping in shortly before mealtime because mastering kitchen skills had never been high on her list of priorities. If my father hadn’t enjoyed cooking, we either would have starved to death or died of ptomaine poisoning.

My mother didn’t even give me a chance to drop my packages and remove my coat before she jumped to her feet and began peppering me with questions. “What’s this I hear about you finding a dead body in Ira’s front yard? And why did I have to hear it on Eyewitness News while I was eating my lunch? I nearly choked on my tuna sandwich! Is this Lawrence’s doing?”

I placed my grocery sacks on the foyer floor and hung up my coat as I tackled Mama’s last question first. “I don’t know.”

“Well, I do.”

I spun around to face her. “What do you mean? Have you spoken with him?”

“Of course not! I wouldn’t give that man the time of day after the way he deceived me.”

I grabbed the groceries and headed for the kitchen, Mama following close on my heels. “Not to mention orchestrating several murders?”

“That, too.”

I dropped the sacks onto the kitchen counter. “Coffee?”

“Of course.” She started rifling through my groceries. “Do you have anything to go with the coffee? Some cake or pastry? I could use something sweet.”

I grabbed a jar of jam from her hand and returned it to the bag. “These aren’t for me. Check the pantry. There should be some cookies, assuming Lucille hasn’t scarfed them all down.”

Mama poked her nose into the pantry as I started a pot of coffee. “Speaking of the commie heathen,” she said, retrieving half a package of chocolate chip cookies, “where is she?”

I shrugged. “Don’t know, don’t care.” I secretly think Mama missed getting under Lucille’s skin. It didn’t seem to matter to her that in doing so, she also got under my skin—which is why, as much as I resented Ira trying to buy his way into our lives, I didn’t say a word about the extravagant wedding present or that he now paid her condo fees, taxes, and utilities. In addition, I suspected he also paid for her Uber account and possibly even her credit cards at this point.

Mama had a Blanche duBois way about her, always relying on the kindness of friends, relatives, and strangers—especially male friends, relatives, and strangers, who were always eager to accommodate her. She bore such a striking resemblance to a younger Ellen Burstyn that people often asked if she was the actress’s daughter, and with the face and body of a much younger woman, she knew how to use those assets to her advantage.

I moved the conversation back to her ex-husband. “What makes you so certain Lawrence is involved in the murder of Dion Leonides if you haven’t spoken with him?”

She settled into a kitchen chair, removed a cookie from the package and took a bite. Mama wasn’t the sort to talk around a mouthful of food. It wasn’t ladylike. After she’d swallowed the morsel and patted her lips with a napkin, she answered me. “Because I know Lawrence. Prison isn’t going to keep him from exacting his revenge on this family.”

She sighed. “And here I thought having five husbands drop dead on me was the worst luck I could possibly have! Nothing compares to learning your husband is in the mob.”

“Back up, Mama. What do you mean about exacting revenge on us?”

“I should think it’s obvious. Have you told that detective friend of yours to check into all of Lawrence’s associates? I know he’s got them doing his dirty work for him.”

“What makes you say that? Is there something you’re not telling me, Mama?”

She hesitated for a moment. “I suppose I should call him.”

I poured two cups of coffee and brought them to the table, taking the seat across from her. “Call Lawrence?”

“No, the detective. Really, Anastasia, focus!”

“I’ve spoken with Detective Spader, Mama. You don’t need to call him.”

“Good. What did he say?”

I knew of only one way to keep her from meddling. “Lawrence hasn’t been ruled out as a suspect, Mama.”

She slammed her hand on the table. “I knew it!”

“Only because this early in the investigation, the police are looking at everyone with a connection to Ira. They haven’t ruled out anyone—including Ira and Lawrence.”

“Ira? Why Ira?”

“Because the body was found on his property.”

“Well, that’s just ridiculous. Why would Ira kill someone and leave the body in his yard?”

“He wouldn’t, but the police have to follow procedure.”

“They’re wasting their time. It’s obviously Lawrence.”

“There are more credible suspects.” Mama may have made up her mind, but from what Jesse Konopka had told me, Parthenon’s former employees pushed Lawrence way down on the list.

“Like who?”

“Detective Spader hasn’t shared any names with me.” Which was a completely truthful answer, but I decided we were in need of a quick subject change before her questioning necessitated fibbing on my part. “Are you staying for dinner, or do you have other plans?” Given her history, by now Mama should be in full hubby hunting mode. I expected any day she’d sashay into my house on the arm of my next stepfather.

“Depends. What are you making?”

Did it matter? Even if I served cornflakes, Mama would stay unless she had a better offer. “Baked tilapia.”

“I’ll stay.”

~*~

Lucille, with Harriet in tow, walked into the house as Mama, Zack, the boys, and I were finishing dinner. I had defrosted and baked six tilapia fillets, setting one aside with some brown rice and broccoli for my mother-in-law. “Your dinner is in the microwave,” I told Lucille as she and Harriet dropped their coats on the sofa.

Hearing the return of his mistress, Mephisto padded into the living room from where he’d been camped out in the den. He stopped in front of Lucille. As she stooped to cuddle him, he bared his teeth and growled at her. She straightened and jumped back.

“What have you done to my dog?” she demanded. Her eyes narrowed at those of us seated around the dining room table as Devil Dog retreated back down the hall.

“Us?” asked Nick. “You’re the one who’s abandoned him lately. He’s just letting you know how he feels.”

Lucille ignored Nick and hurled a verbal jab at me. “If my son were still alive, he’d never allow such insolence.”

“Speaking the truth isn’t insolence,” said Mama.

Lucille spun around to face Mama. “No one asked you for your two cents.”

“Well, I’m giving it anyway,” said Mama, “and it’s worth a heck of a lot more than two cents.” She punctuated her words by sticking her tongue out at Lucille.

“Very mature,” said her nemesis. “I’d expect no less from the likes of you.”

Lucille and Harriet then turned their backs on us and strode into the kitchen. I braced myself for the explosion I knew would follow. They didn’t disappoint. A moment later the two women stormed into the dining room. “Anastasia, there’s only one dinner in the microwave,” said Lucille.

“That’s right. Yours.”

“What about Harriet?”

“You’re welcome to share your dinner with your friend.”

Lucille banged her cane on the floor, her voice climbing several decibels. “She’s my guest! You will treat her accordingly.”

“I am. She’s a freeloader, and thanks to your son, I can’t afford her constantly mooching meals.”

“How dare you blame Karl for your selfishness!”

“And what does that make her?” asked Harriet, pointing a gnarled finger at Mama.

I kept my voice calm and soft. “My mother. And unlike you, she was invited.”

Harriet’s face contorted into a look of pure hatred. I ignored her and directed my comments back to my mother-in-law. “If you want Harriet to join us for meals every night, you can kick in more money for weekly groceries. Otherwise Harriet can eat her own food in her own apartment. I will no longer allow you and your friends to take advantage of me.”

Mama clapped her hands. “Brava, dear. It’s about time you stopped letting that parasite and her cronies walk all over you.”

I turned to frown at her and caught Alex gesturing to Nick with a wave of his thumb toward the kitchen. The boys rose and began clearing the remains of dinner, stepping around their grandmother and Harriet to carry the empty dishes into the kitchen.

Instead of responding to Mama, Lucille zeroed in on Zack. “This is all your doing, isn’t it?”

Ralph, who had perched silently on the breakfront up until now, squawked once and said, “…’twere a concealment, worse than a theft, no less than a traducement, to hide your doings....Coriolanus. Act One, Scene Nine.” Then he flapped his wings and flew across the room. After settling on Zack’s shoulder, he nuzzled his cheek until Zack rewarded him with a sunflower seed.

Zack finally answered Lucille. “Are you insinuating Karl stood by and allowed you to take advantage of Anastasia before she met me?”

Her jaw flapped open. She sputtered once or twice before she finally said, “How dare you!” Then she stormed into the living room and grabbed her coat. “Come, Harriet.”

“Leaving so soon?” asked Mama as they marched toward the front door.

I shook my head and muttered, “Not helpful, Mama.”

Lucille stopped short, turned, and glared at all of us but said nothing before pivoting and continuing into the foyer. A moment later the front door slammed.

“Is it safe to come out?” Nick called from the kitchen.

Before I could respond to him, the phone rang. Alex answered, then stepped into the dining room, his hand over the receiver. “It’s Uncle Ira. He sounds really upset.”

I shook my head and sighed. “Any chance we can implement a One Family Drama Per Dinner policy at Casa Pollack?”

“With your family?” asked Zack. “Doubtful.”

I hate it when he’s right. I sighed as I held my hand out for Alex to pass me the phone. “Hello, Ira.”

Between gulping sobs, he said, “Anastasia, you…you have to hel…help m…me.

“What’s wrong? Did your sales manager come after you again? Are you hurt?”

“N…no, it’s Isaac. I don’t know wha…what to do!”

“What about Isaac?”

“He…he’s missing.”

ELEVEN

“Missing?” I asked. “What do you mean? Wasn’t he at school when you went to pick him up?”

“N…not school. Here.”

“Okay, Ira. Take a deep breath, calm down, and tell me what happened.”

I heard him inhale a ragged breath, then the whoosh of air when he forcefully released it. He repeated this a second, then a third time. Finally, he attempted to speak again. With each word, his voice grew steadier and stronger until anger supplanted fear and uncertainty, and he shouted, “Someone’s kidnapped him!”

“What! Are you sure?”

“Of course, I’m sure. What else could it be? He wouldn’t run off.”

Knowing Isaac, I had my doubts. The kid had anger issues and a short fuse. Several viable scenarios sprang to mind, but instead of suggesting any of them, I asked, “Have you called the police?”

“They’re on their way.” His voice segued into pleading mode. “Would you come, too, Anastasia? Please?”

I didn’t believe for a moment that a kidnapper had grabbed Isaac. The boy probably had gotten into a snit about something and stormed out of the house, but I couldn’t know for sure, especially after learning about Chuck Showalter this afternoon.

Then there was Ira’s wealth. Kids of rich people are often the targets of kidnappers. At any moment Ira might receive a phone call demanding ransom for the return of his son. Under the circumstances, how could I ignore his plea? “I’m on my way.”

“What’s going on?” asked Zack after I ended the call.

“Isaac is missing.”

“I’ll go with you.”

“Me, too,” said my mother.

“That’s not necessary, Mama.”

“Of course, it is. If you’re all going off to search for the boy, someone needs to stay at the house with the twins.”

“She has a point,” said Zack.

~*~

A police cruiser was parked in front of Ira’s house when we pulled up. As we approached the door, we heard shouting coming from inside. I recognized Ira’s voice, but the other voice was that of a woman, shrill and consumed with what sounded like righteous rage.

Zack rang the doorbell. Ira’s voice grew silent, but the woman continued to scream. “This is not my fault! I didn’t sign up for this!”

The door swung open. We stepped inside to find a short, squat woman of about fifty shoving her arms into a coat. She continued to yell at Ira as Officers Harley and Fogarty looked on. “Your children are monsters,” she said, wagging her finger at Ira. “You need a prison warden, not a housekeeper. I quit!”

Ira’s jaw dropped. “You can’t quit!”

“Oh yeah? Watch me!”

She elbowed her way past Zack, Mama, and me and stormed out of the house.

Ira stepped across the threshold onto the porch and called after her as she raced down the steps and along the path toward the sidewalk, “Carmella, come back! Please!”

“No way!”

“I’ll double your salary.”

She paused mid-stride and spun around. “Not even if you tripled it.” Then she marched down the sidewalk. We watched as she got into an older model sub-compact car parked at the curb of the house next door and drove off.

Ira stepped back inside, hung his head, and asked of no one in particular, “Now what am I going to do?”

Melody—or Harmony—slammed the door behind him and said, “Good riddance!”

Her sister added, “We don’t need a babysitter. We can take care of ourselves.”

“Has Isaac returned?” I asked.

Ira shook his head. “Maybe she’s in on it.” He turned to Harley and Fogarty. “Why else would she turn down a higher salary? She could have set the whole thing up. She probably has accomplices. Maybe she’s in cahoots with Showalter.”

Zack whispered in my ear, “Who’s Showalter?”

I hadn’t had a chance to tell him about my visit with Ira earlier in the day. “I’ll tell you later,” I whispered in reply.

“Mr. Pollack, there’s no indication your son was kidnapped,” said Harley.

“You don’t know that,” said Ira.

“What exactly happened?” Zack asked, directing his question to the two officers.

“From what we can gather,” said Harley, “the kid mouthed off at the housekeeper when she told him he couldn’t eat candy and play video games before dinner. He ran up to his room and slammed the door. That’s the last anyone saw of him.”

“His bedroom window is open,” added Fogarty. “Looks like he climbed out onto the porch roof, shimmied down the column, and ran off.”

“Without his coat?” asked Ira. “When it’s freezing outside? My son’s smarter than that.”

I wasn’t so sure. “So what are you suggesting, Ira? That someone was hiding in his room?”

“Nothing else makes sense.”

“There’s no evidence of a struggle,” said Harley.

“The kidnapper must have drugged him,” said Ira.

“Does he have his phone with him?” I asked. “Have you tried calling him?”

“Calls go straight to voicemail, and the Find My Phone feature isn’t working. He wouldn’t turn that off.”

He would if he didn’t want his father to know where he’d gone.

“How long since anyone last saw him?” Zack asked.

“As best we can figure,” said Harley, “nearly three hours. No one realized he was gone until he was called to come down for dinner.”

I turned to Ira. “Where were you?”

“After I picked the kids up at school and brought them home, I ran back over to the Springfield dealership. I arrived home around six-thirty.” He turned on Harley and Fogarty. “Why are you two still here? Why aren’t you trying to track down whoever took my son?”

“We’ve issued an APB to all units, sir,” said Harley. “Every cop in town is on the lookout for your son.”

“Which does no good if a kidnapper stashed him somewhere!”

Fogarty shook his head and rolled his eyes. His partner said, “We’re going to leave now and help look for him, Mr. Pollack. You stay here in case the kidnapper calls.”

“So you do believe he was kidnapped! I knew it! We need to call the FBI.”

“We’ll handle it,” said Fogarty.

I turned to my mother. “Mama, why don’t you stay here with Ira while Zack and I help in the search?”

“Of course, dear.”

Zack and I followed Harley and Fogarty outside. Once on the sidewalk, Zack said, “He’s probably wandering around town.”

“That was our thought,” said Fogarty.

“So you have no plans to call in the Feds?” I asked, already knowing the answer.

“Sometimes it’s best to humor irrational people,” said Harley.

“There is an extremely slim possibility Ira is correct,” I said, filling them in on the incident with the sales manager.

“That was the guy who punched Pollack out the other night?” asked Fogarty. “Does Detective Spader know?”

“He does, as of this afternoon. He’s probably tracked him down and questioned him by now.”

“We’ll contact Spader. Meanwhile, let us know if you find the kid before we do.”

“Will do,” said Zack.

Once we were back in the car, Zack asked, “When were you going to tell me about Showalter?”

“As soon as we had a moment alone. I didn’t want to say anything in front of Mama. You know how she is.”

“True.” Zack turned over the engine and pulled away from the curb. “So any idea where the kid is?”

“I think so. Head into town.”

~*~

“Okay, now where?” asked Zack once we arrived at the edge of the business district.

“Knowing Isaac and his obsession with video games, my guess is he’s at the arcade.”

Zack turned left on Broad St. and found a parking space across the street and half a block down from the entertainment center. With only three days until Christmas, the business district was filled with last-minute shoppers scurrying in and out of the retail stores that lined both sides of Broad St. As we walked the short distance to the arcade, a gust of wind blew at our backs. Within seconds a light flurry of snow began to whip around us.

We ducked into the arcade and scanned the darkened interior, searching for Isaac. Colorful lights from the various games flashed all around us. Strobe lights pulsated from the ceiling keeping time with the piped in hip-hop blaring from wall-mounted speakers. A cacophony of other sounds assaulted my eardrums—everything from bells and whistles to weapons explosions and the roar of monstrous aliens coming from dozens of games competing with the shouts and laughter of a multitude of teens and pre-teens filling the place.

When Alex and Nick were younger, Chuck E. Cheese was the birthday party venue of choice for boys under the age of ten. As I stood in a room that made Chuck E. Cheese look like a Buddhist meditation garden, I decided that given a choice between Chinese water torture and spending ten minutes in this arcade, water torture would win hands down. “Do you see him?” I shouted.

Zack shouted back. “Not yet.” He reached for my hand, and we began walking up and down the aisles.

We found Isaac at the back of the room, sitting at a console in front of a large screen where zombies and space aliens battled for world domination. The collar and cuffs of a long-sleeve shirt poked out from under a sweatshirt. Two fleece-lined zippered hoodies lay in a heap on the floor alongside his seat. At least he’d had enough common sense to grab some warm clothes from his closet before climbing out his bedroom window.

He wore a contraption on his head that I assumed was some sort of virtual reality apparatus. “Isaac!”

He ignored me. I shouted louder. “Isaac!” Nothing. Finally, I tapped his shoulder.

He jerked his body away from my hand. “Wait your turn!”

I grabbed the headgear and yanked it off his face. That finally got his attention.

“Hey! Give that back!” He reached for my arm and tried to grab the goggles from my hand.

Zack clamped his fingers over Isaac’s wrist and yanked him from his seat. “Time to leave, kid.”

“You’re not my father. I don’t have to do what you say.” He swung his leg and kicked Zack in the shin.

Big mistake. The nine-year-old was no match for Zack. Before Isaac could strike again, Zack picked him up, pinning his arms to his sides. I scooped up the hoodies. Unless Zack sat on Isaac while I forced his arms into the sweatshirts, we stood little chance of getting him dressed. I opted against creating an even bigger scene, not that anyone was paying attention to us. Snow or no snow, Isaac wouldn’t freeze during the short time it would take to haul him half a block.

Carrying Isaac under one arm, Zack headed toward the exit. I followed behind, steering clear of Isaac’s flailing legs.

Isaac directed a string of expletives at Zack. When that proved futile, he screamed, “Help! I’m being kidnapped!” but no one batted an eye in our direction—most likely because Isaac’s words were drowned out by the migraine-inducing noise bombarding us from every direction.

Even the teenager manning the cash register at the entrance seemed unfazed at the sight of our unusual departure. He simply waved and mouthed, “Merry Christmas” as we passed him. Apparently, Isaac was not the first kid to be extricated from the place in this manner.

Once outside I pulled out my phone and first contacted Officer Harley to call off the cavalry. Then I phoned Ira.

“He’s okay?” he asked.

“He’s fine, Ira. Just pissed that we dragged him out of the arcade.” Before hanging up, I told him I’d contacted the police.

As we approached my Jetta, Isaac continued to squirm, attempting to break free of Zack’s grip. An elderly couple, laden with shopping bags, came toward us from the opposite direction. “Uh-oh,” said the man, “looks like someone landed on Santa’s Naughty List.”

Isaac hurled the F-bomb at him.

The couple’s eyes widened, their jaws dropped. The woman shook her head and said, “This is what comes from permissive parenting.”

As they continued on their way, I called after them, “I totally agree. Thankfully, he’s not our kid.”

Zack unlocked the car and dropped Isaac into the backseat. “Put your seatbelt on.”

“Make me!”

“You really want to go there, kid?” He reached into his back pocket and whipped out a pair of handcuffs. Isaac’s eyes bugged out. A moment later he’d belted himself in.

“You came prepared,” I said as Zack closed the door.

“Boy Scout motto.”

Why was I surprised that my boyfriend, who claims he’s not a spy even though he owns a badass handgun and is always running off to Third World countries, also possesses a pair of handcuffs?

“You want to read him the riot act before we take him home?” he asked.

“Definitely.”

Zack engaged the childproof locks once we settled into the car, just in case Isaac got any bright ideas and tried to bolt. He started the engine and cranked up the heater but didn’t pull out of the parking spot.

Zack and I turned around to face Isaac. He sat with his arms crossed over his chest, a belligerent expression on his face. “Do you have any idea how worried your father is?” I asked. “He thought you were kidnapped.”

“I was kidnapped. By you.” He pulled his phone out of his pants pocket and powered it up.

Zack reached over the seat and grabbed it out of his hand. “Wrong answer.”

“Give me back my phone!”

“Still wrong answer.”

Isaac glared first at Zack, then me. “I don’t know what you want me to say. No one lets me do anything. I’m sick of following everyone’s rules. Do this. Do that. Stupid teachers. Stupid housekeepers.” He crossed his arms back over his chest. “Stupid you! Just leave me alone.”

“Let’s get him home,” I said to Zack. “He’s Ira’s problem, not ours.”

Zack pulled out of the parking space and drove back to Ira’s house. “We should have let the cops pick him up,” he said. “Maybe a stint in juvie would straighten him out.”

“What are you two talking about?” asked Isaac. “What’s juvie?”

“Juvenile Detention,” I said. “It’s prison for troublemaker kids like you.”

“You’re making that up,” said Isaac. “There’s no such place. You’re just trying to scare me.”

“Perhaps a field trip is in order,” said Zack. He glanced up into the rearview mirror. “What’s the matter, Isaac? You look nervous.”

I twisted in my seat. Isaac’s lower lip trembled. His eyes filled with tears. “I want to go home. I want my dad.”

Three minutes later we pulled into Ira’s driveway. Isaac breathed a huge sigh of relief when he realized he was home. As soon as Zack disengaged the childproof locks, Isaac swung open the door and made a mad dash for the house.

We followed behind Isaac and found him in the great room, clinging to Ira’s waist. Ira’s relief at having his son home safe and sound was evident on his face. Isaac took one look at Zack and inched behind his father.

Mama sat on the sectional. The twins were nowhere in sight. “Mama,” I said, “I’m sure Isaac is hungry. Why don’t you take him into the kitchen and make him a sandwich?”

She rose and held out her hand to Isaac. “Come on, young man. Let’s see what we can rustle up for you.”

Isaac refused to budge. “Go on,” said Ira. “Aren’t you hungry?” Isaac gave Zack and me a wary look before he allowed Mama to take his hand and lead him into the kitchen.

“How can I ever thank you?” said Ira.

“Is there someplace private we can talk?” I asked.

“Of course.” Ira led Zack and me to a small den situated behind French doors off the dining room. Once inside, he closed the doors. A gray microfiber sofa and loveseat with overstuffed pillows filled one corner of the room. Zack and I settled into the sofa, Ira dropped onto the loveseat, perching on the edge of a cushion.

“I know what you’re going to say,” he said. “He’s out of control. They all are. They don’t listen to me. They don’t listen to anyone.”

“Because you’ve spoiled them,” I said. “Kids need boundaries.”

“But it’s been so hard on them, first with their mother’s illness and death, then everything that happened with Cynthia.”

“You’re not doing your kids any favor,” said Zack. “You’re making things worse.”

Ira’s eyes flashed anger. “You’ve never had kids. You have no idea what it’s like, what we’ve been through.”

“Maybe not,” said Zack, “but I know what’s going to happen if your parenting skills don’t improve.” He proceeded to tell Ira what had transpired at the arcade and afterwards. “You’ve got a budding juvenile delinquent on your hands, Ira. This is serious.”

Ira turned to me. “Is that how you feel?”

“I do.”

He placed his elbows on his knees and lowered his head into his hands. “I don’t know what to do. Cynthia had wanted to send all three kids off to boarding school. Maybe that would be best.” He lifted his head and looked at Zack and sighed. “I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m a failure as a father.”

“That’s not what we’re saying,” I said, “but you need help before it’s too late.”

“Do you have any idea how many nannies and housekeepers we’ve gone through? No one hangs around for very long.”

I couldn’t blame them. Isaac and the twins would present a challenge to Mary Poppins. Then again, so would their father. But at least Ira finally admitted he had a problem. Recognition brought him a giant leap toward resolution. “Have you considered a family therapist?”

“More than one. Therapy only works if everyone agrees to participate, and my kids are stubborn. They sat stone-faced at each session. Short of calling in the Marines, what more can I do?”

