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

heard.
    “Well, I suppose more than a bit.” Then he added, “but totally inappropriate for children.”
    Color rose up Ira’s neck and into his cheeks. He averted his gaze, suddenly taking extreme interest in the mound of white rice heaped on his plate.
    I glanced at my sons, curious to see their reactions. They both shook their heads and rolled their eyes. They’d come to realize Ira had little common sense when it came to his kids.
      “He did it,” said Lucille, stabbing her fork in Ira’s direction. “Had them both killed. You’ll see. I told you not to trust him.” She then slid her empty plate toward the middle of the table and hoisted herself up from her chair.
    “You watch out, Anastasia,” she said as she hobbled from the dining room. “That man just might murder you in your sleep, and it will serve you right for bringing him into this house.”
    The flush of scarlet that had colored Ira’s face and neck quickly drained away, leaving in its place a ghostly pallor. His entire body shook. He dropped his fork on his plate and mumbled at his rice, “I…I had noth…nothing to do w…with Cynthia’s death.” Then, almost as an afterthought, added, “Or Pablo’s.”
    Ira was either delivering an Oscar-worthy performance, or he was telling the truth. From everything I’d come to know about him, I held fast to my opinion that he was no cold-blooded killer.
    “So Pablo was executed,” said Lawrence.
    Apparently, Ira wasn’t the only person at the dinner table who lacked discretion. Ira’s kids had finished their dinner. I turned to my sons. “Why don’t you take Isaac and the twins into the den?”
    “What about dessert?” asked Isaac.
    “There are apples in a bowl on the kitchen table,” I said. “Help yourselves.”
    “Fruit? That’s not dessert,” said one of the girls. “What about ice cream?”
    “Or brownies?” asked Isaac.
    “Unless you brought some with you, you’re out of luck,” I said.
    “This house sucks,” said Isaac. “It’s like a prison. I want to leave. Now!”
    “You’ll go home when you’re father’s ready to leave,” said Lawrence. He handed the girls back their phones. “Go into the den, or go sit in the car.”
    “Dad,” whined one of the girls, “tell him to stop ordering us around.”
    Ira glanced at his daughter, then at Lawrence. “Do as your grandfather says.”
    “He’s not our grandfather!” said Isaac, stamping his foot. “He can’t tell us what to do.”
    “I’m telling the three of you to listen to him,” said Ira. “Go into the den. Finish your homework, and we’ll stop for ice cream on the way home.”
    Having gotten the promise of dessert, Ira’s three kids grabbed the backpacks they’d dumped on my foyer floor and headed for the den.
    “Do we have to babysit them?” asked Nick. “I’ve got homework.”
    “Me, too,” said Alex.
    And I had both a massive case of indigestion and a pounding headache. No matter how often I’d told Mama she couldn’t invite Ira and his brood to my home without first consulting me, she continued to do so. By her way of thinking, her need to annoy Lucille trumped my need for less conflict in my life.
    I’d have to make it clear to Ira that no matter what Mama said, he needed to clear all invitations with me first—especially during the week. I shook my head. “No need. Go do your homework.”
    Once all the kids had dispersed, Lawrence pumped Ira for more information concerning the call he’d received, “What else did the cops say?”
    Ira absent-mindedly pushed some rice noodles around on his plate but made no effort to load his fork with any food. “They think it was gang-related. Probably a territorial dispute.”
    Camden claimed the dubious distinction of ranking the highest of any city in the country—higher even than Newark or Detroit—for violent crime. Anyone with an ounce of common sense stays far away from what’s been dubbed the most dangerous city in America.
    “Where