Marines? Talk about an ah-ha moment! Suddenly I knew just the person to straighten out Ira and his kids, assuming he was up for the challenge.

TWELVE

“You’re kidding,” said Zack when I told him my idea after we dropped Mama at her condo. “Tino Martinelli? The guy involved in the murder of your ex-CEO’s mistress?”

“You make it sound like he had something to do with her death. He didn’t.”

“Yet he made some questionable decisions in conjunction with that death, decisions that could have landed him in prison.”

“Granted, but in the end he came clean, stepped up, and helped catch a killer who was about to strike for a third time. Besides, he’s a former Marine. How perfect is that?”

Zack scrubbed at his way-past-five-o’clock shadow. “I don’t know.”

“He’s got a good heart. That’s what got him in trouble in the first place. He acted out of some misguided sense of family loyalty.”

“So do Mafia hit men. That doesn’t excuse them.”

Score one point for Zack.

“Marines are supposed to be rational thinkers,” he continued. “They’re trained to use reason and logic and keep emotion out of the equation.”

“There were extenuating circumstances. Besides, no one is perfect.”

“What makes you think he’d even be interested?”

“I received a Christmas card from him today. He’s working security for some tech company and bored out of his mind. I think he’d jump at the challenge to straighten out three delinquents-in-training.”

Zack slowed for a traffic light and turned to face me. “You really think this is a good idea?”

“Tino wouldn’t hurt a fly. And he’d do anything for me.”

“I’m not sure how I feel about that.”

I playfully swatted his arm. “In a brotherly way.”

He shook his head and sighed. “Since I’ve never met the guy, I have to bow to your judgment, but you need to let Ira know what happened with Martinelli a few months ago.”

“I will.”

~*~

First thing the next morning, after the boys left for school, I phoned Tino. He answered with an excited, “Mrs. P.!”

“Hey, Tino, it was good to get your note.”

“I miss our adventures. Life is downright boring lately. You haven’t replaced me, have you?”

“Never! You’ll be first on my list the next time I go undercover as a reality TV producer.”

He chuckled. “We had some fun with that, didn’t we?”

“Putting aside we were interviewing possible killers?”

“Well, yeah, there was that. Still, it was kind of an adrenaline rush, right?”

Personally, I could use a little less adrenaline in my life. Then again, I wasn’t an ex-Marine. They probably required a certain number of cc’s per day to survive. “I’m off work until after New Year’s. Any chance you’re free for coffee or lunch today?”

“You miss me?”

“Absolutely! And I also have a proposition for you if you’re interested.”

“Why, Mrs. P., you cougar, you!”

“Not that kind of proposition!”

He laughed again. “Only kidding. But if you ever change your mind—”

“Tino!”

“Just pulling your leg, Mrs. P. Anyway, I’m off until after New Year’s, and I’d love to meet for lunch. You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity. I can’t wait to hear about this proposition of yours.”

We made arrangements to meet at a diner on Route 22 at noon. When I ended the call, Zack said, “I’d feel more comfortable going with you.”

“I thought you had a meeting with your publisher.” Zack had been working on a new book of photographs based on his recent trips to commune with lemurs in Madagascar.

“I can reschedule.”

“What are you afraid will happen?”

He paused from wiping down the kitchen counter, turned to face me, and said, “Nothing, I hope.”

“You worry too much.”

“Says the woman who nearly got herself killed recently.”

“Tino wouldn’t kill me; he’d kill for me.”

Zack raised an eyebrow. “Something you’re not telling me?”

“It’s just an expression.” However, perhaps not the best choice of one, given Zack’s wariness of the ex-Marine in question.

He stared at me for a moment before turning his attention back to clean-up duty. “Keep it that way.”

I tapped him on the shoulder. When he spun back around to face me, I looped my arms over his shoulders and locked lips with him to show my appreciation for his concern.

Unfortunately, the amorous moment was abruptly interrupted by one of my mother-in-law’s trademark harrumphs. I opened my eyes to find her standing in the kitchen doorway. She speared me with a glare and a scowl before taking a seat at the kitchen table. “At least my dear son didn’t live to see the kind of woman he really married.”

I placed her breakfast in front of her. “And what kind of woman would that be, Lucille?”

“A hussy.”

A great retort danced on the tip of my tongue, but I decided against letting it loose. Instead I poured her a cup of coffee before Zack and I left the kitchen.

We were halfway to the living room when she called out, “Anastasia, my eggs are ice cold!”

“You know where the microwave is,” Zack called over his shoulder.

“No one’s talking to you,” she said.

I circled back to the kitchen, placed my hands on the table, and leaned forward until inches separated my nose from hers. “This isn’t a diner, and I’m not a short-order cook. If you want your breakfast prepared for you, show up in the kitchen on time. Otherwise, prepare your own meals.”

Her jaw dropped, and she began to sputter, but I didn’t hang around. I stormed out of the kitchen and didn’t stop until I entered my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

A moment later the door opened a few inches, and Zack stuck his head inside. “Is it safe to come in, or are you going to throw a lamp or something?”

I dropped onto the bed. “At you, no. At her? Possibly.”

He pulled me to my feet and held me until my anger subsided. “Maybe I should start buying lottery tickets,” I said.

“I can think of better ways to throw away money.”

“Maybe so, but if I won, the first thing I’d do is pay to put her in assisted living. It would be worth every penny.”

He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, removed a dollar, and handed it to me. “The first ticket is on me.”

I couldn’t help but laugh.

~*~

Once Lucille had wolfed down her breakfast, she hobbled into the den and parked herself in front of the television to watch Judge Judy. Zack left for the train station, and I caught up on laundry and various other household chores normally relegated to weekends. Then I made a supermarket run.

When I returned, I found my mother-in-law hadn’t moved, other than to pick up the remote to switch the channel to an episode of Sister Wives. I knew this because she’d turned the volume up to such deafening decibels that I could hear every word all the way on the other side of the house as I put away groceries.

At eleven-forty I escaped the ear-splitting onslaught of reality TV and drove off to meet Tino. Ten minutes later I arrived at the diner and spied him in a booth along the windows.

I was used to seeing Tino in sunglasses, dark suits, white shirts, and conservative ties. The guy looked like the quintessential Secret Service agent—if Secret Service agents could afford twelve-hundred-dollar Bulgari shades and bespoke suits. Today he wore jeans and a Giants sweatshirt, looking like a defensive end on a day off. As I approached, he rose, met me halfway down the aisle, and wrapped me in a bear hug that sucked the air from my lungs.

“Sure is good to see you, Mrs. P.,” he said once he released me. I slid into the booth, and Tino wedged himself into the side opposite me. He offered me a wide grin that took up the entire lower half of his face, his eyes twinkling. “So, about this proposition….”

Two menus were already at the table. I grabbed the one in front of my place setting, smiled back at him, and said, “How about if we order first?”

He sighed and raised his own menu. “If you insist.”

Once the waitress had arrived to take our orders, I got down to business. “You inferred you’re unhappy at your new job.”

He shrugged. “It’s okay, and the pay is good.”

“But?”

“There’s little challenge.” He ran his hand over his buzz cut. “I’m not unhappy so much as bored with the tedium of it. I spend most of my days sitting in front of a bank of computer screens looking for cyber incursions into one specific company that few hackers seem interested in breeching.”

“That’s a good thing, right?”

“I suppose. Makes for a long day, though.”

“Have you found any?”

He puffed out his chest. “Of course. I’m good at what I do, but it’s like playing the same video game day in and day out for years. Once you’ve saved the village from the zombie apocalypse a hundred times over, you can do it with your eyes closed and one hand behind your back. There are only so many ways the zombies can attack the village. It’s not like I’m monitoring the electric grid or working for Homeland Security.”

“Is that what you want?”

He thought for a moment. “Maybe. I’ve put some feelers out. I want to do something where I’m making a difference.”

“How do you feel about kids, Tino?”

His eyes bugged out. “Wow! I never saw that one coming.”

I chuckled. “Threw you for a loop, did I?”

“I figured you were mixed up in some new murder investigation.”

“Well…now that you mention it—”

He slapped the table, rattling the silverware.” I knew it!”

“There has been a murder, but the police are handling it.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Like they did the last one?”

“Different cops. This murder occurred in my town.”

“What’s your connection?”

“The killer dumped the body on my half-brother-in-law’s property.”

“Half-brother-in-law?”

“Long story.”

“And I suppose he’s Suspect Numero Uno?”

“Possibly, but that’s not what I want to discuss with you.”

Tino’s brows knit together. “The plot thickens.”

Before I could say anything further, the waitress appeared with our coffees. I added cream to mine and took a sip prior to continuing. “This is a convoluted, multi-part tale. It’s best I start from the beginning, filling you in on the back-story first.”

He leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m all ears, Mrs. P.”

For the next ten minutes I explained how I’d come to meet Ira and his kids, how my mother had married his second wife’s father, and how Lawrence now resided in federal lock-up for a host of crimes, including his own daughter’s murder.

“You lead a very interesting life, Mrs. P. You should write a book.”

Maybe I should. I could certainly use the royalties to pay down some of my still staggering debt.

By this time our food had arrived. I continued my tale. “Ira and his kids recently moved to Westfield,” I said.

Tino took a huge bite of his cheeseburger and talked around the mouthful. “Let me guess, to be closer to you?”

I answered with a grimace. 

“The guy’s got a crush on you, Mrs. P.”

“Tell me something I don’t know.”

“You want me to set him straight?”

I nearly choked on my corned beef special. “No! At least not in the way I think you’re suggesting.”

He shrugged, then dipped a French fry into a pool of ketchup and popped it into his mouth. “Then what?”

I continued with the events leading up to finding the body in Santa’s sleigh and segued into the problems with the twins and Isaac, finishing with what had occurred last night. “Those kids need someone to whip them into shape before they all wind up locked up. Or worse.”

Tino raised both eyebrows. “And you think I’m the person to do that?”

“Absolutely.”

“I don’t know, Mrs. P. I—”

“You said you were looking for a challenge.”

He scrubbed at his jaw and shook his head. “A manny? This is so not what I had in mind.”

“What greater challenge than something you’d never thought to consider?”

“In a million years.”

“But if you succeed, you’d have the satisfaction of knowing you’d turned three miscreants into model citizens.”

“There is that.”

“Then you’ll think about it?”

He stared at me for a long moment before nodding. “Ira and his kids are lucky they have someone as caring as you in their lives. Most people would just turn their backs and walk away.”

Now it was my turn to shrug. “It’s either my best trait or my worst flaw. I haven’t figured out which yet.”

“Does Ira know about me?”

I shook my head. “I wanted to see if you were interested before I said anything.”

“I think it would be a good idea if I met him and his kids first. I need to know what I’m getting myself into.”

“Then you might be interested?”

“We’ll see.”

“You doing anything for dinner tonight?”

“Depends. How good a cook are you, Mrs. P.?”

“Not as good as my boyfriend. How does six-thirty sound?”

“Text me your address. I’ll bring dessert.”

“We’ll need enough for ten.”

“Ten?” He counted on his fingers, stopping at seven. “You have three kids?”

“Two.”

He held up his fingers and wiggled them, minus one thumb. “That makes nine by my count.”

“Plus my communist mother-in-law.” I frowned. “Unfortunately, I’m stuck with her.”

“Sounds like you need me to whip her into shape, too.”

I laughed. “Tino, I doubt even you could accomplish a miracle of such magnitude.”

~*~

Before leaving the diner, I called Ira to invite him and his brood to dinner. “What’s the occasion?”

“Does there have to be one?”

“No, but I’m surprised. You never want to get together on weeknights.”

Or any other night, really, but I refrained from spouting the mean comment. My motives were pure. Ira needed help, and I had the solution. “I’m off until after New Year’s.”

“In that case, we’d love to come.”

We being more of a “royal we”, even though Ira might think he spoke for his kids as well. I could bank on the twins and Isaac not sharing their father’s enthusiasm over spending the evening at Casa Pollack.

Tino made the universal time-out sign with his hands. “Hold on a second, Ira.” I muted my phone.

“Tell him you have a friend interested in a new car. Ask him if he has time to meet with me this afternoon.”

I relayed the message and received an affirmative response from Ira. “Two o’clock at his Flemington dealership.”

Tino nodded.

“You really need a new car?” I asked after ending the call.

He shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I can trust you, right?”

“Have I ever let you down, Mrs. P.?”

~*~

Since nothing in my pantry or fridge would serve a dinner party of ten, Ira’s acceptance necessitated the second trip of the day to the supermarket. I loaded up on the components for spaghetti and turkey meatballs, a tossed salad, and garlic bread. Not a gourmet meal by any stretch but who doesn’t like spaghetti and meatballs? I frowned at the items in my cart. With my luck? Melody, Harmony, and Isaac, that’s who.

~*~

I pulled into my driveway to find Robyn Konopka standing at my front door.

THIRTEEN

Robyn turned and waved to me as I parked the Jetta. I grabbed my purse and bag of groceries and joined her at the front door. “This is a surprise,” I said.

She bit down on her lower lip, her expression conveying either worry or nervousness. I wasn’t sure which. Perhaps both. “I hope you don’t mind the unannounced visit. I took a chance you’d be home.”

“Is everything all right?”

Robyn was a petite woman who looked lost, swallowed up in an overly puffy powder blue parka that fell below her knees. She shook her head as she fought to get the words out. “I don’t know…I’m probably acting paranoid…I’d heard you were involved with helping the police in a few investigations…so I thought...maybe….”

Becoming Westfield’s very own Jessica Fletcher didn’t fill me with warm fuzzies. People talk. There was little I could do about my newfound reputation other than ignore it or embrace it. I’d prefer the former. However, the more people talked, the less I could ignore the moniker and the problems that came with it—like people trying to kill me. Of course, my inability to turn my back on a friend in need or an injustice that needed righting didn’t help.

I placed my hand on Robyn’s arm. “Is it Jesse? Has something more happened?” Lately the news was full of scary reports about hospitals becoming breeding grounds for antibiotic-resistant superbugs. A patient could go in for a broken leg and wind up with MRSA.

Her eyes glistened with unshed tears, and she blinked several times to stave off an imminent flow. “I’m not sure.”

She wasn’t sure if her husband was all right? What an odd answer, not to mention somewhat ominous. “Come inside. Let’s talk.”

I unlocked the door and swung it open. Blessed silence greeted us. Not so much as a whisper of battling housewives, gypsy brides, foreign fiancés, or polygamists emanated from the television in the den. Casa Pollack appeared devoid of Lucille and any of her commie cotillion.

I took Robyn’s coat, hung it in the closet along with mine, and ushered her toward the kitchen. “Sit down. I’ll make a pot of coffee.”

She grabbed a seat at the table and said nothing while I started the coffee. I then placed the perishables in the fridge and brought milk and sugar to the table. Once the coffee had finished dripping, I poured two cups and joined her. “So what’s going on?”

She bypassed the milk and sugar to take a slow sip of the black coffee before speaking. “Like I said, it’s probably nothing, but the more I think about it, the more something doesn’t seem right about Jesse’s accident, especially with that goose egg on the back of his head.”

“In what way?”

“He’s not clumsy. Never has been. And if he tripped, wouldn’t he have fallen face down?”

“Accidents do happen, and didn’t you mention his fall was broken by a pile of lumber?”

She nodded. “That’s what the doctors surmise. Jesse doesn’t remember anything.”

“Depending on the angle in which he struck the lumber, his body probably twisted as he fell toward the floor.”

“I guess that makes sense. But this seems so out of character.”

“How?”

She heaved a deep sigh. “I don’t know.”

“Has Jesse mentioned anything unusual happening at any of the job sites?”

She thought for a moment. “Not really. He did say something about a delivery the other day, that the materials were a lesser quality than what he’d ordered.”

“That’s never happened before?”

“Sure, it has. Like everyone, suppliers make mistakes. They take care of it.”

“And this time?”

“He did what he always does. He sent the shipment back and arranged for delivery of the materials he’d ordered.”

“So, what’s the problem?”

She shrugged. “Nothing, I suppose. Not with that. But he’s just not clumsy.”

“Then you’re not suggesting someone caused Jesse’s injuries over a clerical error?”

She grasped the mug with both hands and stared into it as she forced a laugh. “Of course not. The idea sounds beyond silly. Mix-ups happen occasionally.”

“In every business.”

Robyn shook her head. “Yes, and accidents. My husband isn’t Superman. Even he makes mistakes. What was I thinking?” She took one last sip of coffee, then pushed away from her and stood. “I’m sorry I wasted your time, Anastasia. You must have a million things to do with Christmas only two days away.”

I rose, walked over to her, and wrapped her in a hug. “Nonsense. Don’t give it another thought. It’s good to see you, even under these circumstances. Stress can cause you to go a bit bonkers. Believe me, I know.”

“I suppose you do.”

I walked her to the foyer and retrieved her coat. “You’ll feel much better once Jesse is home and recovering.”

Robyn embraced me before leaving. “Thanks. I feel so much better. Amazing what a cup of coffee with an old friend can do to put things in perspective.”

I smiled. “Anytime.”

But as I watched her walk down the street, my own suspicions gnawed at the corners of my brain. Robyn hadn’t brought up Dion’s murder, perhaps because she didn’t connect it to Jesse’s accident. Not wanting to upset her further, I had deliberately refrained from mentioning the murder. In my mind, though, I began connecting dots.

What if the Leonides brothers hadn’t fulfilled their promise to find new jobs for all their former employees? What if one or more disgruntled ex-employees had killed Dion and attacked Jesse? If so, Paul Leonides, and possibly his wife, were also in the killer’s crosshairs.

~*~

After Robyn left, I walked Devil Dog, released Ralph from the confines of his cage, and began dinner prep. Zack returned from Manhattan while I was two-wrists-deep in an enormous bowl of ground turkey. He leaned in and kissed me, careful to stay clear of the mess that covered my apron and the counter where I worked. Mess being the operative word; I’m not exactly the world’s tidiest cook, but it’s the results that count, right?

“Are we feeding an army tonight?” he asked, deep frown lines etching into his forehead and around his mouth as he stared at the massive amount of ground turkey.

“Only a platoon.” I told him about my lunch with Tino and what we’d decided.

“Good. I’m looking forward to meeting this guy who’s captured your heart.”

“You’re lucky I’m incapable of swatting you at the moment.”

“Promises, promises.” He scanned the kitchen. “Give me a minute to change my clothes, and I’ll create some order out of this chaos.”

“Promises, promises.”

I began rolling the seasoned ground turkey into small meatballs and placing them on a baking tray. Zack returned before I’d fashioned two-dozen. He proceeded to put away the various ingredients I’d used for the recipe and dump dirty utensils and dishes into the sink.

“How was your meeting?” I asked as I continued to scoop and roll raw meat.

“Lemurs are the new penguins. Or at least, that’s what my publisher is hoping.”

Last summer Zack had gone on assignment to photograph lemurs in Madagascar—or so he claimed. Whatever else he’d been up to in Madagascar, for whichever alphabet agency employed him, he did return with scores of lemur portraits. Proof, he claimed, that he wasn’t a spy.

But wouldn’t any spy worth his salt have an ironclad cover profession? Zack’s was as a world-renowned photojournalist. At least that was my theory, and no matter how much he protested otherwise, he’d as yet failed to disabuse me of that notion. And then there was the badass gun and handcuffs.

“Never going to happen,” I said. “Not that I don’t want your book to do well.”

“But?”

“I’ve seen March of the Penguins. Lemurs are interesting. I’ll give you that. And your photos of them are gorgeous.”

“I’m still waiting for the but.”

“But penguins are downright adorable. When it comes to cute, lemurs are no match for penguins.”

He placed his hand over his heart. “I had no idea I fell in love with a woman who harbors lemur prejudices.”

“If you don’t tell the lemurs, they’ll never find out.”

Zack removed a large frying pan from a lower cabinet and set it on the stove. “I’ll cook the meatballs while you prepare the salad and garlic bread.”

“I was hoping you’d say that.” I finished forming the meatballs, washed the raw meat from my hands, and placed the mixing bowl in the dishwasher. “By the way, I have more news. Robyn Konopka stopped by this afternoon.” I told Zack about our conversation and my thoughts concerning Parthenon’s former employees.

“I’m sure Detective Spader is looking into the alibis of all the workers who lost their jobs.”

“Agreed. He wouldn’t be much of a detective if he ignored all those possible suspects.”

“Just so long as you don’t take it upon yourself to start asking questions of those men, Ms. Fletcher.”

“Who me? Wouldn’t think of it.” Besides, I had no way of learning their names, short of asking Paul or Octavia Leonides, which most likely would get back to Detective Spader. I didn’t mention that to Zack, though. No point poking the bear.

Anyway, my only interest in the case had involved making sure Ira wasn’t charged in Dion’s murder. Since Chuck Showalter and not Dion Leonides had attacked Ira Tuesday night, and since Spader now knew there were many more likely suspects, I had no reason to stick my nose where it didn’t belong. Except that still didn’t explain why Dion’s body ended up in Ira’s sleigh. Coincidence? There had to be more to it than that.

~*~

Mama walked into the house at five-thirty. “I thought I’d join you for dinner this evening, dear.”

Oops! That made eleven for dinner. Since Mama was a semi-regular, why had I forgotten to include her in the dessert count I gave Tino?

Twenty minutes later Lucille hobbled in with Harriet close on her heels. “I’ve invited Harriet to stay for dinner.”

FOURTEEN

Lucille had thrown down the gauntlet. “I expect you to be civil to her,” she continued.

Or what? This was my home, not hers. A less kind daughter-in-law would have tossed her out on her polyester pantsuited tush a long time ago. I had tolerated more than enough from Lucille Pollack since Karl had moved her in with us. I refused to become her doormat. Nor would I pick up that gauntlet and give her the fight she seemed itching to start. The situation called for a bit of psychology.

I eyed Harriet, standing with her arms crossed over her puffed-out chest, daring me to refuse her a seat at my dinner table. Then I turned to Lucille. “Harriet is quite welcome to stay for dinner tonight, but if you want to make her a regular addition at mealtime, one of you will have to kick in an additional twenty-five dollars a week to pay for her food.”

Lucille’s mouth hardened into a thin line, but she said nothing, so I continued. “By the way, we’re having company this evening.”

“I can see that,” she said, sneering at Mama. “Has she paid for her dinner?”

I ignored her question. “The company is in addition to my mother. Ira and his children are joining us tonight.”

Lucille whipped her gaze away from Mama and redirected the sneer at me. “You’re a fool, Anastasia. That imposter is taking advantage of you.”

“In what way?”

“In every way.”

I had not asked Ira to present DNA evidence of his relationship to Dead Louse of a Spouse. I hadn’t needed to. One look at him told me he’d emerged from the same genetic soup as my husband.

Ira had also never asked for anything from me other than to be acknowledged as part of my family. Although his overwhelming generosity bordered on smothering and was difficult for me to accept, it never came with any strings attached. Not only had Ira never taken advantage of me, I knew he never would. Ira’s greatest flaw was his neediness, and needy people don’t take. They give—in excess and often ad nauseum, as in Ira’s case—in order to garner acceptance and friendship.

“You don’t have to stay,” said Mama.

“I will not subject either myself or my friend to that man and his brats,” said Lucille. She turned to Harriet. “Come, Harriet. We’re dining out this evening.”

“Good riddance,” said Mama to their departing backs.

My thoughts exactly, but I wouldn’t voice them, especially within earshot of my mother. She didn’t need any additional encouragement in her ongoing battle with Lucille.

That brought the dinner count back to ten, and without Lucille, it lowered the anticipated ulcer-producing meal from a seismic level down to a few shaky tremors. I’d take my victories, no matter how small, wherever I could get them.

As soon as the front door slammed behind Lucille and Harriet, Zack emerged from the kitchen, a contented Ralph perched on his shoulder. “Well done,” he said, wrapping an arm around my shoulders and planting a kiss on my cheek.

“You could have given my daughter support,” said Mama, wagging her finger at him. “Instead of hiding like a coward with that filthy bird.”

“Did you need my help?” Zack asked me.

“Did it sound like I needed your help?”

“Not in the least.” He turned to Mama. “Flora, if you haven’t realized by now, your daughter is quite capable of fighting most of her own battles and smart enough to know when to ask for assistance.”

Was I? Sometimes I wondered, given the predicaments I’d found myself in lately, but Zack’s words of support filled me with warm fuzzies.

Mama shook her head at both of us and emitted a huge sigh. “Chivalry is definitely dead.”

Alex and Nick bounded into the house a few minutes later. After they both greeted us, I said, “I need you guys to pull the leaves out for the dining room table, bring the chairs in from the kitchen, and set the table.”

“All four chairs?” asked Nick.

“All four.”

“We’re having ten people for dinner?” asked Alex. “Who?”

“An old friend from work, plus Ira and his kids.”

Alex dug into his pocket, removed his phone, and glanced at the display. “Look at that. Sophie just invited me to dinner.”

“Ask her if I can come, too,” said Nick.

I whipped the phone out of Alex’s hand and checked the blank screen. “Nice try, kiddo.”

He shrugged. “Hey, you can’t blame me for trying, Mom. Why do Uncle Ira and his kids have to come? And why would you subject your work friend to them?”

“I’ll tell you later tonight after they leave.”

“Sounds intriguing,” said Nick. He turned to Zack. “Kind of spy-like, huh?”

Zack winked at him. “It’s an extremely clandestine operation.”

Tino arrived shortly before six-thirty. He’d traded his jeans and Giants sweatshirt from earlier in the day for a pair of sharply pressed charcoal tweed slacks. A gray pinstripe oxford shirt peaked out from the crew neckline and wrists of a black cashmere sweater. The guy had impeccable taste and wore everything as if he had stepped out of a Barney’s window display.

Tino brought with him a twelve-layer chocolate fudge cake that would easily serve twenty—or nine other people and me. He’d apparently paid close attention to my eating habits during his short stint as my bodyguard during my investigation into the murder of Bling! editor Philomena Campanello.

To my amazement, he and Zack hit it off immediately, bonding over their Y-chromosomal shared desire to keep me out of trouble, as well as an appreciation for fine French wine, courtesy of Zack’s extensive collection.

While we waited for the remaining dinner guests, the adults polished off a bottle of Bordeaux. Tino appeared mesmerized by Ralph. “Does he talk?”

“Only to quote Shakespeare,” I said.

Tino snorted. “You’re pulling my leg, right? You can’t expect me to believe a bird knows Shakespeare.”

Ralph answered for me. “Believe then, if you please, that I can do strange things,” he squawked. “As You Like It. Act Five, Scene Two.”

Tino’s head swiveled back and forth from me to Ralph to Zack to the boys. “Okay, which one of you is a ventriloquist?”

Tino was going to take some convincing of Ralph’s talents. Meanwhile he also charmed my sons, who both completely forgot about trying to escape the impending dinner with their bratty half-cousins.

However, aside from a few pleasantries, he steered clear of Mama and her batting eyelashes. “Is that the commie?” he asked me at one point when she left to powder her nose.

“No, the commie stormed out in a huff before you arrived. That’s my mother. Romanoff blood courses through her veins, making her the commie’s arch nemesis.”

“You’ve lost me.”

“Czar Nicholas? Russian Revolution?”

Tino shrugged. “If you say so.”

“My mother’s maternal grandmother was a Romanoff. Whether she belongs to the royal line or not is up for debate.”

Tino remained puzzled.

“Not up on your early twentieth-century European history?”

“I guess not. Anyway, don’t take this the wrong way, Mrs. P, but is it my imagination, or is she coming on to me?”

“She’s on the hunt for Husband Number Seven,” said Zack.

From his perch on Zack’s shoulder, Ralph said, “Her love is not the hare that I do hunt.” As You Like It. Act Four, Scene Three.”

Tino’s jaw dropped, and his eyes grew wide. I wasn’t sure whether this was from realizing Ralph spoke for himself or Zack’s comment about Mama’s search for her next husband until he said, “She’s nearly old enough to be my grandmother!”

“According to Mama, age is just a number, but you’re wise to keep a wide berth.”

“Duly noted. I like you, Mrs. P., but royalty or no royalty, I’m not interested in becoming your stepfather.”

“Nor would I want you to, Tino.”

“Good. I’m glad we got that cleared up.”

At seven forty-five Ira and his brood were still no-shows. The salad sat on the table and the meatballs simmered in sauce on the stove, but I didn’t dare cook the spaghetti or garlic bread until they arrived.

I was about to text Ira when my phone chimed an incoming text from him: Sorry for the delay. On our way now.

Before heading to the kitchen to pre-heat the oven and turn the burner on to boil water for the spaghetti, I suggested, “Best put Ralph in his cage.”

Ralph squawked his displeasure.

Zack reached into his shirt pocket and handed him a sunflower seed. “Don’t think of it as banishment, pal. Consider it protection against the spawns of Satan.”

When Ira and his brood arrived less than ten minutes later, the reason for their delay became crystal clear. He practically had to drag the twins and Isaac into the house. “This does not bode well for the evening,” I muttered to Zack.

“Hey, it was your idea.”

“And one I’m now seriously regretting.”

~*~

Within seconds of being served dinner, Isaac and the twins lived up to their less-than-stellar reputations. As usual, they brought their phones to the table and proceeded to bury their noses in them as I filled their plates. “Put your phones away,” I said.

As usual, they ignored me. I pulled their plates back to my side of the table. Once everyone else was served, we began to eat. When Isaac and the twins realized they wouldn’t get any dinner until they’d put down their phones, they finally placed them on the table.

“Face down,” I said.

“Huh?” said Isaac.

“Your phones. Place them face down.”

If looks could kill, I’d now be a corpse, but after a few extremely tense seconds ticked by, all three finally complied, and I returned their plates.

After shooting me an evil eye that rivaled any I’d ever received from Lucille, Isaac took one bite of his turkey meatball and spit the mouthful onto his plate. “Yuck! What is this?”

“Not meatballs,” said Melody—or Harmony—also disgorging her half-masticated mouthful onto her plate. “Probably some vegan crap.”

I’ll admit, I’m nowhere near the gourmet chef Zack is, but prior to this evening, no one had ever spit out my cooking—not even Alex and Nick when I’d shoveled strained peas into their adorable infant mouths.

 The other twin sniffed at the meatball on her fork, scrunched her face, and said, “Gross!” before flinging the utensil across the table where it landed in the salad bowl.

I suppose I should be grateful she hadn’t first put the meatball in her mouth, but at the moment I was struggling to keep from committing an act that would land me behind bars for the remainder of my life. Good thing common sense—not to mention Zack’s firm hand on my thigh—forced me to conclude that retaliation wasn’t worth prison time.

Not satisfied with his initial act of defiance, Isaac twirled a large mound of spaghetti onto his fork and catapulted it into the air. It spiraled in a wide arc, landing on Mama’s overpriced salon dye job. She gasped and jumped up, toppling her chair backwards. Red sauce dripped down her forehead and onto her cheeks as she attempted to detangle strands of spaghetti and fork prongs from her hair. “Don’t just sit there,” she screamed at Ira. “Do something!” 

Ira stood and reached tentatively toward Mama’s hair. She smacked his hand away. “Not me. I can take care of myself.” She swept her arm in the air toward his kids. “Grow some balls and do something about those monsters of yours.”

You go, Mama!

When Ira turned to face his children, Isaac added insult to injury by laughing as Mama spun on her Ferragamos and raced from the room. He then smirked at his father, Zack, and me, as if daring us to make the first move.

Zack squeezed my thigh and gave a nearly imperceptible shake of his head, then a nod in Ira’s direction. I took this to mean we should wait to see how Ira reacted. But Ira said nothing as he returned to his seat and lifted his water glass to his lips. Only a slight trembling in his jaw and the white-knuckled grip on the glass betrayed his emotions as he nodded toward Tino.

That’s when the Marines rushed in—or at least one former Marine. Before our eyes teddy bear Tino transformed into avenging angel Tino. Without saying a word, he reached across the table and removed Ira’s kid’s plates.

“See?” said Isaac. “Even he won’t eat this slop.”

Tino didn’t react to Isaac’s comment as he deposited the plates in the kitchen. When he returned to the dining room, he pointed to Isaac, Melody, and Harmony. In drill sergeant tones he barked orders. “You three, up. Now!”

Isaac crossed his arms over his chest. “You can’t tell us what to do.”

Tino gave Isaac the most menacing smile I’d ever witnessed. And I’ve seen some menacing smiles in my time, having tangled with a few really bad dudes over the past year. “Is that so?” he asked, his voice an eerily calm singsong of dripping venom that sent shivers up my spine.

Apparently, Tino’s voice had a similar effect on not only Isaac but also his sisters. To my amazement, all three kids grabbed their phones and stood. Shaking with fear, they glanced over at their father and whimpered for him to come to their rescue, but Ira remained impassive.

“Leave the phones,” said Tino.

When they didn’t immediately place the phones back on the table, Tino forced them from their grips and pocketed them.

“You can’t do that!” said one of the girls.

“I just did,” said Tino. He pointed toward the living room. “Now, march.”

The three of them made one last pleading attempt for their father’s intercession, but to their shock Ira said, “Do as you’re told.”

Melody’s—or Harmony’s—eyes nearly bulged out of her head. “You’re taking his side?”

Ira raised his arm and pointed toward the living room.

“I don’t believe this!” said the other twin.

All three then glared at Tino before finally complying with his order. Ira, Zack, the boys, and I watched as Tino herded them down the hall toward the bedrooms and den. A moment later we heard a door slam.

“You worked with that guy?” asked Nick. “What did he do at the magazine?”

“Whatever he was asked to do,” I said.

Nick turned to Alex. “Maybe we’ve got this all wrong. Maybe it’s Mom who’s really the spy.”

Zack stifled a laugh.

“Do you think they’ll be all right?” asked Ira, finally releasing his two-fisted grip on the glass.

 “Tino wouldn’t harm a fly,” I said.

“Too bad Uncle Ira’s kids aren’t flies,” said Alex.

Ira chewed on his lower lip. “When I met with him earlier in the day, he assured me he wouldn’t lay a hand on them. I hope he meant it.”

“He did,” I assured him.

“I take it you’ve already made up your mind to hire Tino?” asked Zack.

Ira hung his head. “You and Anastasia have made me realize my parental shortcomings. It’s obvious I need more help than I can get from a housekeeper.” He laughed. “Housekeeper? Like I can keep one. I’m willing to try anything at this point. Still….” He cast a hesitant glance in the direction of the hallway that led to the bedrooms as Mama rounded the corner from the bathroom.

“It’s called tough love,” she said, now free of the spaghetti in her hair and red sauce on her face. She placed the fork on the table and took her seat. “And if you hadn’t spoiled them so much, they wouldn’t need this type of intervention now.”

After that pronouncement, she turned her attention to her plate and began eating. Zack and I exchanged surprised looks. Sometimes my mother truly amazes me—in a good way.

Twenty minutes later we had finished our dinner, but Tino and the three delinquents had still not returned. Alex and Nick began clearing the table and loading the dishwasher. When Nick reached for Tino’s plate, I said, “Cover that with waxed paper and place it in the microwave.”

“What about the others?” asked Alex. “They’re sitting on the kitchen table.”

“Leave them for now.” I had a feeling I knew what Tino had planned.

Sure enough, ten minutes later he marched the kids back into the dining room where their father, Mama, Zack, and I still sat. “Go ahead,” said Tino.

One by one each of Ira’s kids offered up an apology. I wouldn’t go so far as to describe them as heartfelt, but they were spoken without an ounce of belligerence, and for Ira’s kids, that’s one giant leap for parent-kind.

“Your dinners are on the kitchen table,” Tino told them. “I expect every last morsel eaten.”

“Yes, sir,” they mumbled in unison.

“What was that? I can’t hear you.”

“Yes, sir!” they repeated like good little cadets.

“That’s better.”

“Yours is in the microwave,” I told Tino as the children headed into the kitchen.

“Thanks, Mrs. P.” A moment later I heard the microwave whirring.

“Our dinners need to be heated up,” said one of the twins from the kitchen.

“You should have eaten them when they were served to you,” said Tino.

“But you’re heating yours,” said Isaac.

“Yes, I am,” said Tino. “You have a problem with that?”

“No, sir.”

Tino carried his plate into the dining room, joined us at the table, and began eating. “Delicious meatballs, Mrs. P,” he said between mouthfuls.

Ira glanced toward the kitchen where the only sounds were from Nick and Alex continuing the cleanup. Not so much as a peep or a conspiratorial whisper could be heard from Isaac, Melody, and Harmony. “How did you do it?” he asked Tino. “What did you say to them?”

Tino winked. “Trade secret.”

A few minutes later all three children appeared at the doorway, empty plates in their hands. “Excuse me, sir,” said one of the twins. “We’ve finished dinner. May we be excused?”

“You may,” said Tino. “Place your dishes in the dishwasher. Then return to the den and continue working on your assignments.”

“Assignments?” asked Ira.

“All part of the program,” said Tino. He clapped his hands together. “Now let’s have some of that chocolate cake.”

“Chocolate cake?” asked Isaac.

“Do you think you deserve any dessert?” asked Tino.

Isaac hung his head, shuffled his feet, and whined, “But I love chocolate cake.”

Tino lifted an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

Isaac raised both his head and his voice. “No, sir, I don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t deserve any dessert, sir.”

“And why is that?”

“Because of the way I behaved at dinner, sir.”

“Indeed. Actions have consequences, young man.”

“Yes, sir. May we be excused, sir?”

When Tino nodded, Isaac and the twins pivoted and marched toward the den.

Alex and Nick returned to the dining room, Alex carrying the cake and Nick holding plates, forks, and a cake cutter. “Mephisto is sleeping under the coffee table in the den,” said Nick. “Want me to get him?”

I deferred to Tino. “They’ve already been instructed not to bother the dog,” he said.

To my knowledge, Ira’s kids had never followed instructions given by anyone, but then again, they’d never before come up against Tino Martinelli. From what I’d seen so far, they’d met their match and conceded. “He should be all right,” I told Nick.

“I started a pot of coffee,” said Alex. “It’s almost ready.”

“You have very thoughtful sons, Anastasia,” said Ira, his voice wistful.”

I glanced at Tino. “I think you’re on your way toward having equally thoughtful children, Ira.”

He turned to Tino. “When can you start?”

“Tomorrow too soon?”

“You don’t need to give two-week’s notice?”

“I do, but they’ll escort me from the building the moment I hand in my resignation. No one wants to run the risk of an exiting employee planting a virus in the systems or walking off with proprietary information.”

Ira nodded. “What about Christmas?”

“What about it?”

“I assume you’ll take some time off to be with family?”

“I have no family.”

I glanced at Tino, and he held my gaze for a moment. He’d never mentioned anything about his adoptive parents or any extended family. Perhaps they were no longer alive. However, his biological mother was still very much alive, although currently a guest of the state for the next twenty years to life. I hardly blamed him for distancing himself from her after the way she’d used him as a means to a devious end.

“Then it’s settled.” Ira beamed at Tino. “Welcome to the family.”

As I sliced the cake and passed around plates, I wondered if I’d made a huge mistake by setting these wheels in motion. Not that I worried about Tino. He could take care of himself. But the ex-Marine wouldn’t hang around forever. Once he whipped those kids into shape, he’d leave. Ira was the wild card in this family drama. Would Tino also be able to whip him into shape? Probably. Would it last once Tino moved on? The jury was out on that one.

The manny in question shoved a large forkful of chocolate cake into his mouth and said, “Now, Mrs. P., since we’re on our way to solving one of your problems, let’s tackle the other one. I’m itching to know more about this dead body and what you’ve learned so far.”

FIFTEEN

Mama’s fork froze halfway to her mouth as her eyes narrowed and her jaw clenched. She pivoted her head, first toward Tino, then me, then back to Tino. “Anastasia, you’re not getting involved in that murder investigation, are you?”

Too late I realized I should have warned Tino not to mention Dion’s murder in front of my mother, given recent history and her suspicions that Lawrence had a hand in his death.

She speared me with the sort of look I hadn’t received from her since tenth grade when she’d forbidden me to join a student walkout in protest of hands-on behavior by an extremely popular football coach. Since his hands hadn’t made contact with any of my body parts—private or otherwise—Mama saw no reason for me to get involved. I ignored her, figuring she’d never learn of my involvement. Unfortunately, as with Dion’s murder, an Eyewitness News cameraman zeroed in on me, and my face was splashed across the evening news.

“No, Mama.”

“Really?” She leaned forward, slammed her fork onto her plate, and rolled her eyes. What was I thinking? Mama always knew when I was being less than truthful with her. Now was no exception. “Then perhaps you’d explain why we’re talking about this dead body you found in Ira’s yard. Or have you discovered a second murder victim?”

“We’re not talking about any dead body, Mama. And no, there hasn’t been another murder.” At least none that we know of—yet. I was still concerned for the safety of Paul Leonides and his wife, given it appeared likely Dion’s killer could be an out-of-work former employee.

Mama narrowed her eyes at me. “Is that so?” She poked her fork in Tino’s direction. “Then why did this young man ask you if you’ve learned anything more about the dead body?”

Ira cleared his throat. “Uhm, Flora.…”

Mama turned her attention to him. “Yes?”

When Ira hesitated, she said, “It’s Lawrence, isn’t it? Why are you all pussyfooting around the truth? Don’t try to protect me by withholding information.”

Ira continued to stammer. “I…we don’t know if it’s Lawrence…I mean…the detective hasn’t…there are other….”

She crossed her arms over her chest, huffed out her displeasure and said, “Spit it out, Ira. I want all the details. Every single one, not the thirty-second Eyewitness News sound bite.”

 “There isn’t much more to tell at this point,” he said, “other than what’s been on the news.”

She rolled her eyes at him. “Do you all think I’m stupid?”

He shook his head. “No, of course not. Anastasia discovered the body Wednesday morning when she came to drop something off on her way to work.”

“Where were you?” Mama apparently wasn’t about to settle for the Cliff Notes version, either.

“I’d already taken the kids to school.”

“And you didn’t notice a dead body in your yard when you left the house?”

He shrugged. “It was still dark. Besides, he was in the sleigh, and it had snowed that night.”

Mama continued with her Torquemada-style inquisition. “And what was your connection to poor Dion? Why would the killer leave his body in your yard of all places?”

Ira’s jaw dropped. “I don’t know, Flora. I never met the man.”

I studied my mother. All of a sudden she’d segued from the dead body to being on a first name basis with the deceased. Poor Dion?

Déjà vu smacked me in the face. From the time her ex-fiancé Louis Beaumont had met an untimely death—stabbed in the heart with one of my knitting needles—she’d referred to him as Poor Lou. Something was definitely going on with her besides her concern about me getting involved in another investigation. “Mama, what are you not telling us?”

“Me?” She reached for her napkin and began twisting it into a tight coil. “Why would you think I know anything?”

“Because you do, don’t you?” asked Zack, eyeing her fidgeting fingers.

Mama cowered as all of us zeroed in on her and waited for her to answer. Her entire body sagged as she sank back into her chair. Her chin trembled, and her eyes filled with tears.

“Mama?”

A lone tear tracked down her cheek. “I knew Dion Leonides.”

“How?” Although I really didn’t have to ask. I’d already tapped into my inner Jessica Fletcher and figured that one out for myself.

Mama sniffled once before saying, “We were dating.”

My suspicions confirmed, I quickly did a bit of mental arithmetic. Mama had nearly fifteen years on the unfortunate Dion Leonides. I doubted he’d known her true age. With each passing birthday she shaved a few years from her chronological age, rather than adding one. At some point I fully expected she’d begin introducing me as her not-too-younger sister. She certainly had the well-preserved looks to get away with the deception.

Nick’s eyes grew wide. “You dated the dead guy?”

Mama dabbed at the corner of her eyes with the strangled napkin. “He was very much alive the last time we were together.”

Knowing Mama, I was certain that sentence was loaded with double meaning. Before she could elaborate, I spared my sons the embarrassment of hearing any of her sexual exploits by asking, “Where did you meet him?”

“At a YMCA singles mixer.”

“When?”

“A few weeks ago.”

“Why didn’t you mention this yesterday?” I asked.

She untwisted the napkin and blew her nose before answering. “I told you Lawrence was involved. Isn’t it obvious he put a hit out on Dion?”

“Lawrence is locked up in solitary,” said Zack.

Mama turned on him. “You think that would stop a man like Lawrence Tuttnauer? Don’t be so naïve.”

“Zack naïve?” asked Nick, sputtering with laughter. “Grandma, he’s a badass spy!”

Alex elbowed his brother in the ribs. “Shh! Don’t give away his secrets.”

Zack shook his head and scowled at both boys. “Not the time or place to joke, guys.”

Nick shrugged. “Whatever. Mom doesn’t think it’s a joke.”

“What’s he talking about?” asked Mama, pivoting her attention back to me.

I glared at my son, and he clammed up.

“Nothing, Flora,” said Zack. “I’m not a spy.”

She waved the thought away as if swatting at a gnat. “Of course, you’re not. That’s ridiculous.”

Ira brought the conversation back to her ex-husband and his ex-father-in-law. “How would Lawrence even know you were dating? If he’s in solitary, he has no way of communicating with the outside world.”

“Not necessarily,” said Tino. “All it takes is paying off a corrupt guard or two.”

Not helpful. I seriously considered kicking him under the table to keep him from espousing any further comments, no matter how probable. Too bad my legs weren’t long enough.

Mama nodded at Tino. “I’m sure he has. For all I know he’s even bugged my phone. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him.” She pulled her mouth into a thin line and shook her head. “I’m so stupid. Why did I never think of that? He could have someone listening in on this conversation right now.”

“I can check your phone for you,” said Tino.

“How can you do that?” she asked.

“I’m in cyber-security.”

“I thought you worked with my daughter.”

“Used to.”

Mama turned to me. “Explain to me why a crafts editor needs to work with a cyber-security expert.”

“Tino worked for corporate, Mama. He wasn’t on the American Woman staff.”

She mulled that over for a moment before nodding. “I suppose these days even women’s magazines need to guard against hackers stealing their subscribers’ personal information.”

“Hackers are targeting all sorts of companies,” I said. Mama didn’t need to know Tino had had nothing to do with cyber-security at Trimedia.”

She turned her attention back to Tino. “Thank you, young man. I’d appreciate that.” Then she batted her eyelashes and graced him with one of her come hither smiles.

Warning! Cougar on the prowl.

Tino squirmed in his seat. Wide-eyed and out of Mama’s line of sight, he silently mouthed to me, “Did she just put the moves on me again?”

Oh yeah.

One moment Mama’s bemoaning Dion’s death. The next moment she’s trolling for his replacement, totally forgetting that she’s convinced her ex-husband has murdered her latest boyfriend and could very well set his sights on her next one. The mama cougar known as Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe Tuttenauer would never change her spots.

“Not only that,” she continued, “now that I think of it, he’s probably had his flunkies following me, maybe even since before we were married.” She glanced toward the window. “I’ll bet there’s someone lurking outside right now with orders to eliminate anyone I date.” Mama lowered her head into her hands. “Poor Dion. He’s dead because of me.”

Given Lawrence Tuttnauer’s record, I had to admit that nothing Mama suggested seemed beyond the realm of possibilities. Besides, hadn’t I already raised suspicions concerning Lawrence’s possible involvement in Dion’s murder?

Forget solitary. Tino was right. At most, solitary confinement put a minor hiccup in Lawrence’s plans, one he’d easily overcome. If Lawrence knew Mama was dating Dion, he could kill two birds with one stone—eliminate one of Mama’s suitors and scare the caca out of me.

If so, Paul and Octavia Leonides didn’t have to fear for their lives. We did. Because at some point Lawrence might not be satisfied with only knocking off Mama’s prospective beaus.

~*~

I spent the next half-hour calming down my mother and convincing her Lawrence hadn’t orchestrated Dion’s murder, even if the needle of my Suspicion-O-Meter had once again veered closer in his direction. Then I hinted none-too-subtly that Ira should round up the Brat Pack and head home. Given this new wrinkle, I needed to place a call to Detective Spader and the sooner, the better, especially if Lawrence had one of his henchmen following my mother.

“No rush,” he said, clueless as ever. “Tomorrow isn’t a school day.”

“But I’m sure you probably have last minute wrapping and other Christmas chores left to do,” I said.

“No, not really.”

“But we do,” said Zack.

“Oh.” Ira’s features deflated. He trained his gaze on Tino. “I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“Bright and early.”

Ira nodded. Then with all the enthusiasm of a dead man walking, he said, “I suppose we should get going, then.”

“We’ll see you Sunday,” I said. That perked him up. Then I added, “Would you mind dropping Mama off so she doesn’t have to call for an Uber?” For all I knew, Lawrence might have his underlings posing as Uber drivers.

“Of course, Anastasia. Anything for you.”

Ira grabbed everyone’s coats from the closet, passing Mama hers. As he headed for the den, Tino sauntered toward the front door. When he passed me, he whispered, “Big time crush.”

Zack draped an arm over my shoulders and whispered back, “No secret there. Lucky for me it’s not reciprocal.”

A moment later Melody, Harmony, and Isaac dashed toward the front door, only to find Tino, feet spread, arms crossed, blocking their escape. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” he asked them.

At first it appeared all three had inherited their father’s clueless gene. “Dad said it was time to leave,” whimpered one of the twins.

Tino knit his brows together and peered down his nose at them. “And?”

The children glanced toward their father for help. “What do you say to your Aunt Anastasia?” asked Ira.

“Oh,” said Melody—or Harmony. “That. Thank you?”

“Yeah, thank you,” parroted the other twin.

“Ditto,” said Isaac, shuffling his feet.

But Tino continued to glare at them, his massive Marine bulk blocking the door. “Anything else?”

“The assignments?” asked one of the girls.

“We left them in the den,” said Isaac.

“Is that what you were supposed to do with them?”

The three raced back down the hall and returned a moment later, each grasping several sheets of lined notebook paper, which they held out toward Tino.

He continued to stand with his arms crossed over his chest. “Aren’t you going to take them?” asked one of the twins, waving her papers at him.

“Are they for me?”

“You made us write them,” said Isaac.

“For?”

“Oh,” said the other twin. She collected the papers from her brother and sister and walked over to me. “These are for you,” she said holding them out to me.

I accepted them from her. “Thank you.”

When Tino cleared his throat, she glanced over her shoulder at him, then turned back to me and added, “You’re welcome, Aunt Anastasia.”

“That’s better,” said Tino, stepping away from the door. “Now you may leave. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“What!” cried Isaac. “Tomorrow?” Shocked settled over all three kids.

“How come?” asked one of his sisters.

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” said the other. “Why would we see you tomorrow?”

I didn’t think it possible, but Tino’s face grew even sterner as he answered her. “Because I’m your new nanny.”

“No way!” She turned to her father. “You can’t do this to us, Dad. He’s so mean!”

The other twin grabbed her father’s arm and tugged at it. “We’ll be good, Dad. We promise!”

“Please, Dad!” said Isaac, latching on to Ira’s other arm. “We’ll apologize to Carmella!”

Ira stood firm, not saying a word to his children. Instead he drew a deep breath and nodded to Tino. The new manny swung open the front door and gave the children one final order for the evening. “Get in the car.”

Ira’s kids made one last silent plea to their father, but he ignored them. Finally, they hung their heads, mumbled, “Yes, sir,” and marched out single file.

Mama followed them. As she passed Tino, she said, “Good luck. You’re going to need it with those three.”

Tino smiled at her. “Luck has nothing to do with it, ma’am.”

Ira brought up the rear. He extended his right hand to Tino and said, “This has been one of the most difficult things I’ve ever had to do.”

Tino clasped Ira’s hand and gave it a firm shake. “You did good, man.”

After Tino closed the door behind Ira, Nick said, “Holy moly! Remind me never to mess with you, dude.” He made himself comfortable on the living room carpet, leaning his back against the ottoman and sticking his long legs toward the center of the room. “Did you drug those brats or hypnotize them?”

Tino winked at him. “Sorry, that information is classified.”

“Maybe he’s a spy,” said Alex, sprawling alongside his brother.

“Speaking of spies….” Tino turned to Zack. “Are you?”

Zack huffed. “Only in Anastasia’s extremely fertile imagination.”

“Which is what all spies would say,” said Tino, parroting my constant rebuttal of Zack’s denials.

Zack threw up his arms. “I can’t win. How about some wine?” He headed toward the kitchen. A moment later we heard the back door slam.

“Was it something I said?” asked Tino.

I settled onto the sofa. “He’ll be back. We keep all the alcohol locked in the apartment above the garage where my mother-in-law can’t get her hands on it. She’s never met a bottle of wine she couldn’t polish off in a nanosecond.”

Tino took a seat in one of the armchairs in front of the bay window. “You have an extremely interesting family, Mrs. P.”

“That’s one word for it.”

While we waited for Zack to return, I leafed through the assignment Tino had given Ira’s kids. Each child had written one hundred times: I apologize for my bad behavior. I promise to treat my family and others with respect at all times or suffer the consequences.

I glanced up from the pages. “Suffer the consequences? What kind of consequences?”

Tino shrugged. “I left that up to their imaginations.”

“I’m going with Nick on this one,” said Alex. “You definitely drugged or hypnotized them. Maybe both.”

Zack returned a few minutes later with a bottle of pinot noir, three glasses, and two small cans of Coke for the boys. He took a seat next to me and poured the wine, passing a glass to Tino and one to me. Then he stood, raised his glass and said, “I have an announcement to make.”

I raised an eyebrow, wondering what he was up to. “An official announcement?”

“Definitely.”

“Concerning what?”

“Speculation. I officially give up. Yes, I’m a spy.”

SIXTEEN

“Dude!” said Nick.

“For the CIA,” Zack continued.

“Whoa!” added Alex.

“And the NSA, the FBI, MI-5, MI-6, Mossad, Opus Dei, and the Loyal Order of the Mousse.”

“All of them?” asked Nick.

Alex yanked at the hem of his brother’s jeans. “He’s pulling our legs, Doofus.”

I shot him the most skeptical look I could muster while keeping laughter at bay. “Loyal Order of the Mousse?”

Zack nodded. With complete seriousness he said, “Chocolate Division.”

“So that’s m-o-u-s-s-e? A French spy organization?”

“Bien sûr.”

Two could play this game. “Merde.”

Zack reclaimed his seat next to me and patted my thigh. “Touché, madame!”

Deciding the time had come for a redirection of the conversation, I passed him the assignment papers. “On another subject….”

Zack quickly leafed through the sheets, then placed them on the coffee table and asked Tino, “Exactly what did you say to them? I’ve never seen such a rapid behavioral about-face in anyone, least of all kids.”

“Especially those kids,” I said.

Tino chuckled. “I happened to mention I was Special Forces, which made an immediate impact on young Isaac. The kid is obsessed with video games.”

“We know,” said Zack. “I carried him out kicking and screaming from the arcade last night.”

“So they did what you said because Isaac thinks you’re like the dudes in Close Combat and Call of Duty?” asked Nick.

Tino grinned. “I didn’t see any reason to point out the difference between fantasy and reality. Once I had him in the palm of my hand, he convinced his sisters they’d better do as I said.”

“You sure you don’t have a degree in child psychology?” I asked.

“Computer technology.” He then added, “By the way, I’m really sorry about bringing up the murder, Mrs. P., I had no idea it would unleash a can of worms.”

“My fault. I should have said something to you ahead of time.”

“Your mom going to be okay?”

Zack laughed. “Did you not notice Flora was already trolling for her next husband?”

“Yeah, that sort of creeped me out. Give me Ira’s little monsters over that woman any day.” Color immediately suffused Tino’s cheeks. He quickly added, “No offense, Mrs. P.”

“None taken, Tino. Mama is an acquired taste. I am concerned, though. I think Detective Spader had pretty much eliminated Lawrence as a suspect and is concentrating on Parthenon’s ex-employees. Now I’m not so sure.”

“You should call him about what we learned this evening,” said Zack.

“Agreed.”

However, at that moment my phone rang. I glanced at the display. “Cue the Twilight Zone theme,” I said. “It’s Spader.” I already suspected the detective never slept. Now I had to add ESP to his list of superpowers.

“Put the call on speaker,” said Zack.

I nodded as I answered. “Good evening, Detective.”

“Mrs. Pollack, I’m sitting here going over Dion Leonides’ phone and text records, and you’ll never guess who he was dating.”

“My mother.”

Seething anger shoved aside the forced calm I had initially detected in his voice as he began shouting at me. “How the—? You didn’t think I’d—? Why the hell would you not—?”

I suspected Spader’s blood pressure now hovered dangerously close to stroke territory, and I certainly didn’t want to cause the detective’s premature demise. “Because I only just found out. I was about to call you.”

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do, Detective. My mother suspects Lawrence is having her followed and gave orders to eliminate anyone she started dating.”

“Why would he do that? They’re no longer married.”

“Because he’s a control freak and royally pissed that she ended the marriage after his arrest.” Not that I blamed Mama. I’d have been more concerned if she’d pulled a Tammy Wynette and decided to stand by her man. “If he can’t have her, he’s going to make damn sure no one else will.”

Spader huffed out a gale wind of frustration. “I swear your family is going to be the death of me.”

Contrary to his accusation, my money—not that I had any—was on a lifetime of booze, cigarettes, and fast food doing him in. Although Spader had recently cut back on all three vices and shed a few pounds, he still had a long way to go in his recent quest to live a healthier lifestyle. Of course, I kept those thoughts to myself and instead said, “Now is that fair?”

“You tell me. Exactly how old is your mother?”

“Pushing sixty-seven.”

“And she was dating a fifty-two-year-old guy?”

“You wouldn’t question the age difference if the sexes were reversed, Detective.”

He heaved a frustrated sigh. “I suppose, but this is too coincidental for my blood.”

“And mine. After speaking with Jesse Konopka, I was leaning toward a disgruntled ex-employee. Did you check to see if Paul and Dion lived up to their promise of finding employment for all the laid-off Parthenon construction workers?”

“Working on it. We’re having trouble tracking down some of the guys on the list Mrs. Leonides provided us.”

“That sounds suspicious.”

“Not necessarily, but we won’t know for sure until we speak with all of them. Keep in mind, this isn’t my only case. I’ve also got two homicides in Plainfield and one in Linden I’m investigating. And on top of that, we’re short-staffed right now. Several of my guys are laid up with a stomach bug.”

“I understand, but what about my mother? If her suspicions are correct, I’m worried about her safety.” What if Lawrence decided to eliminate Mama instead of her dates? After all, the man had put out a contract on his own daughter. He wouldn’t think twice about hiring one of his henchmen to eliminate an ex-wife.

Spader sighed again. I noticed he sighed a lot lately whenever we spoke, but at least he was no longer screaming at me. Or hurling accusations. “I’ll see if I can free up a patrol officer to shadow her for a few days, but I can’t promise anything.”

“Thank you. Does that mean you agree one of Lawrence’s goons may be stalking her?”

“With your family, anything is possible. Meanwhile, I want to hear from you immediately—not a day, an hour, or a minute after the fact—if your Jessica Fletcher radar kicks in or you learn something else. Anything at all, no matter how insignificant it might seem to you. Understood?”

“I’ve got your number on speed-dial, Detective.”

When I disconnected from the call, Tino said, “Maybe I can track down those former employees.”

“How?” I asked.

Tino winked. “I work in cyber-security, remember?”

“But come tomorrow you’re Ira’s manny.”

Tino shrugged. “You think only women can multitask?”

I did, but given the estrogen to testosterone ratio presently filling my living room, I held my tongue.

“Besides,” Tino continued, “My employer doesn’t know I plan to leave. I’m on vacation through the end of the year.”

“So you’d bring Isaac and the twins into your office tomorrow?” asked Nick. “Good luck with that.”

“No need,” said Tino. “Ever hear of cloud computing? Lend me a computer, and we can hunt down those ex-employees right now.”

“Wouldn’t Detective Spader have already tried that?” asked Alex.

“Probably not,” said Zack. “He’d hand the task over to his computer people.”

“Who, in addition to the detective’s caseload,” said Tino, “would be investigating all major crimes in the county, not just homicides.” He ticked off a list on his fingers. “Embezzlement. Money laundering. Kidnapping. Drug trafficking. Arson. You name it. I bet I can track down the whereabouts of those former employees way before the cyber-cops.”

“But we don’t even know their names,” said Nick.

“Not a problem,” said Tino. “Give me a few minutes.”

“So, you can find out who they are and where they are?” asked Alex.

Tino puffed out his chest and cocked his head. “We wouldn’t be having this conversation if I couldn’t.”

“This I’ve got to see.” Alex jumped up. As he raced toward his bedroom, he called over his shoulder, “You can use my laptop.”

“You’re not going to do anything illegal, are you?” I asked Tino.

“Like what?” answered Mr. All-Innocence.

My skepticism trumped the guileless look plastered across his face. What an actor! He knew that I knew he’d tap danced around the law at least once before when his heart had overruled his head. He’d gotten away with a slap on the wrist only because he’d agreed to cooperate with law enforcement to bring down a killer. But Tino had acted on his own then. This time was different. “Like hacking into private servers? I don’t want the FBI bashing down our door in the middle of the night and hauling us off to some undisclosed location.”

“Would I do that to you, Mrs. P?”

I hoped not.

“Not to worry,” he continued. “You can trust me.”

I turned to Zack. “You’re very quiet. What do you think about this?”

“Ideally, I’d prefer the police handled the investigation, but Flora’s life could be in danger. We need to know one way or another if Lawrence is behind the Leonides murder.”

An involuntary shiver coursed up my spine. “Even if he’s not, he still may have someone tailing Mama.”

Then, as if that weren’t bad enough, an even darker thought edged its way into my brain. “What if he’s got people following all of us?” Tommy Gravino may no longer pose a threat to me, but that didn’t mean Lawrence hadn’t replaced him with a more deadly thug.

Had I fallen into a false sense of security lately? I glanced at Nick, anxiously awaiting whatever computer magic Tino had up his sleeve. How safe were my sons? Would Lawrence stoop that low?

Zack squeezed my hand. “Let’s take this one step at a time.” Then he asked Tino, “You plan to log into your work computer and spoof the IP address?”

Tino nodded. “And use proxy servers to route the connection through secure servers that won’t log or record the connection details.”

I rolled my eyes. “In English, please.”

Zack translated. “Basically it means you have absolutely nothing to worry about.”

Tino nodded in agreement.

“What about a VPN?” asked Zack.

“That, too.”

I’d obviously stepped into an alternate universe. “What’s a VPN?”

“Virtual Private Network,” said Tino. “It encrypts the network traffic for an extra layer of security.”

I turned to Mr. I’m-Not-a-Spy and asked, “How do you know all this?”

“Mom,” said Nick, rolling his eyes at me, “even I’ve heard of proxy servers and VPNs.”

I shook my head. Processing all the new information and technology constantly bombarding me was an exhausting and never-ending task. The world was changing faster than I could keep up with it, leaving me wading through a pool of outdated and useless cyber-debris. Then again, the horse and buggy crowd probably felt the same way about the horseless carriage crowd when they spoke of pistons and carburetors.

Alex returned and handed his laptop to Tino. The boys crowded around either side of Tino’s chair. Zack stood and crossed the living room in a few long strides, taking up a position behind the chair in order to observe over Tino’s shoulder.

I remained seated on the sofa knowing whatever information flashed across the computer screen might as well be written in Swahili or Cantonese for all the sense it would make to me. My twentieth century brain processed names and locations far better than it comprehended twenty-first century computer jargon.

I poured myself another glass of wine and waited for the results of Tino’s cyber-sleuthing. I’d only taken a few sips when he said, “I’ve accessed the Parthenon payroll records.”

“We need the names of the men who are no longer on the current payroll,” I said. “The ones the Leonides brothers laid off when they hired Jesse Konopka after their father’s death.”

Tino spent another minute or so clicking away at the keyboard before saying, “Got it. Twelve men.”

That was probably the easy part. He’d only had to hack into Parthenon’s computer to access the names of the former employees. “Now what? How will you figure out if they’re all working at new construction companies?”

He glanced up from the laptop and winked at me. “Have some faith, Mrs. P. All I have to do is cross-reference the names with those listed in other databases.”

“What other databases?”

Tino closed the laptop screen and stood. “Maybe I should do this in private.”

“Why?” asked Nick.

“Because he doesn’t want any of us to know where he’s going to snoop next,” said Alex.

“Proprietary information,” said Tino.

“I don’t like the sound of that,” I said.

“Relax, Mrs. P.”

And exactly how was I supposed to do that? “Tell me you’re not going to hack into any government computers.”

“Okay,” said Tino. “I’m not going to hack into any government computers.”

I wished I could believe him. I glanced at Zack. From the tightness in his jaw, I didn’t think he believed Tino, either, but instead of saying anything, he stared after Tino as he exited the living room and hooked a right down the hallway, presumably heading for the den.

“He’s hacking into a government database, isn’t he?” I asked Zack.

“Looks that way.” He returned to the sofa and took a seat next to me.

“Which one?”

“Social Security, probably. Maybe the IRS. He’ll look for recent withholding payments made to each of the men.”

I gulped. “You still okay with this?”

“Not really.”

“What do we do?”

“Keep reminding ourselves that Flora’s life could be in jeopardy. Tino’s motives are pure.”

“As they were last time. It doesn’t negate the criminality of his actions.”

He wrapped his arm around my shoulders. “If it’s any consolation, he definitely knows how to hide his cyber-fingerprints. There’s no way anything can be traced back to Alex’s computer.”

That wasn’t my only worry, though. I turned to my sons. “Both of you are sworn to secrecy about this, understand? You tell no one. Not even Sophie.”

“Got it,” said Alex.

“Nick?”

“Understood, Mom. Tell no one.”

Fifteen minutes later Tino returned to the living room. “I’ve got good news and bad news. Which do you want first?”

SEVENTEEN

“I’m not sure I’m up for any more bad news,” I said. “Let’s have the good news first.” Maybe it would temper the bad news to come.

“It looks like Parthenon lived up to its promise and found jobs for most of those guys.”

“Most?” asked Zack.

“Eight of the twelve.”

“That doesn’t prove Parthenon secured new positions for the men,” I said. “They may have gotten their new jobs without Parthenon’s help. What about the other four men?”

“That’s the bad news.”

I swigged the last bit of wine in my glass, then sighed as I waved my hand at Tino to continue. “Lay it on me.”

He returned to the chair he’d earlier vacated and opened the laptop. Referring to notes he’d apparently made, he said, “Of the four men who are still unemployed, one moved to Florida before the murder, one is cooling his heels in lockup on an unrelated charge, one is collecting unemployment, and one is in the wind.”

“Meaning you weren’t able to track him down?” asked Alex.

“He’s off the grid,” said Tino. “He could be anywhere. I tried the phone number I found for him. It’s been disconnected, and the address Parthenon had for him was a post office box.”

Tino and I had been down that road before while investigating Philomena Campanello’s murder and discovered an unrelated crime, a massive embezzling operation involving payroll checks, bogus employees, and post office box addresses.

“That sounds suspicious,” said Nick.

“Not necessarily,” said Zack. “What’s his name?”

Tino referred to the computer screen. “Mateo Garza.”

“He could be undocumented,” said Zack.

Tino shook his head. “If so, he’s not on any immigration list. I checked all the Homeland Security databases.”

“I didn’t hear that,” I said. Tino’s snooping into government databases sent visions of all of us wearing matching orange jumpsuits ricocheting through my brain. “Was he the only employee with a post office box for an address?”

“Yeah. The only other P.O. box listed was for some credit union where they’d established a line of credit.”

“What about the other men?” I asked. “What are their names?”

“The guy who moved to Florida is Gonzalo Sandoval. The one collecting unemployment is Darnell Johnson, and the one sitting in a cell is Weldon Smith.”

“What’s he in for?” asked Zack.

“Drugs. He was caught selling Fentanyl.”

“When?” I asked.

“Before the murder.”

“So if Dion’s murder is connected to the layoffs,” I said, “we have two possible suspects, Mateo Garza and Darnell Johnson.”

“Johnson we can talk to,” said Tino. “Garza could be anywhere in or out of the country at this point.”

“Which makes him the prime suspect,” I said, “especially if we rule out Johnson after speaking with him.”

“We?” asked Zack, leveling a pointed look at me.

“Well, we can’t exactly hand the names over to Spader. What am I supposed to tell him when he asks where I got them? I’ve got a friend who hacked into government computers?”

“Mom….” Nick’s voice sounded both a plea and a warning. “You promised.”

“I know, Nick.” Once again, I was squeezed between the proverbial rock and hard place. I needed to make sure Lawrence wasn’t targeting my mother or anyone else in my family, but to do that I again had to break my promise to Nick by inserting myself into a situation where only the police should tread.

I turned to Zack. “You have a gun.”

“Which you’re not getting.”

“I don’t want it. I want you with it.” I turned to Tino. “What about you?”

“What about me?”

“You own a gun?”

“I’m an ex-Marine, Mrs. P. Of course, I own a gun. More than one.”

I turned back to Nick and explained why it was imperative we spoke with Darnell Johnson. “It’s for your grandmother, Nick, and you and your brother. We need to know if Lawrence is behind Dion’s murder because we all may be at risk.”

He chewed on his lower lip for a minute before responding. “I suppose that makes sense.” Then he turned to Zack and Tino. “You better keep her safe.”

“She’ll be very safe,” said Zack. “Because she’s not coming with us.”

“My mouth dropped open. “Don’t you dare play the chauvinist card with me, Zachary Barnes! We’re talking about my family.”

“Which is why you need to stay far away from any potential killer. Your sons need you. Your mother needs you. And I need you.”

“And what if Johnson has an alibi and it turns out Lawrence orchestrated the hit?”

Zack grimaced. “Let’s first rule Johnson in or out. Then we’ll worry about Lawrence.”

I conceded. Reluctantly. “When do you plan to speak with him?”

“How about tomorrow?” asked Tino.

“Tomorrow is Christmas Eve,” I reminded him. “Besides, you have a prior commitment.”

“I’m not working for Ira twenty-four seven,” he said. “We can catch Johnson first thing in the morning.”

“Unless he’s out doing last minute holiday shopping or flying off to visit family,” I said.

“What are the chances of that?” asked Tino. “The guy is unemployed. He’s probably sitting at home in his underwear, nursing a six-pack.”

I raised an eyebrow. “First thing in the morning? No wonder he’s unemployed.”

Tino offered me a shrug accompanied by a sheepish grin. “Hey, it’s a guy thing. Breakfast of champions. Anyway, all we can do is try.”

“There is no try,” said Nick.

“Do or do not,” added Alex, completing the famous Yoda quote from The Empire Strikes Back, although inverted.

Do or do not. Precisely. I needed to do something besides sit on my hands. “How about if we compromise?” I asked.

Zack eyed me suspiciously. “In what way?”

“I go with the two of you but wait in the car.”

“How is that different from waiting at home?” asked Tino.

“Because once you and Zack determine Johnson’s not a threat, I can join you to speak with him.”

“You don’t trust us to speak with him?”

“Three heads are better than two,” I said. “I might think of questions to ask that neither of you would.”

“I doubt it,” said Tino. “I was a Marine. I’m trained in interrogation.”

“And I’m a woman.”

“What difference does that make?”

“We have genetically superior communication skills.”

Tino shared a look with Zack who grimaced at me. Then he released a heavy sigh before finally acquiescing. “Can’t argue with that. But you stay in the car until I signal you that it’s safe to enter.” Then he turned to the boys. “You guys okay with that?”

“I suppose,” said Nick, although his expression said otherwise.

“Ditto,” said Alex.

Score one for the estrogen contingent of one.

~*~

The next morning Zack and I drove through intermittent snow flurries to the North Plainfield address Tino had supplied us for Darnell Johnson. When we arrived at the building, a mid-century three-story brick apartment complex, Zack pulled into a parking space across the street.

A moment later Tino exited a black Mercedes SUV parked two spaces in front of us and walked toward Zack’s Boxster. He wore a navy pea coat with a black knit ski cap pulled low over his forehead and ears, reminding me of the hired “muscle” from every gangster film or TV show I’d ever seen. Good thing I knew he had a heart of gold.

“I’m going to leave the engine running to keep you warm,” Zack said. “Lock the doors when I leave.” I bit back the snappy retort itching to roll off my tongue and smiled sweetly. Zack hopped out of the car, but instead of walking toward Tino, he stood with fists on hips, glaring at me through the driver’s side window, until I reached over and engaged the lock.

By this time Tino had made his way to Zack. He shook Zack’s hand, then waved hello to me before the two of them turned and headed across the street. I watched as they entered the building’s vestibule. Then with nothing to do but twiddle my thumbs and wait, I switched on the radio to chill out with some Christmas tunes.

The radio station had finished airing a rendition of “We Need a Little Christmas” and was halfway through “Little Town of Bethlehem” when my cell phone rang. “Everything okay?” I asked, after seeing Zack’s name pop up on the display.

He chuckled. “Absolutely. Come on up. Second floor, first apartment on the right.”

I couldn’t imagine what was so amusing, but before I could ask, Zack disconnected. I turned off the engine, grabbed the key, and stepped from the Boxster. After closing the door, I hit the lock on the remote.

Once inside the small vestibule, I located Darnell Johnson’s name on the intercom board, pressed the button, and was immediately buzzed through the door that led into the lobby. Although in need of an update, the interior was well lit and clean.

An elevator stood directly across from the entrance, a staircase to its left. I opted for the stairs, deciding the climb would counteract at least a few mouthfuls of last night’s chocolate cake. I had no idea how many calories I’d burn hiking up two flights of stairs, but I figured every little bit helped.

I arrived on the second floor slightly winded but feeling virtuous. The Johnson apartment door stood open. Friendly sounding voices spilled into the hallway from within. I knocked on the doorframe.

A petite woman with bouncy strawberry curls and a splash of freckles across a flawless latte-colored complexion stepped into the entryway. She held a newborn in an infant carrier strapped to her chest. “You must be Mrs. Pollack,” she said, extending a hand and offering me a huge smile.

I shook her hand. “Anastasia.”

“I’m Serenity Johnson. Come on in.” She looped her arm around mine and led me inside. Zack, Tino, and a man I assumed was Darnell Johnson sat in a crowded living room filled with toys and a portable crib. A toddler played at a Thomas train table off to one corner. A massive Christmas tree took up the floor space in front of the double windows that faced out onto the side street.

Darnell Johnson rose from his chair next to the sofa and extended his right hand toward me. “Pleased to meet you, Mrs. Pollack. I am Darnell Johnson.” He spoke with a thick Jamaican accent. His construction worker physique matched Tino’s ex-Marine body muscle for muscle, making me wonder who’d come out ahead in an arm-wrestling contest.

I shook his hand. “Likewise, Darnell. And please call me Anastasia.”

“Have a seat,” said Serenity. “Coffee should be ready by now.”

“Would you like some help?”

She chuckled. “With two little ones I never turn down an offer of help. This way.” I followed her into a dated but immaculate kitchen. “If you take that,” she said pointing to a tray on the small kitchen table, “I’ll grab the coffee pot.”

I carried the tray containing milk, sugar, spoons, and mugs back to the living room, noting she’d already included me in the count. Serenity followed with the coffee pot. As we placed everything on a small coffee table, the newborn let loose a sound every mother recognizes. Serenity scrunched up her nose. “Help yourselves to coffee,” she said. “Doody duty calls.”

While Serenity scurried down a hallway, I took a seat on the sofa next to Zack and played substitute hostess, pouring coffee for everyone. “You all look like you’re getting along famously,” I said, eyeing each of them as I passed around the coffee.

“Darnell was telling us why he turned down Dion’s offer to find him another construction job,” said Zack.

I poured a splash of milk into my coffee. “So the brothers did live up to their promise of finding jobs for everyone?”

“They did,” said Darnell. “Dion was a great boss for the short time he ran things after his father passed away.”

“What about Paul?” I asked.

Darnell shrugged. “I know he owned half the company, but whatever he did must have been behind the scenes. He never interacted with the crew while I worked at Parthenon.”

I took a sip of my coffee before asking, “Why did you turn down Dion’s offer?”

Darnell fought to control an unabashed grin but failed miserably. “I had a better offer that starts next month. I was planning to give notice when I learned we were all getting laid off, so I opted to collect unemployment for six months. My unemployment runs out next week, conveniently right before the start of my new job.”

“So Dion ran the company for about six months before hiring Jesse Konopka?”

Darnell nodded. “Between you and me, as nice a guy as Dion was, I don’t think he was cut out for construction management. He was smart to hire Jesse. And I don’t blame Jesse for wanting to bring on his own crew.”

“Did your coworkers feel likewise?” asked Zack.

“No one seemed to care since we were all guaranteed new jobs. Plus, Dion generously sweetened the sting by handing out thousand dollar bonuses to everyone.”

“With a new baby on the way, that extra money really helped,” said Serenity, returning to the living room. She sank into a corner of the sofa. “Unemployment helps, but it doesn’t stretch anywhere near as far as a paycheck.”

“Everything okay?” Darnell asked his wife.

“El Stinko is once again baby fresh.” She turned to me. “It’s amazing what comes out of such a sweet little bundle, isn’t it?”

I laughed. “It’s been a long time, but I do remember.” I turned back to Darnell. “So what will you be doing come January?”

Serenity answered for him. “You’re looking at D.C. United’s newest assistant coach.”

“Soccer?”

Serenity beamed. “Darnell retired after playing his last World Cup in 2018. He was an amazing player. He’s going to make a great coach.”

“We’ll be packing up and moving to a home outside of Washington right after Christmas,” said Darnell. “I won’t be sorry to leave this shoebox of an apartment, but it enabled us to save quite a bit of money while we were here.”

Every instinct in my body told me we could definitely rule Darnell Johnson from our suspects list.

I raised my mug in a toasting gesture. “Congratulations.”

“Thank you. The construction work was never meant to be anything but temporary until the right coaching offer came along.”

“Was Dion able to find jobs for everyone else?” I asked.

“Everyone who wanted one,” said Darnell. “Gonzalo decided he hated the winters up here and moved back to Florida, and Weldon went into business for himself.”

“Dealing prescription drugs?”

He shook his head. “Damn fool. I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“He got what he deserved,” said Serenity. “I’m an emergency room nurse. I’ve seen firsthand how opioids destroy lives.”

I wondered if Darnell or Serenity had something to do with ending Weldon Smith’s short tenure as a drug kingpin but decided to stifle my curiosity.

That still left one ex-Parthenon employee unaccounted for. “What about Mateo Garza?” asked Tino. “You have any idea how we can get in touch with him?”

Darnell and Serenity exchanged a worried glance. “He took off months ago,” said Darnell. “No one knows where or why.”

“Before or after the layoffs were announced?” asked Zack.

Darnell mulled the question over for a moment. “To be honest, I’m not sure. Right around that time, though.”

“Are you certain he left?”

Serenity’s eyes grew wide. She grasped her baby a little tighter. The infant squirmed under her arms before settling back down. Serenity gently patted the baby’s back. “What do you mean?”

“Could something have happened to him?” asked Zack.

“I suppose that’s a possibility,” said Darnell. “One day he just failed to show up at work. Dion voiced his annoyance, questioning all of us, but no one knew anything.”

“Did Dion report him missing?” asked Tino.

“I don’t know, but he’d only been working with us a short time. Not everyone is cut out for construction work. Sometimes guys just leave without notice.”

“Anyone ever come around asking questions about him?” asked Zack.

“You mean like the cops?”

“Or anyone else.”

He shook his head. “Not that I know.”

“What do you know about him?” I asked.

“Not much. Mateo kept to himself. Everyone else on the crew got along. The guys went out to lunch together or grabbed a beer after work. Mateo never joined us. He rarely spoke to any of us.”

“Something was off with him,” said Serenity.

EIGHTEEN

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“We bumped into him once at Target. He had this furtive look about him.”

“Furtive?”

She nodded. “He never made eye contact and seemed ready to bolt. At first I wondered if he suffered from autism, but I quickly changed my mind.”

“Why?”

“The way he kept his arms wrapped tightly across his chest, as if he was hiding something under his coat. I suspected he was shoplifting.”

“It sounds like Mateo probably had more than a few secrets,” I said.

Serenity shuddered. “Do you think he had something to do with Dion’s death?”

“I don’t see it,” said Darnell. “There was never any indication that Mateo had a beef with Dion. And even if he did, why would he wait months to kill him? It doesn’t make sense.”

I couldn’t disagree with his assessment. From everything we’d learned, it appeared Dion’s death had nothing to do with his former employees. “You’re probably right.”

We’d learned as much as we could from the Johnsons. Zack apparently read my mind because he placed his empty coffee mug on the tray and stood. “Thank you for your time and hospitality,” he said. “We won’t impose any longer. You’ve been extremely helpful.”

“Good luck with the new job and the move,” said Tino, reaching across the coffee table to shake Darnell’s hand. “I’ll look for you on the sidelines.”

“I hope you find Dion’s killer,” said Darnell as he and Serenity walked us to the door. “He was a fine man.”

“Thank you,” I said. “And Merry Christmas.” I patted the baby’s back and nodded toward the toddler. So absorbed with his wooden trains, he’d ignored us throughout the visit. “You have much to celebrate this year.”

Serenity’s face lit up. “I know. We’re truly blessed. Merry Christmas to all of you, too.”

“Nice family,” said Tino as we took the stairs down to the lobby.

“Yes,” I said.

We continued downstairs, no one mentioning the elephant following silently behind us. Once outside I asked, “If we agree that Mateo, as sketchy as he sounds, most likely had nothing to do with Dion’s murder, who else could the killer be other than someone connected to Lawrence?”

“What do you know about Dion Leonides?” asked Tino.

“Mama may know more about him, but as for us, other than what we saw on the news and what Darnell just told us? Not a thing.”

“Exactly,” said Tino. “Everyone has skeletons in their closet. Dion may have had one that got him killed. I’ll see what I can dig up.”

I raised an eyebrow. “Legally?”

Instead of answering, Tino glanced at his watch. “Would you look at the time! I told Ira I’d be at his place by ten. See ya!” With that he trotted across the street to his SUV, waving good-bye without a backwards glance.

As much as I appreciated Tino’s desire to help me, I felt guilty drawing him into a murder investigation, especially since he had no qualms about resorting to unscrupulous methods of acquiring information. “I hope he knows what he’s doing.”

“He’s a big boy,” said Zack. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”

“Breaking the law. For me.”

“He knows that.”

“I wonder if he also knows he probably can’t order bespoke prison jumpsuits.”

“Do you think that would deter him?”

“Probably not.”

~*~

Zack and I arrived home to find Harriet Kleinhample’s battered VW bus parked in front of my house. I followed the sound of the TV and glanced into the den where half a dozen commie comrades were devouring the contents of my refrigerator and pantry while camped in front of a rerun of What Not To Wear. A rather ironic choice, given Lucille’s entire wardrobe consisted of circa nineteen-seventies polyester pantsuits. Her minions, garbed in a selection of decade’s old outfits considered unfashionable even back in the day, scored equally low on the fashion barometer.

I made my way back to the kitchen where Zack had started a fresh pot of coffee. “Good thing I had the foresight to place our contribution for tonight’s potluck dinner in the apartment fridge. The commies have cleaned us out.” I had also moved the gift basket items to the apartment after realizing they weren’t safe in the pantry.

“I know we’ve joked about this in the past, but you might want to get serious about a padlock for the refrigerator and pantry. Either that or resign yourself to a dozen freeloaders.”

“A baker’s dozen. What Lucille pays me each month doesn’t come close to covering what she and her dog consume.”

Zack nodded toward the kitchen table. “The boys left a note.”

I picked up the piece of paper and read: 

Walked the dog.

Locked up Ralph.

Fled the commies.

You better still be alive.

See you later.

Love,

Your sons

“Everyone’s a comedian,” I said, knowing the boys had volunteered to help set up the church dining room for this evening’s dinner.

Mama phoned as the last drips of coffee fell into the pot. I answered with a forced cheeriness, “Hello, Mama.”

In her best Blanche DuBois imitation, she said, “Anastasia, dear, I’d like you to do me a favor, please.”

“What kind of favor, Mama?”

“I really should pay my respects to Dion’s brother and his wife. Would you drive me to their home?”

I caught Zack’s attention and executed an eye roll. “It’s Christmas Eve, Mama. Do you really think today is the best day to pay a condolence call?”

Zack’s eyebrows rose halfway to his hairline. “Leonides?” he mouthed.

I nodded as Mama said, “Well, I can’t imagine they have holiday plans under the circumstances.”

I tried another tack. “Wouldn’t it be more appropriate to wait until funeral arrangements are announced and attend the viewing?”

“With reporters, detectives, and curiosity seekers crashing the funeral home? Certainly not! The place will be a zoo. Besides, I’m not just anybody. Dion and I were in a relationship. I’m sure he mentioned me to his family.”

Suddenly we’d leaped from dating to relationship? In Mama-speak relationship was code for something firmly entrenched in TMI territory. I’d heard and seen enough when she’d gotten involved with Lawrence Tuttnauer. Before she went into graphic detail regarding her exploits with the recently departed Dion Leonides, I said, “I’ll pick you up as soon as I grab an early lunch.”

I hung up and dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs. Zack handed me a steaming mug of dark roast with a splash of milk and asked, “You need a shot of whiskey in that?”

I glanced at the wall-mounted clock above the sink. “Tempting. It is five o’clock somewhere, isn’t it?” Then I came to my senses and declined the offer. “If I grabbed a drink every time Mama or Lucille created havoc in my life, I’d wind up an alcoholic. Besides, I now have to play chauffeur.”

“Valid points. How about a less inebriated solution?”

“And that would be?”

“You could have said no.”

“And never hear the end of it?” I shook my head. “Best to get it over with as soon as possible.” 

“Maybe they won’t be home.”

I laughed. “And how likely is that, given my luck?”

“Want me to come along for moral support?”

“Thanks, but I love you too much to subject you to Mama twice in one day.”

“Twice?”

“She always joins us for the Christmas Eve family service and covered dish dinner.”

Zack grimaced. “Lucky us.”

After a quick lunch of sliced apple, cheese, and crackers, I kissed Zack good-bye, and headed back out.

A few minutes later I pulled into a parking spot in front of Mama’s condo. Before I could turn off the engine, she sashayed out the front door and in a pair of black suede high-heeled boots, gingerly navigated the light coating of snow on the path that led to the parking lot.

“Those are hardly snow boots,” I said when she settled into the passenger seat.

“But they’re so au courant, and they were on sale for only a hundred dollars at Lord & Taylor.”

Only a hundred dollars? What a steal—not! I wondered if Ira was also paying her L&T credit card bill along with the other expenses he picked up, but I bit my tongue. Instead I said, “They have no traction. You could slip and break something.”

She waved her hand dismissively. “You worry too much, dear.”

One of us had to.

Fifteen minutes later I pulled up in front of Paul and Octavia Leonides’ home. “Wait there,” I told Mama as I killed the engine.

“Whatever for?”

“I’m coming around to help you out of the car. You’re not breaking a hip on my watch.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said. “I’ll have you know, according to my last bone density test, I have calcium to spare. My doctor said I have the skeleton of a thirty-year-old.”

“Even thirty-year-olds slip on the ice and break bones, Mama.” I already dealt with a semi-invalid mother-in-law. I didn’t need to add a semi-invalid mother to my list of responsibilities.

I engaged the child lock, making it impossible for her to open the door on her own. She glared at me but finally gave in. “Fine. Have it your way.”

“I will.”

I helped her out of the car and held onto her arm as we navigated the slippery walkway that no one had bothered to salt this morning. If Mama slipped, she’d most likely pull me down on top of her. Luckily, that didn’t happen. We made it up the porch steps without disaster striking in the form of bruised flesh, sprained ankles, strained muscles, or broken bones.

Loud shouting greeted us from within the house as we approached the front door.

NINETEEN

“Oh, dear,” said Mama, placing her ear to the door. “They seem engaged in a rather heated argument.”

That was an understatement. I assumed the angry, raised voices, those of a man and woman, were Paul and Octavia Leonides. However, I found it difficult to make out most of what either yelled back and forth with the exception of a few choice expletives.

I pulled Mama away from the door and said, “I don’t think this is a good time for a condolence call.”

She directed a frown toward the doorbell. “I suppose.” But instead of moving toward the porch steps, she walked over to one of the windows and peered inside. “Should we call the police?”

I dragged her away from the window. “Stop that! Do you want them to call the cops on you?”

“Whatever for?”

“For being a Peeping Thomasina.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, dear. I’m concerned for their welfare.”

“I don’t think there’s any reason for concern. After all, couples fight all the time, some louder than others.”

“But—”

“Mama, if people called 9-1-1 whenever they heard their neighbors having an argument, the police would never have time to deal with real crimes.”

“Really, Anastasia? How do you know a real crime isn’t occurring inside as we stand here? Are you now clairvoyant?”

I shook my head and sighed. “No, Mama, but I’m not hearing anything to indicate that what’s going on inside this house is more than a couple having a loud disagreement over something that’s none of our business.”

I latched onto her elbow and gently tugged to get her to leave. She dug in her designer boot heels but finally turned around and allowed me to help her off the porch. At the bottom of the steps she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. “You’re sure we shouldn’t—?”

“Positive. Didn’t you ever fight with any of your husbands?”

“Of course, I did.”

“And did anyone ever call the cops on you?”

“Of course not! Why would you suggest such a thing?”

I clamped my lips together to keep from uttering something I’d regret the moment the words escaped my mouth.

She muttered under her breath as I led her back to the car and settled her into the passenger seat. As I pulled away from the curb, she smacked her hands onto her thighs and said, “Well, that was a waste of my time.”

Her time? I bit my tongue so hard I’m certain I left permanent teeth marks.

~*~

I drove Mama back to her condo. “We’ll pick you up at four-thirty,” I said after helping her to her front door. “Please wear more appropriate footwear. The weather report calls for flurries this evening.”

She glanced down at her high-heeled suede footwear, then at my practical snow boots. “I’m not wearing clunky snow boots to church on Christmas Eve.”

“Wearing clunky snow boots on Christmas Eve beats wearing leg casts on Christmas Day, Mama.”

She let loose a long-suffering sigh. “I have no idea where all this pessimism and negativity come from. Certainly not my side of the family, and your father was such an optimistic soul.”

“Are you suggesting I’m adopted, Mama?”

She pursed her lips and squinted at me. “I think I’d know if that were the case. What I do know is you never used to be such a Negative Nelly. You’ve changed.”

“And not for the better?”

Mama shoved her key into the lock and opened her door. Before stepping inside, she turned and said, “Exactly. I blame that mother-in-law of yours.”

She was right, of course, but given all that had happened to me throughout the past year, losing my Mary Sunshine outlook on life was inevitable. I kissed my mother good-bye, then my clunky snow boots and I walked back to my car.

I arrived home to find Harriet Kleinhample’s VW bus still parked in front of my house. Entering through the back door, I was greeted with a loud, rather graphic, narrative from Dr. Pimple Popper, which had replaced What Not to Wear.

I slipped off my wet boots and went in search of Zack. Not finding him in the house, I stepped back into the boots and made my way to the garage and up the stairs to the apartment. I discovered Zack tapping away on his computer. Ralph, perched on his shoulder, followed every keystroke as if he could read the text on the screen. Given Ralph’s other talents, this hardly seemed beyond the realm of possibilities.

“Something looks yummy,” I said, spying half a dozen cold salmon and capers pizzas on the counter. I grabbed a slice and took a large bite. If Zack ever tired of gallivanting around the world with his camera (or his gun?), he’d have no trouble securing a gig as a top chef at a five-star restaurant.

“Hey, those are for tonight.” He closed his laptop and strode across the room, positioning himself between the counter and me.

“No one will notice.”

“Really?” He pointed to the void in the circle of pizza. “How do you explain the missing slice?”

I grabbed a spatula and quickly nudged the remaining slices closer together to shore up the empty spot. “What missing slice? Besides, I needed to sample one to make sure they’re good enough to serve at church tonight.”

“And do your taste buds approve?”

I cocked my head to garner a view of the pizzas lined up behind him. “Not sure. I think I need one more slice in order to make a determination.”

“No you don’t.” He grabbed my hands before I could reach around him to snag another slice.

“Shouldn’t they be refrigerated?” I asked.

He nodded toward a stack of pizza boxes. “I was about to do that. Had to take care of something first.” Then he changed the subject. “Was your trip successful?”

“Not even slightly.” I told him about the aborted condolence call and how Mama wanted to report the arguing couple to the police.

Zack rolled his eyes. “At least you talked her out of that.”

“It wasn’t easy. You know how stubborn Mama can be when she sets her mind to something.”

I opened the refrigerator to pull out the salad ingredients for another of our dinner contributions. However, instead of finding heads of lettuce, cucumbers, broccoli, cabbage, and cauliflower, I discovered an enormous bowl of tossed salad. “You’ve been busy,” I said.

Zack shrugged. “I had the time.”

“So what should we do the remainder of the afternoon?”

He shot a glance over his shoulder toward the bedroom. “I’m sure we’ll think of something.”

~*~

As expected, Mama had defied me. When we arrived to pick her up for church, she was wearing her not-meant-for-snow-and-ice designer boots.

“You called it, Mom,” said Alex as he and Nick jumped from the car. Before Mama had finished locking her door, each boy had taken hold of one of her arms to escort her down the path.

We arrived at church in time to grab one of the few remaining parking space in the church lot, which was large enough for most Sundays but never big enough to handle the number of cars for Christmas or Easter services. Those who arrived later would have to jockey for spots on the adjacent streets.

Zack and I carried the pizzas and salad, along with a large platter of Christmas cookies, into the church kitchen while the boys and Mama headed for the sanctuary to claim a pew for us.

A few minutes later we joined them in the sanctuary. Shane and Sophie sat with Mama and the boys. To my surprise, Ira, his kids, and Tino occupied the pew directly behind them. Had I given it any thought, I should have known Ira would show up. After all, Mama and Lawrence had tied the knot here last summer. It didn’t take an Encyclopedia Brown to deduce this was our family church.

“Those kids better not kick the back of our pew,” I whispered to Zack after nodding hello to Ira and Tino.

“Relax. Knowing Tino, he’s probably threatened to break their legs if they don’t behave.”

Still, I wasn’t taking any chances. Christmas Eve is one of my favorite times of year, and I didn’t want Ira’s kids ruining the evening for me. Before taking my seat, I graced Melody, Harmony, and Isaac with my sternest former-schoolteacher expression, silently warning them to misbehave at their own peril. All three responded with devilish smirks and began swinging their legs, stopping a fraction of an inch before making contact with the back of the pew.

Tino reached over and clamped his arm across their thighs. “What did I tell you?” he said.

“Not to kick,” said one of the twins. “We didn’t.”

“Sit still. Hands in laps. No fidgeting.”

They immediately complied. After I settled into my seat, Zack squeezed my hand and whispered, “See?”

Maybe Tino had threatened to break their legs. Either that or take away all their electronic gadgets until they turned twenty-one since all three were currently gadget-less, a rarity for Ira’s kids.

As the organist struck the first chords of the prelude, stragglers quickly found seats, the buzz of conversations ended, and the Christmas Eve service began.

~*~

An hour and a half later, having worked our way through the buffet line, the twelve of us were gathered around one of the dozens of tables set up in the church dining room. Christmas carols played in the background, competing with a multitude of conversations and the clicking of utensils on dishes.

At one point Mama excused herself to powder her nose. Upon her return, she tapped me on the shoulder and asked, “Do you know if Dion’s brother and his wife attend church here?”

“Why do you ask?”

“I thought I caught a glimpse of Dion’s sister-in-law on my way to the powder room.”

When I’d seen Olympia Leonides on the news after Dion’s murder, I’d tried to place how I knew her. However, I know I would have at least recognized her name had we belonged to the same church.

Perhaps I’d noticed her at a school function or around town at some point in the past. Then again, I’d only seen her briefly on TV. I couldn’t remember her possessing any outstanding features that would set her apart from any of dozens of other middle-aged Westfield women with a medium build and shoulder-length bleach blonde hair. “I don’t think so, Mama.”

She shrugged. “Maybe I’m mistaken. After all, I only saw her that one time on the news.”

“Where she was only briefly onscreen,” I said.

Mama nodded. “Besides, I was focused more on Dion’s murder and your involvement in it.”

“She’s not involved,” said Zack.

Mama turned to him. “She found his body, didn’t she?”

I sighed. There was that.

“Anyway,” she continued, once again speaking to me, “with a name like Leonides, they probably attend the Greek Orthodox Church.”

“I suppose.”

“So much for that, then. The woman probably didn’t look anything like Dion’s sister-in-law.” Mama strode down the length of the table. However, at the last moment instead of taking her seat, she dropped her purse onto her chair, pivoted, and proceeded to the dessert table for a third round of grazing.

“At least she didn’t accost the woman,” I told Zack.

He nodded. “No telling what she would have said.”

I shook my head and heaved a sigh as I watched my mother heap her plate with enough sweets to feed half our table, no mean feat, given the three kids and two teens seated with us.

“I don’t suppose she plans to share any of that,” said Zack, following my gaze.

“Doubtful. The woman doesn’t have a sweet tooth; she has thirty-two of them. She’s worse than a child. She never knows when to stop.”

Zack chuckled as he offered me a forkful of chocolate cherry cheesecake. “Open up. This should help you mellow out.”

I thought I was pretty mellow this afternoon, but that could lead to a conversation I didn’t want overheard by anyone else at the table—especially my sons. So I parted my lips, and he slipped the fork into my mouth. If the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, the way to this woman’s heart is with chocolate cherry cheesecake. I closed my eyes and savored the rich confection. When I had finished, I pulled Zack’s plate in front of me. “You’d better hope there’s more on the dessert table because I’m confiscating this piece.”

After the meal, Reverend Carmichael gathered the younger children to read them The Night Before Christmas. When he finished, people said their good-byes, donned their coats, and drifted toward the parking lot—all except those of us on cleanup duty.

On orders from Tino, Ira’s kids assisted Alex, Nick, and Sophie in clearing our place settings. The teenagers, having worked set-up earlier in the day, decided to walk the half-mile back to Shane’s house. Ira, his brood, and Tino left shortly thereafter. While one group of volunteers wiped down, folded, and stored the dining room tables and chairs, Zack, Mama, Shane, and I moved on to kitchen detail.

However, as we were about to enter the kitchen, Mama let loose an extremely loud and decidedly un-Mama-like belch. She then grabbed her stomach with one hand, covering her mouth with the other, and raced toward the ladies’ room as quickly as her high-heeled boots allowed.

“Some people just can’t handle their sugar,” I muttered before rushing off to follow after her.

Ten minutes later we returned to the kitchen, Mama still slightly green-around-the-gills. I found Zack and Shane working in tandem, Shane scraping plates as Zack loaded the industrial dishwasher. “Would you mind driving Mama home?” I asked him. “She’s in no condition to help with cleanup. I’ll take over for you.”

He stepped aside and grabbed a towel to dry his hands as I took over loading duties. “It shouldn’t take me more than twenty minutes,” he said.

“No need to return,” said Shane. He indicated the beehive of activity in the kitchen. Half a dozen church members were making quick work of the aftermath of the meal, wrapping and storing leftovers as well as hand washing, drying, and stowing away those items that weren’t dishwasher safe. “We have more than enough help. I’ll drop Anastasia off as soon as we’re finished.”

An hour later the church no longer showed any signs of the large gathering that had taken place within its walls earlier that evening. Leftovers had been stored, recycling sorted, trash bagged and deposited in the Dumpster, counters wiped, floors swept.

Shane offered to retrieve our coats while I dashed to the ladies’ room. By the time I returned, we were the only two left in the church besides the minister, who was waiting to set the alarm and lock up before heading across the street to his residence.

As I slipped into my coat, I noticed an overlooked trashcan full of garbage sitting in a far corner of the kitchen. I pointed it out to Shane. “Looks like we need to make a trip to the Dumpster on our way to your car.”

He pulled the plastic bag from the can and knotted the drawstring. “Sophie and I didn’t arrive in time to get a spot in the parking lot. My car is on the next block. Wait here while I get it.”

I held out my hand. “No point keeping the minister waiting. I’ll take the trash while you bring the car around and meet me at the Dumpster.”

“Thank you both for your help this evening,” said Reverend Carmichael. “And Merry Christmas.”

“And Merry Christmas to you,” said Shane. He handed me the trash bag before making his way to the main entrance of the church.

“I’ll wait here with you, Anastasia,” said Reverend Carmichael, fighting to suppress a yawn and failing miserably. “It will take Shane a few minutes before he returns with his car.”

Noting the bags under his eyes and his drooping eyelids, I refused to keep him from his bed a moment longer than necessary. I glanced out one of the kitchen windows. A few stray flurries danced in the beams of the parking lot lights, but other than that, the night appeared calm. “No need. It’s so peaceful outside. I don’t mind waiting by myself.”

He glanced at me, then out at the empty parking lot. “Are you sure?”

“Of course. Shane’s on his way, and you look beyond exhausted.”

He nodded. “It has been a long day. Goodnight, Anastasia.”

I again wished him a Merry Christmas before pushing open the door and stepping outside.

The Dumpster was situated as far from the church as possible to keep the stench of garbage from seeping into the church during the heat of summer. I made my way across the parking lot to the Dumpster, flipped open the metal lid, and tossed the trash bag inside.

When I turned around, a gun was pointed inches from my chest.

TWENTY

My assailant stood backlit by one of the parking lot lights, making it impossible for me to identify who was threatening to shoot me. However, judging from the stature and build, I was dealing with a woman. Recent experience suggested rather than a random mugging by some young punk looking for drug money, this had Lawrence’s fingerprints all over it. Had the mob entered the twenty-first century and was now recruiting members of the opposite sex? I doubted Betty Friedan and Gloria Steinem had considered made women on equal footing with made men when they were organizing the women’s liberation movement back in the sixties.

I needed to buy time until Shane arrived, hoping my gun-wielding mob wannabe would panic and run off once she saw his car pull into the parking lot. Thankfully, I knew Reverend Carmichael would have exited the church by way of the front entrance after activating the alarm. At least I didn’t have to worry about him startling this modern-day Bonnie Parker and have her open fire.

I held my purse out to her. “All I have is twenty dollars and some change in my wallet.”

“Drop the purse,” she said.

For a brief second I considered swinging it at either the gun or her head, but if I failed to knock her off balance and dislodge the weapon, she’d shoot me before I got a second chance. And at such close range, no matter how bad a shot, odds favored her hitting her target—me.

As I opened my hand to let the purse fall to the pavement, someone grabbed me from behind, clapping a massive gloved hand over my mouth and pinning my arms to my sides. I fought to break free, kicking at his legs, but he only gripped me tighter, making it impossible for me to breathe.

He lifted me off the ground and growled in my ear. “Keep it up, and I’ll snap your neck.”

I ceased struggling.

The woman picked up my purse and rifled inside. “No phone,” she said.

“Check her pockets.”

With the gun pressed into my ribcage, she stuck her hand first in one coat pocket, then the other. “Nothing,” she said. Yanking my coat up over my hips, she patted me down until she discovered my phone in my left blazer pocket. “Got it.” She turned back to the Dumpster, lifted the lid, and tossed my purse inside.

“Hurry up,” said the man.

He dragged me over to an SUV parked in the shadows at the far corner of the lot. The woman opened the back door. The man tossed me onto my stomach across the backseat, pinning me with one hand firmly on my neck, his knee digging into my lower back. His female accomplice came around to the other side of the vehicle, opened the door, and shoved a rag in my mouth, securing it with a strip of duct tape.

The man grabbed my hands and yanked my arms behind me while the woman bound them together with another length of duct tape.

“Give me the tape,” he said. A moment later my legs were also bound at my ankles.

“Let’s get out of here,” said the man. They slammed the car doors, leaving me lying across the backseat, unable to leverage myself into a sitting position, while they climbed into the driver and passenger seats.

A moment later we sped across the empty parking lot toward the driveway, but before we’d reached the street, bright lights suddenly shined through the windshield, filling the interior of the SUV. Brakes squealed. A car horn blared. The woman screamed. The driver cursed as he yanked the steering wheel to the right to avoid a head-on collision. The SUV swerved onto the sloping embankment alongside the driveway, nearly flipping the vehicle onto its side.

The woman screamed again. “You’re going to kill us!”

“Shut up!” He jerked the wheel in the opposite direction. Two of the tires went airborne, and I was tossed to the floor before all four wheels landed back on the driveway. Peeling rubber, the driver turned out of the parking lot and sped down the street.

“Slow down,” shouted the woman. “The last thing we need is a cop pulling us over.”

“Don’t tell me how to drive.”

“I wouldn’t have to if you weren’t so reckless.”

“What the hell are you doing? Is that her phone?”

“I’m trying to crack it. Some people have easy passwords, like 1234.”

“Are you freaking nuts? Get rid of it. Toss it out the window.”

“Why?”

“Because I don’t want anyone tracking us.”

“You don’t have to yell.”

“Give me that! If you weren’t so stupid, I wouldn’t have to yell. Use your brain for once.”

A rush of cold air entered the car from the driver’s side, indicating the man had lowered his window to toss my phone. After he raised the window, the two of them sat in silence for a few minutes until the woman finally said, “What are we going to do with them?”

“Them?” Who else had they kidnapped?

“We’re going to serve them tea and crumpets. What do you think we’re going to do?”

“How?”

“I haven’t figured that out yet. We’ll stash her with the old lady for now.”

Old lady? Did he mean Mama?

“How can we be certain one of them didn’t already rat us out?”

Rat them out? The pieces began to fall in place. Could I have been more wrong? Lawrence wasn’t behind my kidnapping. My abductors were Paul and Olympia Leonides. And they already had Mama.

 “There you go acting stupid again. If they had, the cops would have come after us already. The bodies have to disappear without a trace. We’ll be sunning ourselves on a beach in Ecuador—just you, me, and our millions—way before anyone figures out what happened.”

“I told you I don’t want to go to Ecuador. I don’t speak Spanish. Neither do you.”

“We’ll learn. We’re going to Ecuador.”

“Why?”

“Because Ecuador doesn’t have an extradition treaty with the U.S. The Feds can’t touch us there.”

Why would Paul and Olympia Leonides want Mama and me dead? Only one reason sprang to mind. They knew Mama and I had been to their home earlier in the day. Either they’d heard us on the porch or had a security system that had alerted them. What had they fought over that freaked them out enough to want us dead?

Then it hit me. Lawrence might not have anything to do with my current situation, but it certainly smacked of his standard M.O. of covering up evidence of one murder by committing another. Had Paul Leonides killed his brother Dion?

Mama hadn’t been mistaken when she thought she saw Olympia earlier at church. She and Paul had been following us, possibly ever since we’d left their house, waiting for the perfect time to strike. And we’d handed it to them. They must have followed us to church and later followed Zack and Mama, grabbing my mother after Zack dropped her at her condo. Then they returned to the church for me.

The bodies have to disappear without a trace.

Was Mama already dead? Don’t go there, Anastasia! I banished the thought from my brain. I needed to focus on figuring a way out of this situation. I’d done it before; I could do it again.

Only the last time I’d found myself tied up and dumped in a car, I’d had a tool to MacGyver my way out of my restraints and a phone to call for help—all because my captor wasn’t anywhere close to the sharpest X-Acto knife in the crafting toolbox.

However, neither of those options currently existed. My only hope was for Paul and Olympia to commit a major slipup, allowing me to take advantage of their lack of experience as practitioners of violent crime.

I shot off a desperate prayer that the God of Reluctant Amateur Sleuths would smile down on me once again. Even though I may not have gotten myself into this mess by playing Jessica Fletcher and hadn’t broken my promise to Nick, it hardly mattered if I wound up dead anyway. I needed to find a way to save Mama. And me. I didn’t want my sons associating Christmas with the murder of their mother and grandmother.

~*~

Minus a clock or watch, I’ve never been able to determine the passage of time, and I wasn’t positioned on the floor in a way to notice a dashboard clock through the space between the front bucket seats. My pounding heart and racing adrenaline didn’t help. We either sped along in the dark for a few minutes or as much as half an hour. And since I couldn’t see any landmarks, I had no idea of the roads we traveled. I only hoped that when we arrived at our destination, I’d find Mama alive.

Paul and Olympia remained silent. I suspected Paul was plotting their next move while Olympia stewed over his verbal abuse. Should the opportunity arise, maybe I could use her anger toward him to my advantage. After all, why would anyone want to move to Ecuador?

Eventually Paul parked the car and yanked me out, hoisting me over his shoulder. The area was poorly lit, but it looked like a large industrial park comprised of one-story buildings. I saw nothing to indicate location. We could be in Linden, Rahway, Carteret, Plainfield, or a dozen other towns in Union County or beyond.

Olympia unlocked a door in the middle of one of the buildings opposite where Paul had parked. They both stepped inside, closing and locking the door before flipping on the overhead lights.

Judging from the furnishings, we had entered the reception area of Parthenon Construction. A fake wood Formica counter that had seen better days stood on the far side of the room with a row of four folding chairs lining the outer wall. A few before-and-after photos from the company website hung in cheap plastic frames on beige walls that looked like they hadn’t received a fresh coat of paint in decades. The room made no pretext to impress.

Olympia opened a door in the far corner, and we entered a hallway, passing several doors along the way until we arrived at the end of the hall and a final door. She unlocked the door and flipped on a light to a large utility and storage closet. A hot water heater stood in one corner. Rows of metal shelving lined three of the four walls. Some contained thick binders and large cardboard tubes that probably held blueprints. Others held office, cleaning, and coffee supplies along with several cases of bottled water. A massive copy machine filled the remaining wall.

Mama lay in the corner between the copy machine and a shelving unit. She moaned.

“Shut up!” said Paul. The moaning quieted to a muffled whimper. “I said shut up, or I’ll kill you right now!” He then dumped me on the floor partially on top of her. Mama’s frightened eyes stared back at me.

“Now what?” asked Olympia.

“I’m working on it.”

“Well, work faster. The longer you dither, the more likely the cops will figure out you killed Dion.”

“I wouldn’t have had to kill him if you weren’t so sloppy. How the hell did he find out about the second set of books?”

“How should I know? I certainly didn’t tell him! And how is this my fault? Did it ever occur to you that maybe killing Dion wasn’t such a good idea? Now we’ll have three dead bodies? Four if Jesse had died. If we’re caught, we’ll fry.”

“No, we won’t. New Jersey doesn’t have the death penalty. Besides, they won’t be able to touch us in Ecuador.”

“So, you say. What happens if the U.S. and Ecuador sign an extradition treaty? Maybe you shouldn’t have gone off half-cocked until we learned whether or not these two heard anything.”

“There you go being stupid again. If they didn’t hear us, why did they leave before ringing the doorbell?”

“I don’t know, but it hardly matters now, does it, Mr. I’ll Handle Everything? You’re handling us into life sentences.”

“I’m handling us onto a one-way flight to Ecuador, unless you’d rather stay here. I’m going whether you come with me or not.”

“You’d leave me to take the rap?”

“Your choice. I’ve got everything under control. Now let’s go.”

“Where?”

“Home.” He grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the open door.

She glanced over her shoulder at us. “Wait! They won’t be able to get out, will they?”

Paul laughed. “Not even if one of them was the reincarnation of Houdini.” He flipped off the light as they exited.

Through the closed door I heard Olympia ask, “Why are we going home?”

“We have a long road trip ahead of us,” said Paul. I heard the lock click. Then he added, “I want to catch a few hours of sleep before we set off in the morning.”

“A road trip where?”

They began to walk back down the hall, their voices fading. “I haven’t decided yet. Somewhere up in the Catskills, I think. Maybe farther.”

“And do what?”

Before the door to the reception area closed behind them, I heard him say, “We’ll toss their bodies over a steep ravine. There’s more snow on the way. They won’t be found until spring if they’re found at all. With any luck the wolves will get them.”

Beneath me, Mama’s body began to tremble uncontrollably.

TWENTY-ONE

No way would I allow Paul to carry out his plot. Step One, I had to break free of my restraints, and to do that, I needed to see.

I rolled off Mama, bent my knees, and pushed myself away from her toward the corner of the metal shelving unit. Grabbing the unit’s leg with my hands—not the easiest of feats with my arms taped together behind my back—I maneuvered myself into a seated position. Still holding onto the vertical rail, I aligned my legs at a right angle to the upright by bouncing my butt sideways on the floor.

Now for the hard part. If the shelving unit toppled under the strain of my efforts, I’d probably kill Mama and me. Not my hoped-for result but at least it beat death by wolf pack.

After shooting off yet another prayer, I began the arduous task of pulling myself to a standing position. I moved my hands upward, inch by slow inch hoisting my torso as I crab-walked backwards.

After what seemed like an hour, I’d barely made any progress. My heart pounded, my head throbbed, and spasms overtook the muscles in my arms and legs. Sweat dripped from every pore in my body, stung my eyes, and saturated my clothes. To keep my sweaty palms from slipping along the metal, I had to squeeze my fingers so tight they grew numb.

I recognized the signs of dehydration setting in. Fighting back the dizziness that threatened to destroy my efforts, I pressed on, refusing to give in to the pain and exhaustion.

Finally, I managed to pull myself fully upright. I leaned against the shelves, closed my eyes, and allowed my limbs a few precious minutes of recovery before forcing them to conquer the next challenge.

My eyes had adjusted to the dark, but I still couldn’t see much beyond shadows. However, I had a general idea of where the door was located, and I knew the light switch was on the wall next to the door. Every muscle in my legs and arms screamed in pain, but the spasms had stopped. I began to hop my way forward until I smacked nose-first into the door.

A nosebleed was the last thing I needed, but tell that to my nose. I couldn’t even swipe away the blood with a shrug of my shoulder, thanks to the way my arms were bound. I ignored the gush and used my head to feel around the wall next to the door for the light switch. A moment later I used my head to butt the switch up and flood the closet with light.

I turned to find Mama blinking from the sudden glare. Once her eyes focused, she nodded. I took that to mean she was okay. I nodded back, which I hope she took to mean I’d find a way out of this mess.

At least I was making progress. I looked around the room, searching for anything I could use to cut through the duct tape. A quick scan of the shelves containing office supplies found no knife or scissors lying about in the open.

However, Paul’s flippant comment about Houdini had given me an idea. He’d made a tactical error by not removing my puffy, down-filled nylon coat before binding my arms behind my back. I was swimming in sweat. If I could somehow manage to lower the zipper, I felt certain I could pull off a Houdini by wiggling out of my sweat-slicked coat.

If only I could communicate with Mama….

Too bad I couldn’t reach my nose. I could write a message to Mama with my blood. But the blood had leveled off from a gush to a steady drip that trickled onto the front of my coat, and my hands were tied behind me.

I turned my attention to the shelves of office supplies. Reams of paper filled several rows of shelves but none low enough for me to reach.

I could reach the copier drawers, though. I hopped my way across the floor and turned my back to one of the drawers. Grabbing hold, I yanked the drawer open and felt inside. Paper!

Now I needed a pen or pencil. I hopped back to the office supplies and spied a box of red fine-line markers within reach. I positioned my body with my back to the shelf and grabbed the box. Then I pulled open the flap, withdrew a marker, and hopped back to the copier.

I clicked the marker open and leaned backwards to scrawl a message on the top sheet of paper:

PULL MY COAT ZIPPER

I twisted my neck to read over my shoulder. Not the best penmanship but legible enough. I dropped the pen and pulled the sheet of paper from the copier. Then I maneuvered myself into position for Mama to read the message. When I looked back, she nodded.

Mama inch-wormed her way on her belly to the middle of the floor and rolled onto her side. I lowered myself onto the floor beside her, positioning my body so that she could grasp my zipper and pull. In tandem, she drew the zipper down as I squirmed in the opposite direction until we’d released it.

I then wiggled my way back down until my shoulders were even with Mama’s hands and rolled onto my side. She grabbed hold of my collar, and we repeated our opposite shuffle, pulling the coat off my shoulders. Mama then took hold of my cuffs, and I crawled out of the coat.

As soon as my arms were freed, I ripped the duct tape from Mama’s mouth and yanked out the rag.

“I knew you’d save us,” she said.

Or die trying. I freed my own mouth and pressed the rag against my nostrils. “Are you okay?”

“I am now. At least this time I didn’t have that commie lying on top of me.”

“I’m sorry, Mama.”

“For what? This wasn’t your fault. It was mine. If I hadn’t insisted on paying that condolence call, we wouldn’t be sitting here.”

True. Still I couldn’t help but feel partially responsible. Although, I blame Karl for the last time Mama found herself hogtied by a killer.

But I pushed all those thoughts aside. We still had some hurdles ahead of us, and I had no idea when Paul and Olympia would return. How long had it taken me to free us? An hour? Three? More? I had no concept of the time that had passed.

After I released my legs and Mama’s bindings, I helped her into a sitting position with her back leaning against the copy machine. Then I retrieved a roll of paper towels and a few bottles of water. I slumped back to the floor beside Mama, handed her a water bottle, and ripped off a sheet of towel.

I replaced the dirty rag with the paper towel and applied pressure to my nose while guzzling a quart of water. I quickly realized it’s nearly impossible to drink and breathe at the same time without the use of your nostrils. I wound up alternately gulping air and water. Mama sipped her water in a more lady-like fashion, but then, she hadn’t gone through nearly the amount of physical contortions I had and probably wasn’t dehydrated.

After a few sips she hauled herself to her feet and said, “Come on. We have to get out of here and call that detective friend of yours.”

She marched over to the door, but the handle refused to budge. She rattled it back and forth, alternately pushing and pulling. When that failed, she stamped her foot, and screamed a tirade of four-letter words that would have given her fellow DAR members apoplexy.

“It’s locked, Mama.”

“I can see that. How do we unlock it?”

I pulled myself to my feet and searched around the shelves until I found a box of paper clips, removed two, and unbent them. “Step aside, Mama.”

Her eyes grew wide as she watched me insert the metal wires into the lock. “How did you learn to pick a lock?”

“YouTube.”

“Whatever for?”

I shrugged. “I thought it might come in handy someday.” I decided against telling her I learned the fine art of lock picking in order to open her ex-husband’s lockbox.

After a few attempts, the lock popped, and I opened the door. I grabbed Mama’s hand, and we staggered down the hall to the reception area. Then I stepped behind the counter, picked up the phone, and placed a call to Detective Spader.

Since Olympia had tossed my phone and I’m terrible at remembering numbers, I couldn’t call Spader’s direct line. Nor did I know the number for the Union County Police Department. I had no idea of our location, whether we were even still in Union County. The counter held no business cards or brochures with an address for Parthenon Construction, and I didn’t want to waste precious time hunting through desk drawers. So I dialed 9-1-1.

The dispatcher picked up on the first ring. “9-1-1. State your emergency.”

“Are you in Union County?” I asked.

“Yes, ma’am. Please state your emergency.”

“I need to be patched through to Detective Sam Spader immediately.”

“Ma’am, this isn’t an answering service. Is this a true emergency?”

“Yes, it’s an emergency! My mother and I were kidnapped, and the kidnappers are planning to return and kill us.”

“Where are you, ma’am?”

“At Parthenon Construction.”

“Do you have an address?”

Jeez! If I had an address, I’d give it to her, wouldn’t I? “No, I don’t have an address. I don’t even know what town we’re in, just that we’re in an industrial park.”

“What’s your name, ma’am?”

“Anastasia Pollack.”

“Stay on the line, please, Ms. Pollack. I’m patching your call through to Detective Spader.”

Maybe I should have started off by giving my name because a moment later I heard the welcome sound of the detective’s gruff voice. “Mrs. Pollack, where the devil are you? I’ve got every cop on the force out looking for you.”

Making me persona non grata with all of them, I’m sure. After all, it was Christmas Eve—or perhaps even Christmas Day by now.

“We’re at Parthenon Construction. Wherever that is. Paul and Olympia Leonides kidnapped my mother and me. Paul killed his brother and tried to kill Jesse Konopka. He plans to kill us.”

“Where are the Leonides now?”

“Hopefully, nowhere nearby. They went home, but they’re coming back. They left us tied up, but I was able to free myself and my mother.” What if Paul wasn’t able to fall asleep? He may have decided to get an earlier start than planned. I stared at the front door. He could walk in at any moment.

“Stay on the line with the dispatcher. I’ve got officers nearby. They’ll be there momentarily.”

Momentarily was good—as long as they showed up before Paul returned.

Which, thankfully, they did. Seconds later flashing red and blue lights filtered through the window blinds.

~*~

The officers who arrived insisted on transporting Mama and me to the hospital to be checked out. Arguing with them got me nowhere. “Sorry, ma’am, orders of Detective Spader. You wouldn’t want to get us in trouble, would you?”

Since I didn’t want to extend their evening any longer than necessary, I reluctantly complied. When we arrived at the hospital, I found Zack waiting for me. After a prolonged hug, he asked, “What am I going to do with you?”

“Hey, this wasn’t my fault. Paul and Olympia weren’t even on my radar.”

“Blame me,” said Mama, wringing her hands. She’d grown more and more distressed now that the crisis had passed. “This is all my fault. I’m the one who insisted Anastasia drive me to see Dion’s family.”

I reached for her hand and squeezed it. “It’s not your fault, either, Mama. We had no way of knowing. Up until a short time ago, I believed Lawrence was behind Dion’s murder.”

Mama shook her head and muttered, “No, I should have listened to you.”

The assigning of blame ended when a nurse ushered Mama and me into an examination room. She took our vitals before being joined by a doctor who examined both of us. As expected, I was still dehydrated. So was Mama. Lying on side-by-side beds, Mama and I were each hooked up to IV fluids. The nurse also gave Mama a mild sedative to relax her.

When the hospital staff left the room, I asked Zack, “Do the boys know what happened?”

“Not yet. They’re still at Shane’s house. I asked him not to say anything.”

“So it’s still Christmas Eve?”

“It’s still Christmas Eve.” Zack pulled out his phone and glanced at it. “And will be for another forty minutes.”

How could it only be eleven-twenty? Less than four hours had ticked by since my kidnapping? Hard to believe. “You’re sure?”

He held up his phone to show me the display. “Smart phones don’t lie.”

A few minutes later a background soundtrack of soft snores filled the room as Mama’s sedative took hold. Zack checked her bed, then turned back to face me, and placed an index finger to his lips.

“Sound asleep?” I whispered.

“Like a baby.”

An hour later the nurse was removing my IV when Detective Spader arrived. 

TWENTY-TWO

“Did you pick up Paul and Olympia?” I asked Spader the moment he stepped into the room.

“Picked them up and locked them up. And if the D.A. has anything to do with it, Paul won’t see freedom for decades, if ever.”

“What about Olympia?”

“She’s warbling like a diva canary, claiming Paul masterminded everything and forced her to help him.”

“I don’t know that I believe that,” I said.

“I certainly don’t,” said Spader. “She refused to talk at first, immediately demanding a lawyer, even before she was read her rights.” He huffed out his displeasure. “That woman is one conniving cookie. Once she spoke with her attorney, she conveniently came up with an abused spouse defense. They’re looking to cut a deal. Whether she does time or not will depend on the D.A.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a cell phone. “Thought you’d want this back.”

My phone! “How did you find it?”

“Complete luck. One of my officers discovered it on the side of the road while driving around Westfield looking for you. His headlights picked up a flash of pink and stopped to investigate. Good thing you have a brightly colored phone case with pictures of your kids on it. Made it easy to identify.”

I pressed the button, and my phone sprang to life. “Thank you, Detective. I can’t believe that it was found in one piece, let alone in working condition. Paul hurled it out the car window while speeding down the road. I didn’t expect it to survive the impact.”

“A phone can be replaced,” said Zack, holding my hand in both of his. “I’m just glad you and your mother returned in one piece.”

“I’ll second that,” said Spader, albeit gruffly.

From listening to Paul and Olympia verbally battle, I’d pieced together much of the mystery of Dion’s death. Dion had accused Paul and Olympia of cooking the books. Paul retaliated by killing his brother, then setting his house on fire to cover up the crime scene, dumping Dion’s body elsewhere. Ira’s Christmas extravaganza provided a convenient location, given its proximity to Paul and Olympia’s home.

While Mama continued to snore away, Detective Spader filled in the blanks.

“According to Olympia, she and Paul ran the day-to-day operations at Parthenon after they hired Konopka, with Paul splitting his time between Parthenon and his real estate office. Dion went back to practicing law fulltime, even though old man Leonides left each of his sons half the business. That annoyed the heck out of Paul.”

“So he decided to skim?” I asked.

“Right. Along with being the firm’s architect, Olympia handled the books. Paul got her to doctor them, recording bogus invoices and substituting orders with inferior quality materials.”

“Classic double-bookkeeping,” said Zack.

Spader nodded. “Embezzlement 101, along with the usual motivator.”

“Which was?” I asked.

“Paul and Olympia Leonides live way above their means and are deep in debt—maxed out credit cards, second mortgage on the house, not to mention a habit of frequenting the local casinos where they spent hours in front of the slots.”

 I wondered if they’d ever crossed paths with Dead Louse of a Spouse during one of their casino junkets. Wouldn’t that be the icing on this poisonous cake?

“Jesse’s wife told me he’d complained about the quality of some of the materials he was receiving at job sites,” I said, “but that he brushed it off as delivery errors, saying mistakes sometimes happen. Sounds like they were happening much more often than sometimes.”

“Which is why he grew suspicious,” said Spader.

“From what I overheard tonight, Jesse didn’t trip and fall at the construction site; Paul pushed him.”

Spader nodded. “We think Paul crept up behind Konopka and bashed him in the head with a two-by-four, then tossed his body into the basement, making it look like a trip and fall. Left him for dead.”

“Only he wasn’t dead,” I said. “Did Olympia tell you that?”

Spader nodded again. “Konopka doesn’t remember seeing or hearing anyone, though. However, he was more concerned about Paul than he let on to his wife.”

“Does he suspect Paul tried to kill him?”

“Not at the time. But in addition to the substandard materials, he wasn’t happy with the work of some of the subcontractors. As the general contractor, he should have had control of hiring the subcontractors, but Paul insisted on handpicking them.”

“Were they tradesmen his father had used?” asked Zack.

“No, that’s why Jesse grew increasingly suspicious. He suspected kickbacks were involved with both the subcontractors and possibly the building inspectors. He contacted Dion with his concerns.”

My jaw dropped. “When did you learn all this?”

“When I spoke with Konopka at the hospital Thursday.”

“And Dion confronted his brother?”

“He told Konopka he’d look into the matter.”

Anger began to build inside me. “Jesse never said a word about any of that when I spoke with him.”

“I asked him to keep quiet,” said Spader. “I couldn’t risk word somehow getting back to Paul and jeopardizing the case.”

“So you’ve subpoenaed Parthenon’s books and bank records?”

“We’re working on it. These things take time. We want to make sure the case isn’t tossed out of court on a technicality.”

Was he serious? At that moment I wanted to leap off my hospital bed and strangle him. Zack apparently sensed my anger because he placed a firm hand on my shoulder.

“Let me see if I understand this,” I said. “You decided it was more important to dot all your ‘i’s’ and cross all your ‘t’s’ than consider you might be jeopardizing additional innocent lives? My mother and I were kidnapped because Paul thought we had overheard something incriminating. He was going to feed us to the wolves—literally.”

When Mama stirred in the bed beside me, I lowered my voice to a seething whisper. “Do you really think I would have taken my mother to pay her respects to Paul and Olympia had I known Paul was a suspect in his brother’s murder?”

“We had no concrete evidence to connect him to Dion’s murder at that point,” said Spader, “and only Konopka’s suspicions concerning embezzlement. We needed more proof before a judge would issue a subpoena.”

But I’ll bet he had plenty of suspicions. “It doesn’t take an advanced degree in criminology to connect the dots here.”

Spader gritted his teeth. “Mrs. Pollack, I had no way of knowing you planned to visit the Leonides. When you graduate from the police academy and get a job on the force, I may consider sharing information about ongoing investigations with you. Until then, consider this conversation a courtesy few civilians are ever extended.”

We stared each other down for a moment before I conceded and said, “I overheard Paul admit to killing Dion. Did Olympia confirm that?”

“She did.”

“Are you going to share the particulars with me?”

He shrugged and muttered, “In for a dollar….”

I raised an eyebrow, waiting for him to continue.

Spader shrugged again. “According to Olympia, Dion called them last Tuesday night, asking them to meet him at the office. When they arrived, Dion confronted them about the embezzlement and threatened to go to the police if they didn’t repay all the money. Paul pulled a gun and shot his brother.”

“Just like that?” I asked. “In cold blood? No argument or struggle?”

“Just like that,” said Spader. “At least according to Olympia. She then drove Dion’s car into Rahway. Paul followed with Dion’s body in the back of his car. They removed the license plates from Dion’s car and abandoned it in an area known for drug activity. Then the two of them drove back.”

“With Dion’s body in Paul’s car?” I asked.

“That’s right.”

“Why not leave the body in the abandoned car?” asked Zack.

Spader offered us a knowing smirk. “A smart perp would have stuck the body in the victim’s car and torched the car to destroy evidence. Most perps are caught because they screw up. Those two combined have fewer brains than your average two-bit crook. At this moment CSU is combing Leonides’ vehicle, collecting DNA evidence.”

“But why dump the body in Ira’s sleigh?” I asked.

“A combination of convenience and serendipity, thanks to the circus at Pollack’s house,” said Spader. “When Paul and Olympia returned to their house, they walked over to Prospect and mingled with the crowd, chatted with a few of the neighbors they knew to give themselves an alibi. They witnessed the attack on Pollack. It was pure coincidence that Pollack’s attacker and Dion were wearing similar coats, which gave Paul the idea to dump Dion’s body in Pollack’s yard. Late that night he placed a ski cap over his brother’s head and hauled him into a wheelbarrow. Then he transferred the body to Pollack’s sleigh as it made its way around the back of the house.”

“Ira has security cameras,” said Zack. “Wouldn’t he have been caught on them?”

“The camera at the rear of the property points to the back door. It didn’t pick up any of the activity.”

“What about the fire at Dion’s house?” I asked. “Was that just coincidence?”

“No, Paul set the fire.”

“How? He was at Ira’s the same time we were. We heard the fire sirens.”

“Paul and Olympia made a quick stop at Dion’s home on their way back from abandoning the car. Because Dion’s house stood a distance from any neighbors, no one noticed any smoke or flames until the house was nearly fully engulfed.”

“And the fire at Paul and Olympia’s house?” asked Zack. “Set by Paul to make it look like someone was targeting both brothers?”

“Exactly.”

The nurse returned to take our vitals once again, waking Mama in the process. Mama took one look at Spader and asked, “What did I miss?”

As soon as the nurse departed, the detective gave her a thirty-second recap.

“I don’t have to worry about them getting out on bail and coming after us?”

“No, ma’am. They’re not going anywhere.

At least not for now. I noted Spader skipped over the possible plea deal for Olympia. However, given that she thought nothing of throwing her husband under the bus to save her own neck, I doubted she’d seek revenge. More likely, if she did get off without any prison time, she’d pack up and move as far away from New Jersey as possible—but definitely not to Ecuador.

~*~

Spader checked his watch. “It’s officially Christmas, folks, which means I’m off duty.” He directed his next comment to me alone. “Try to stay out of trouble for at least the next twenty-four hours, Mrs. Pollack. After tonight, we all deserve a quiet holiday.”

My jaw dropped. I stabbed at my chest with my thumb. “Hey, I’m the victim here, remember? Besides, once again I solved your murder case for you. I’d think a little appreciation is in order, Detective.”

“And once again, nearly got yourself killed in the process. But thank you.”

“It certainly wasn’t the way I planned to spend Christmas Eve.”

“Mrs. Pollack, it wasn’t the way any of us planned to spend Christmas Eve.”

I frowned at him. “So, is this the end of our détente, Detective?”

Instead of answering me, he winked and said, “Merry Christmas,” then swung open the door to leave but stopped and turned around. “Almost forgot,” he said, snapping his fingers. “You’ll be receiving the twenty-five-thousand-dollar reward Paul offered for information leading to the arrest of Dion’s killer.”

“What?” Was Spader making some kind of cop joke? “You can’t be serious. He killed his brother. He’s not going to pay out on the reward.”

“He doesn’t control the money. Once he made the offer, the funds were deposited into a special account administered by the county.”

“He thought he’d get away with it.”

“As do most killers, but his hubris was no match for your tenacity.”

“Is that a compliment, Detective?”

Spader winked and strode from the room as twenty-five thousand George Washingtons made me forget all about setting up a gift basket business in my nonexistent free time.

A few minutes later the nurse once again returned, this time announcing the doctor had cleared us to leave. As we departed the hospital, I told Mama I wanted her to spend the night with us.

“And share a room with that communist heathen? No thank you, dear. I’ve had enough pain and suffering for one night.”

“You can stay in my room, Mama. Zack and I will sleep in the apartment.”

“I appreciate the offer, but what I want right now is a good tub soak and my own bed where I plan to sleep until at least noon. Besides, I was abducted before I had a chance to feed Catherine the Great. She must be starving.”

Mama’s cat was so fat, she could fast for a week and still need to shed extra baggage. However, no pleading on my part would persuade her to spend what remained of the night with us. I finally gave in, reminded her that the boys, Zack, and I would be working at the soup kitchen in Plainfield tomorrow, and asked if she wanted us to pick her up on our way to Ira’s house afterwards.

“I’ll think about it,” she said. “Call me before you head over there. I may not be in the mood.”

I doubted I’d be, either, but Ira deserved to know what had taken place tonight and that he was no longer a suspect in Dion’s murder. Besides, I had promised we’d try to drop by after working at the soup kitchen. After all, it was Christmas, he was family, and my middle name isn’t Scrooge.

After making certain Mama was safely inside her condo with her door locked, we headed to Shane’s to pick up Alex and Nick.

“I know you weren’t doing any last-minute shopping,” said Nick, arms crossed over his chest, his face filled with skepticism, once we entered the house.

I glanced toward Shane. He shrugged. “Don’t look at me.”

“I suggested it,” said Sophie. “I had a feeling something bad happened and didn’t want Alex and Nick to worry.”

“Except all the stores closed hours ago,” said Alex. “So we humored Sophie.”

“Are you going to tell us about it?” asked Nick.

Not if given a choice, but I knew that wasn’t an option. My sons deserved the truth. Besides, if I didn’t tell them, their grandmother would eventually spill the beans. Mama never met a secret she could keep for more than a few minutes.

 “Let’s sit down,” I said. We all moved to the great room, and once everyone had settled into the sofa, with Alex on one side of me and Nick on the other, I continued. “First, I want to start out by saying your grandmother and I are fine.”

“Was it one of Lawrence’s guys?” asked Nick.

“Was what one of Lawrence’s guys?” I asked.

“Whatever it was that happened to the two of you,” said Nick.

 I shook my head. “No, your grandmother and I found ourselves in the wrong place at the wrong time.” I then proceeded to explain how I’d driven Mama to visit Paul and Olympia Leonides earlier in the day and how it resulted in our kidnapping this evening. I spared them the goriest details, hoping Mama was so traumatized by the thought of becoming the main course at a wolves’ buffet that she’d wipe the thought from her memory banks.

“So you didn’t think the dead guy’s brother had anything to do with his murder?” asked Nick.

“Never crossed my mind,” I said. “I was Team Lawrence all the way.”

He held up his little finger in front of my face. “Pinkie swear?”

I hooked my finger with his. With my other hand I crossed my heart for good measure. “Pinkie swear.”

Once again, my sons had almost lost their mother, and this time also their grandmother. In the end, the perpetrator hardly mattered. But I had my doubts we’d heard the last of Lawrence Tuttnauer.

TWENTY-THREE

Given the hour and the evening’s events, I suggested foregoing Christmas brunch with Shane and Sophie for a few extra hours of sleep. Disappointment filled Sophie’s face. She had no relatives other than her father, and although we’d only recently met the Lamberts, we’d developed a bond that went far beyond Sophie’s budding relationship with Alex. I quickly added, “Why don’t we plan a late Christmas supper, instead?”

Sophie’s smile returned as her father responded, “Under the circumstances, I think that’s a much better idea.”

The boys, Zack, and I finally arrived home at one-thirty in the morning. Alex and Nick headed to bed, and I proceeded to rendezvous with a steaming shower. Barely awake, I allowed the pulsing water to pummel my sore muscles until I’d depleted every drop of hot water. Then I crawled into bed, nestled into Zack’s inviting arms, and waited for the welcome oblivion of sleep.

The sandman had other ideas.

Every time I closed my eyes, instead of visions of sugarplums dancing in my head, hungry wolves feasted on my flesh.

“Want to talk about it?” asked Zack after I’d tossed and turned for at least half an hour.

“I’m not sure.” Would voicing the horror help dispel it or make it all the more real? I lay there for a few minutes, waging an internal debate, before finally telling him how Paul had planned to dispose of Mama and me.

Zack let loose a stream of choice words. Then he pulled me closer, taking my mind off the wolves and everything else.

The next thing I knew, it was morning.

~*~

I woke to the aroma of frying bacon and freshly brewed coffee. As I made my way into the kitchen, I noted several additional gift-wrapped presents joining the ones I’d placed under the Christmas tree. I found Lucille sipping coffee at the dining room table, waiting for someone to serve her breakfast. I wished her a Merry Christmas.

Towing the party line, she ignored my greeting, although I had half expected an “opiate of the masses” retort. Instead she said, “If you’re going to stay out gallivanting all night, have a little consideration when you arrive home. You woke me up.”

If anything had awakened Lucille last night, it was her own snoring, which we heard the moment we entered the house. I ignored her comment and continued into the kitchen where I found Zack scrambling eggs at the stove while Alex manned the toaster. “Merry Christmas,” I said, kissing them both.

“Sleep well?” asked Zack, sounding totally innocent despite the twinkle in his eyes.

“ I did. Where’s Nick?”

“Out walking his dog,” said Alex.

I raised an eyebrow. “His dog?”

He raised his chin in the direction of the dining room. “Well, she certainly doesn’t lift a finger to take care of him anymore.”

When Nick returned, Zack suggested we hold off exchanging gifts until later in the day, after Mama joined us. “If we’re lucky, our resident Bolshevik won’t be around to make snide comments.”

“Mama will appreciate that,” I said. “But as for Lucille, I suspect the other members of the Daughters of the October Revolution plan to spend Christmas with their families. They’re nowhere near as militant as their fearless leader.”

“Even Harriet?” asked Nick.

“Even Harriet,” I said. “No way would she pass up a free meal, even if she doesn’t agree politically with her family.”

After breakfast, the boys cleaned up while I grabbed a quick shower and dressed. Then the four of us drove to Plainfield to help serve a Christmas feast to some of the county’s neediest residents.

Afterwards, we returned home to change clothes and found Lucille nowhere in sight. Zack suggested returning to the house after picking up Mama and before driving to Ira’s house. “No telling when she’ll return,” he said.

An hour later we’d finished exchanging gifts and were ready to head over to Ira’s house. Before leaving, I removed the one remaining gift from under the Christmas tree, walked into Lucille’s room, and placed it on her bed. She may not believe in Christmas, but I do. It didn’t matter that I knew she’d never bother to thank me.

We donned our coats and piled into the car. Zack was backing out of the driveway when Harriet Kleinhample jumped the curb in front of the house and skidded to a stop. “Harriet’s driving is improving,” he said as Lucille hauled herself out of the passenger seat.

“Doubtful. Even a broken clock tells the correct time twice a day,” I said.

“Oh my!” said Mama a few minutes later when Zack parked in front of Ira’s house and we were greeted by his over-the-top lights and musical extravaganza. “I had no idea it was such a garish production.”

“At least there’s no dead body,” said Alex.

“We hope,” said Nick.

Ira swung open the front door as we climbed the porch steps. “Merry Christmas!” he said, ushering us inside. Before we had a chance to remove our coats, he conveyed his joy by bestowing warm hugs on Mama, Alex, Nick, and me, along with a car salesman handshake for Zack. I grinned at Zack, knowing he was probably relieved Ira hadn’t attempted a bro hug.

On the other hand, if their surly expressions were any indication, Ira’s kids were less than pleased to see us. Then again, my kids felt the same about them. The difference? My kids hid their displeasure behind good manners.

To my surprise, Tino stood behind Ira’s three monsters. When they didn’t respond to our greetings, he nudged each of them until in unison they muttered, “Merry Christmas.”

At least I’d had the good sense not to agree to stay for a meal.

After I handed Ira the gift basket I’d assembled, and he thanked me, Isaac asked, “What about us?”

“Where are our presents?” asked Melody—or Harmony.

“This is a family gift for everyone to enjoy,” I said.

Isaac sneered at the basket. “Food? What kind of Christmas gift is that?”

“The delicious kind,” said Mama. “Show some appreciation.”

“I don’t have to do what you say.”

Tino gripped his shoulder. “What did I tell you about manners?” said Tino.

“It’s not fair,” whined Isaac.

“Neither is life most of the time,” said Tino. “Apologize to your aunt and her mother.”

Isaac mumbled an insincere apology.

“How long do we have to stay?” whispered Nick to his brother.

“We’ve already stayed too long as far as I’m concerned,” Alex whispered back.

So much for my sons’ good manners. Hoping Ira hadn’t heard them, I shot Alex and Nick my sternest Mom warning.

However, Ira, as usual, seemed oblivious—both to his son’s comments and my sons’ conversation. After hanging up our coats, he ushered us into the great room. A sea of torn wrapping paper, ribbons, and toys greeted us. “Someone go a bit overboard?” I quietly asked Tino behind Ira’s back.

“Does that surprise you?”

I sighed. “Not in the least.” And yet, apparently, the stockpile of goodies wasn’t enough for greedy Melody, Harmony, and Isaac since Aunt Anastasia hadn’t arrived bearing additional bounty for the three of them.

Tino definitely had his work cut out for him. I wondered how long he’d last, but Tino Martinelli was no quitter. When he set his mind to a task, he followed through. If those kids had any chance of turning into decent human beings, he was the guy to make it happen.

“How are you doing?” I asked Tino. “Any regrets?”

He chuckled. “Mrs. P., my only regret is not being allowed five minutes alone with Paul Leonides.”

My jaw dropped. “How do you know about that?”

“I have my sources.”

I glanced over at Zack. He’d obviously been busy early this morning while I continued to sleep. “Should I regret introducing the two of you?”

“I don’t see why,” said Tino, looking far too innocent.

Ira returned from the kitchen with an enormous platter of appetizers. “I didn’t know what everyone likes,” he said, “so I had the caterer include a wide variety.”

Of course, he had. The tray, containing enough finger food to feed a regiment, filled the entire coffee table.

When Isaac reached for a puff pastry confection, Tino grabbed his hand. “Guests first,” he said. “Go help your father. He then turned to the twins. “You, too. Into the kitchen, now.”

Their attitudes radiated displeasure, but they didn’t argue. The three of them headed for the kitchen, returning shortly with plates, napkins, and glasses. Ira followed behind them with a bottle of champagne for the adults and sparkling cider for the kids. “I also have eggnog if you prefer,” he said as Isaac, Melody, and Harmony passed around the plates, napkins, and glasses. Ira followed, pouring beverages.

After we filled our plates, Tino nodded to Ira’s kids. “Now you may help yourselves.” He turned to me and winked. “Slow progress is still progress.”

“That it is.”

When we had our fill of appetizers, Ira walked over to the fireplace and retrieved a stack of envelopes from the mantle. He then proceeded to hand them out to my family and me. I opened mine and removed a single sheet of paper from within. A giant bowling ball dropped into the pit of my stomach as I stared at the words. I looked up. “A cruise? You booked us a cruise?”

“For all of us,” said Ira, beaming ear-to-ear. “A family vacation in the Bahamas during winter break.”

“What!” shrieked one of the twins.

“They’re coming with us?” said the other.

“Of course, they are,” said Ira. “You can’t have a family vacation without family.”

“At least he won’t be there,” said Isaac, indicating Tino.

“Guess again, kid,” said Tino. “Someone has to make sure you don’t sink the ship.”

“Ira, this is far too generous,” I said. “We can’t accept this.”

“See,” said Isaac. “They don’t want to come with us.”

“Nonsense,” said Ira, ignoring his son. “You think too much about money, Anastasia.”

And Ira didn’t think at all.

“Don’t be a wet blanket,” said Mama. “A cruise will be fun. Thank you, Ira.”

“Shane was going to take Nick and me skiing with him and Sophie over winter break,” said Alex.

“You can go skiing anytime,” said Ira. He turned to me. “You will all come, won’t you?”

Before I could answer, Mama said, “Of course we will.”

~*~

I couldn’t get out of Ira’s house soon enough, but I gritted my teeth and made small talk for another half-hour before stating that we needed to leave.

“So soon?” asked Ira, disappointment written all over his face.

“We promised Shane and Sophie we’d stop by this evening.”

“I thought you had brunch with them.”

It was then that I realized we had never told Ira about the events of last night. “Is there someplace we can speak in private?”

“You and me?” he asked.

“And Zack.” Not knowing how Ira would react when I told him about the kidnapping, I wasn’t about to tackle the subject without backup.

With Tino and Mama keeping a close eye on Ira’s kids to make sure we weren’t interrupted, Ira led Zack and me to his study. “What’s going on?” he asked after closing the French doors behind him. “Is this about the cruise? I thought you’d be thrilled. After all, I know you can’t afford a vacation and probably haven’t had one in some time.”

Not exactly true but neither Zack nor I had ever told anyone what really happened in Barcelona. Within hours of landing in Spain, some hapless mobsters had mistaken me for someone else, resulting in a less-than-idyllic getaway. “This has nothing to do with the cruise, Ira. It’s about last night. Something happened.”

“What? Is it Lawrence? Has he escaped?”

“No, the police arrested the person responsible for killing the guy found in your sleigh.”

“But that’s a good thing, right?”

“It is, but there’s more,” said Zack. He looked to me, and I nodded, indicating I preferred he explain everything to Ira.

When Zack finished, keeping the tale as straightforward and violence-free as possible, Ira grabbed me in his arms and began blubbering, “I’m so glad you’re safe, Anastasia. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. You mean so much to me.”

I looked over his shoulder to Zack and mouthed, “Help!”

Zack extricated me, and we calmed Ira down. Twenty minutes later we finally departed Ira’s home.

“I thought we’d never get out of there,” said Alex.

“Do we have to go on that cruise, Mom?” asked Nick. “It’s going to be a disaster.”

“Of titanic proportions,” added Alex.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Mama. “I’m sure you’ll have fun. I love cruises.”

“We’ll discuss it later,” I said. Of course, by later I didn’t mean after we arrived at the Lambert home, but much to my consternation, Ira’s Christmas present became the main topic of conversation over supper.

Sophie turned to her dad and said, “Why don’t we go on that cruise instead of skiing during winter break?”

“What a marvelous idea,” said Mama, clapping her hands together. “That solves everything.”

“It solves nothing, Mama.”

“Why? Because you don’t want Ira spending money on you?”

“Exactly.”

She waved her fork at me. “Anastasia, you need to learn to act more graciously. Ira is a generous man. There’s absolutely nothing wrong with him wanting to share his good fortune and bestow his generosity on members of his family. I see nothing wrong in accepting his gifts.”

“You wouldn’t, Mama.”

She glanced over at Shane and Sophie. “You accepted an extremely generous gift from the Lambert Foundation, didn’t you? What’s the difference?”

“The difference is that Ira continues to try to buy his way into our lives. Shane gave Alex a scholarship because I saved Sophie’s life. How can you equate the two?”

“I fail to see the difference, dear.”

Zack came to my defense. “One comes with strings attached, Flora; the other doesn’t.”

“Besides,” said Sophie, “a scholarship isn’t a gift.”

“Then what is it?” asked Mama.

“An investment in the future.”

Sophie possessed wisdom far beyond her years and certainly greater than my Blanche duBois clone of a mother. Mama shrugged before reaching for her wine glass. “A gift is a gift as far as I’m concerned.”

“Speaking of gifts,” said Shane, changing the subject, “it’s time to exchange some.”

EPILOGUE

By the time we returned home after dropping Mama at her condo, the emotional rollercoaster that had defined my life the last twenty-four hours had flown off the rails. Between the kidnapping, Ira, and my mother, I was ready to pull a Rip Van Winkle and sleep for the next twenty years.

One of the few bright spots of the day was not finding Lucille and her commie sidekick camped in front of the den television—or anywhere else in the house—upon our arrival home. I glanced in her bedroom and found the Christmas present I’d placed on her bed earlier was gone. Maybe I’d get lucky, and she’d spend the night with Harriet.

“How about a nightcap?” asked Zack. “I’ll make us some Irish coffees and hot cocoa for the boys.”

I sacked out on the living room couch. “Sounds wonderful, as long as I don’t have to move.”

Zack sent Alex to fetch the whiskey from the apartment while Nick walked Devil Dog. A few minutes later Zack called from the kitchen, “Anastasia, I think you’d better come in here.”

I sighed. “Do I have to?”

“Hurry, Mom, said Alex.”

“It’s an emergency,” said Nick.

“It had better be.” I forced myself to my feet.

But when I arrived in the kitchen, I saw no evidence of an emergency, only all three of them looking extremely guilty. Of what, I had no idea—until Zack dropped to one knee, pulled a small velvet box from behind his back, and flipped it open.

From atop the refrigerator Ralph squawked, “He, sir, that must marry this woman. As You Like It. Act Four, Scene One.”

Anastasia’s Repurposed Greeting Card Crafts

For the May issue of American Woman, Anastasia selected National Creativity Day to feature as her unusual holiday and chose projects that could be made by recycling greeting cards. These craft projects work especially well for Christmas, but can also be used for other holidays, special occasions, or anytime decorating.

3-D Ball Garlands

Choose cards in colors and patterns that work well together and match your decor. If you have a 2” scalloped circle punch, punch out six circles. Otherwise, use a compass or template to draw 2” circles on the back of the picture side of the card, then cut out the circles with either pinking shears or scalloping shears. You will need 6 circles for each ball and 3-4 balls for every 12” length of garland.

Fold the circles in half, wrong sides together, to form a crease. To make each ball, glue the wrong side of half of one circle to the wrong side of half of the next circle for all but the last two halves. A glue stick will work best for gluing.

Determine the length you want your garland. Add at least 24” (12” for each side) if you plan to tie your garland in place rather than drape it. Cut a piece of ribbon or cord to this length.

Place the ribbon or cord on a flat work surface. Apply glue to the two remaining panels of one ball. Beginning in the center of the garland, sandwich the ribbon or cord against the center of the 3-D ball between the unglued remaining halves. Glue the remaining halves together.

If desired, tie a knot to either side of the ball to add an additional decorative element. 

Once you’ve finished attaching the center ball, determine how far apart you’d like your balls, and repeat the process for the remainder of the garland. You can also thread beads between each ball as you add them.

To display, drape the garland over a picture frame, from a fireplace mantle, over a doorframe, across a window, or along a stair railing.

3-D Ornaments

These ornaments are made using the same technique as the garland balls but can be made in various shapes. Hearts and simple Christmas tree shapes work well, and you can use cookie cutters as templates.

Cut out six shapes for each ornament. When all but the last two halves are glued together, cut a 9” length of ribbon. Fold the ribbon in half, and sandwich inside the remaining halves with the loop extending above the top of the ornament for hanging. Glue together the two remaining halves.

Triangular Flag Garlands

Vertical cards work best for this project. Cut a large isosceles triangle from one card and use it as a template for the other triangles.

Score 3/4” along the right side of the short edge of the triangle and fold over, wrong sides together, to form crease.

Determine the length you want your garland. Add at least 24” (12” for each side) if you plan to tie your garland in place rather than drape it. Cut a piece of string to this length.

Arrange the triangles in the order you want them. Points should touch but not overlap. Turn the flags over so the wrong sides face up. Place a piece of double-sided tape along the top edge of each flag above the crease.

Center the string along the flag crease lines. Fold the top edge of each flag down to tape the flags to string.

Triptych Wall-hanging Photo Frame

On the wrong side of the picture side of six greeting cards, draw a 3-1/2” x 3-1/2” square. Cut out the squares. Continuing to work on the wrong side, on three of the squares, measure in 3/4” from outer edge of each side to draw a 2” x 2” square centered within the larger square. Cut out this center square.

Tape a photo behind each of the square openings.

Cut an 11” piece of 1/4” ribbon. Glue vertically along the center back of the wrong side of the squares without the photos, leaving 1/2” between the squares.

Cut a 9” length of ribbon. Glue to the top of the wrong side of the top square, 3/4” from side edges to form hanging loop.

With wrong sides together, glue the squares with the photos to the top of the other squares.

Greeting Card Wreath

Trace a holly leaf, approximately 2-1/2”, on the wrong side of the picture side of a card. Cut out the leaf and use it as the template to trace and cut many more leaves. The number of leaves needed depends on the size of the wreath, but you’ll need quite a few for full coverage.

Glue toothpicks centered to the back of each leaf, 3/4” from bottom edge of leaf.

Tie a ribbon around the top of a Styrofoam wreath as a hanging loop.

Beginning at the outer top edge of the wreath, insert the toothpicks at a slight angle into the wreath, working around the wreath with each leaf slightly overlapping the preceding one. When the first circle of leaves is complete, begin the next circle, slightly overlapping the first circle. Continue in this manner until the entire wreath is covered with leaves.

DIY Decorative Gift Bags

Gift bags are expensive, but you can achieve that expensive look for pennies by with a glue stick and recycled greeting cards. Purchase inexpensive solid color brown paper gift bags. You can often find these in bulk at dollar stores, craft stores, and discount stores. Glue the fronts of greeting cards onto the front of the gift bag.

If desired, dress the gift bag up even more by gluing decorative trim or ribbon around the card and tying a bow to the handle.

~*~

Keep reading for an excerpt from A Sew Deadly Cruise, Lois Winston’s next Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery.

A Sew Deadly Cruise

An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery

ONE

I stood in the bedroom and stared at the snow-covered street and twinkling Christmas lights.

“Something wrong?” asked Zack, coming up alongside me and offering me a glass of wine.

“Of course not.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Then why are you standing there worrying that ring back and forth on your finger?”

I glanced down at the ring on the third finger of my left hand. “Was I?”

“You were. What’s on your mind?”

“I was thinking about everything that’s changed over the past year.”

Twelve months ago normal best defined my life. That changed the day my husband dropped dead at a casino in Las Vegas and turned my world upside-down, inside out, and seven ways to sideway. Clueless me thought he was at a sales meeting in Harrisburg, Pennsylvania.

My cluelessness soared to galactic heights in the days that followed as I learned the true extent of Karl Marx Pollack’s deception. He had gambled away our lives, leaving me to deal with astronomical debt, his murderous bookie, and his communist mother.

I’ll probably be paying off the debt for decades to come, but thanks to surging adrenaline, pure survival instincts, and my trusty X-acto knife, I survived the bookie. Unfortunately, as my unwelcome permanent houseguest, Lucille, the communist mother-in-law from Hades, is the gift that keeps on giving.

My name is Anastasia Pollack. I’m the mother of two teenage boys, the crafts editor at a third-rate women’s magazine, and as of a few minutes ago, newly engaged. The engagement ring represents the only good thing to happen in my life since Karl’s death.

“Not to mention the last twenty-four hours,” said Zack, pulling my attention from the past back to the present.

“Worst Christmas Eve ever,” I said.

“I thought I’d lost you.”

Tears began to pool in my eyes and spill onto my cheeks.

Zack clasped my left hand and held it up between us, the diamond’s sparkle vying with the Christmas lights. “I hope my timing wasn’t off. Maybe I should have waited.”

“As if Alex and Nick would have let you.” My fifteen and seventeen-year-old sons had been in on the surprise proposal. For all I knew, they’d bullied Zack into it.

Zack chuckled. “True but even if they had, Ralph never would have forgiven me. You don’t mess with a master of the Bard of Avon.”

“I’m not sure he’ll ever forgive either of us when we board him with the vet for a week while we’re on our cruise.”

Ralph was the African Grey I’d inherited from my great-aunt Penelope Periwinkle. After spending decades in her college lecture hall, the parrot was nearly as much a Shakespearian scholar as his now-deceased mistress. Having an uncanny knack for spouting situation-appropriate Shakespearian quotes, Ralph hadn’t disappointed when earlier this evening Zack went down on one knee, whipped out a small velvet box from behind his back, and flipped it open to reveal the antique engagement ring now encircling my finger.

“Come to think of it,” I said, “I’m not sure who actually proposed to me, you or Ralph.”

“Very funny. I don’t think it’s legal to marry a parrot in New Jersey.”

I raised myself up on my toes, lifted my chin, and planted a kiss on Zack’s lips. At the same time—and not for the first time—I wondered what a guy who looks like he emerged from the same genetic stew as Pierce Brosnan, Antonio Banderas, and George Clooney sees in a cellulite-riddled, pear-shaped, slightly overweight, debt-ridden, middle-aged suburban mom like me. After all, the guy had dated supermodels and Hollywood celebrities.

 “Your proposal couldn’t have come at a better time,” I said after our lips parted.

“So you only agreed to marry me because a psycho kidnapped and nearly killed you last night?”

“A psycho and his psycho wife.”

“The psycho wife made the difference?”

“Let’s just say I’ve come to realize life is too short to postpone happily-ever-after any longer.”

Zack knit his brows together as he scrutinized me, his tone growing more serious. “Ever-after will last a lot longer if we can keep you away from any future psycho killers.”

“I’ll admit, it is getting a bit redundant.”

“Is that what you call it? Redundant?”

I took a sip of wine and shrugged. “For lack of a better word. You do realize I don’t go searching for dead bodies, right?”

He heaved an enormous sigh as he shook his head. “And yet you keep finding them.”

“Blame Karl. I never stumbled across a murder before he died.”

Along with the debt and the communist mother-in-law, ever since Karl dropped dead, I’ve found myself in the unenviable position of reluctant amateur sleuth. I’ve lost count of how many murder investigations I’ve gotten sucked into the last year, beginning with the ones committed by the murderous bookie. At least he’s now spending the remainder of his days in a federal facility—the kind with bars and barbed wire.

So are the other killers I’ve come in contact with, but at some point I feared my luck might run out. Better to quit while ahead. I’d promised my sons. I’d promised Zack. Yet somehow those dead bodies continue to find me and pull me in.

Zack tapped a finger against my temple. “I get the sense something else is churning around upstairs. Out with it.”

“How do you do that?”

“Do what?”

“Read my mind.”

He cupped my chin, caressing my cheek with his thumb. “Not your mind, your eyes and mouth. The expressions on your face make you an open book.”

Good grief! “I know I can’t lie with a straight face, but—”

Zack laughed. “Relax. Not to everyone. Just me. My career training makes me extremely observant.”

I wondered which career he meant—the one he admitted to or the covert one I suspected. I hesitated, chewing on my lower lip, before saying, “There is something.”

“Aha! Does it have to do with alphabet agencies?”

From the day I first met Zachary Barnes, I suspected he led a double-life. Why would a world-renowned photojournalist want to move from a Manhattan high-rise to an apartment above a garage in a New Jersey suburb? He’d claimed he needed more privacy when he wasn’t globetrotting and continues to deny any affiliation with covert government organizations. Still, he does own a gun, makes frequent trips to our nation’s capital, and has a habit of taking off to places like South America and Madagascar at a moment’s notice.

But there was something besides his possible James Bond secret identity gnawing at me. “You’ve never mentioned anything about your family. Why haven’t I met any of them?”

“You’ve met Patricia.”

“She’s ex-family.” Zack had been married briefly in his twenties. Realizing their youthful mistake, he and Patricia Tierney parted friends and continue to remain friendly. Her kids even call him Uncle Zacky.

Zack grew thoughtful for a moment before indicating the bed with a tilt of his head. “Have a seat.”

Once I perched myself on the edge, he joined me, taking my hand in his. “Like you, I’m an only child, and like you, both my parents were only children. I have no aunts, uncles, or cousins. My mother died when I was eleven. Her parents raised me. They both died years ago.”

“And your father?”

“Out of the picture since my mother died.”

I gasped. “He deserted you?”

Zack’s jaw tightened as he shrugged. “No great loss. He wasn’t much of a father when he was around.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. My grandparents gave me a good life. I never missed him.” He placed our wine glasses on the nightstand and changed the subject. “So how should we celebrate our engagement?”

“I’m assuming you have something in mind?”

“You better believe it.”

~*~

The next morning my sons ambled into the kitchen and greeted us with the subject I’d been dreading ever since Ira surprised us with cruise tickets for Christmas. Ira is the half-brother Karl never knew existed. He and his three extremely spoiled kids entered our lives last summer. They were far easier to tolerate when they lived on the other side of the state. However, wanting to be closer to us (his choice, not mine), Ira had recently purchased a McMansion on the other side of town.

“How do we survive a week stuck on a ship with Uncle Ira and his brats?” asked Alex.

“Not to mention Grandmother Lucille,” added Nick. Unfortunately, he didn’t notice the commie in question had arrived in the dining room and taken her seat at the table where, in her usual fashion, she waited to be waited on.

“I can hear you,” she roared. “Why are you talking about me?”

“This is going to be fun,” I muttered under my breath as I headed into the dining room. I pasted a smile on my face and said, “Ira is treating us all to a cruise, Lucille.”

“How does that concern me?”

“He also bought you a ticket.”

She knit her bushy steel-gray eyebrows together and snorted one of her trademark harrumphs. “Why would I accept a gift from that man?”

Lucille refuses to believe Ira is her beloved Karl’s half-brother. Even a DNA test wouldn’t change her mind, not that one is needed since Ira is the spitting image of my deceased husband, although several years younger, more than a few pounds thinner, and still in possession of a full head of hair.

Instead, Lucille has decided Ira is scamming me. To what end I have no idea, given that Ira is extremely wealthy and generous to a fault, while I’m up to my eyeballs in Karl-generated debt—something else Lucille refuses to believe.

“So you’re not going?” asked Nick, joining us in the dining room and doing little to contain his delight.

“Absolutely not!”

My son turned to me and grinned ear-to-ear. “Well, that solves one problem, Mom.”

I answered with a Mom Look that needed no translation.

“I’ll grab the orange juice,” he said, quickly ducking back into the kitchen.

Lucille’s refusal to go on the cruise might have made Nick’s life easier, but it added one more layer of complication to mine. I didn’t trust my mother-in-law alone in my house for more than a few hours, let alone seven days. The woman couldn’t toast a bagel without risk of setting the kitchen on fire.

Three alternatives sprang to mind. “If you’re not going to come with us, Lucille, you and your dog can move to Sunnyside for a week.”

The Sunnyside of Westfield Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center owed me big time. If Medicare didn’t cover the cost of housing Lucille for a week, I’d remind the director that I’d saved their reputation by catching a killer for them last summer.

“Absolutely not!” said Lucille, smacking her palm on the table.

“Then you can cover the cost of someone moving in to care for you and Mephisto while we’re gone.”

This time Lucille curled both her hands into fists and pounded the table with such force she not only rattled the silverware and plates, she knocked over her glass. Luckily, Nick hadn’t yet returned with the carton of orange juice. “His name is Manifesto!” she bellowed at the top of her lungs.

If looks could kill, Zack and the boys would now be planning my funeral. But really, who names a dog for a communist treatise? My mother-in-law, that’s who.

I ignored her outburst and continued. “Your third option is to move in with Harriet.” Harriet Kleinhample was Lucille’s second-in-command in the Daughters of the October Revolution. The organization consisted of thirteen octogenarian communist rabble-rousers who blindly followed my mother-in-law. Reason escapes me as to why.

She answered me with a growl that I optimistically took as agreement to the third option.

“What makes you think Harriet won’t bring her back to the house?” asked Alex after I returned to the kitchen.

“She probably will, but I plan to steal your grandmother’s house key so she can’t get in.”

Nick offered me a high-five. “Way to go, Mom!”

“I’m marrying one extremely devious lady,” said Zack, shaking his head as he plated the scrambled eggs onto a serving dish.

“What if she breaks a window to get in?” asked Alex.

I hadn’t considered that. The alarm would go off, alerting the police, but Westfield’s finest all knew Lucille lived here. They’d picked her up on various transgressions from jaywalking to vandalism to protesting without a permit on an almost weekly basis, locking her up on more than one occasion.

However, they’d believe her when she said she couldn’t find her key. As a favor to me, they’d probably even repair the broken window.

Now I had to worry if my house would be standing when we returned from a cruise I didn’t want to take. Or worse yet? I might come home to find twelve squatters residing within Casa Pollack.

~*~

Want to know what happens next?

Click here for Buy Links for A Sew Deadly Cruise (available October 2020).

A Note from the Author

Dear Reader,

I hope you enjoyed Drop Dead Ornaments and Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide, the seventh and eighth full-length novels in my Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series. If so, please consider leaving a review at your favorite review site.

I love to hear from readers. You can contact me at lois@loiswinston.com, and if you’d like to stay informed about upcoming releases, events, and other news about me and my books, you can sign up for my author newsletter by clicking here.

Happy reading!

Lois Winston

About the Author

USA Today bestselling and award-winning author Lois Winston writes mystery, romance, romantic suspense, chick lit, women’s fiction, children’s chapter books, and nonfiction under her own name and her Emma Carlyle pen name. Kirkus Reviews dubbed her critically acclaimed Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series, “North Jersey’s more mature answer to Stephanie Plum.” In addition, Lois is a former literary agent and an award-winning craft and needlework designer who often draws much of her source material for both her characters and plots from her experiences in the crafts industry.

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Books by Lois Winston

Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mystery series

Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun

Death by Killer Mop Doll

Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

Decoupage Can Be Deadly

A Stitch to Die For

Scrapbook of Murder

Drop Dead Ornaments

Handmade Ho-Ho Homicide

A Sew Deadly Cruise (coming 2020)

Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mysteries

Crewel Intentions

Mosaic Mayhem

Patchwork Peril

Crafty Crimes (all 3 novellas in one volume)

Empty Nest Mystery Series

Definitely Dead

Literally Dead

Romantic Suspense

Love, Lies and a Double Shot of Deception

Lost in Manhattan (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Someone to Watch Over Me (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Romance and Chick Lit

Talk Gertie to Me

Four Uncles and a Wedding (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Hooking Mr. Right (writing as Emma Carlyle)

Finding Hope (Writing as Emma Carlyle)

Novellas and Novelettes

Elementary, My Dear Gertie

Once Upon a Romance

Finding Mr. Right

Children’s Chapter Book

The Magic Paintbrush

Nonfiction

Top Ten Reasons Your Novel is Rejected

House Unauthorized

Bake, Love, Write

We’d Rather Be Writing