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

does that leave their investigation into Cynthia’s death?” asked Lawrence.
    “They didn’t say.”
    They never do. Over the last few months, thanks to my involvement in several other murder investigations, I’d often heard the standard cop non-answer of “I can’t comment on an ongoing investigation.”
    At least now I no longer needed to ask Zack about his Venezuelan connections. However, unless the police could tie Pablo’s murder to Cynthia’s death, their only lead was now a dead end—literally. “Cynthia’s and Pablo’s deaths may not be connected,” I said.
    “How can they not be?” asked Ira.
    “Anastasia is right,” said Lawrence. “Cynthia wasn’t murdered. She died of an overdose. She probably fell into the canal, or Pablo panicked and dumped her body there after she died.”
    “Unless someone wanted her death to look like an overdose,” I said.
    “Like Pablo?” asked Mama.
    Lawrence shook his head. “He had nothing to gain by murdering my daughter. No one did. I’m sure the police will eventually rule her death an accidental overdose. Pablo may have supplied her with drugs, but Cynthia was a victim of her own vices.”
    “We don’t know that Pablo was Cynthia’s dealer,” I said. “He may not have had anything to do with her death.”
    “You’re forgetting they checked into the inn together, and drugs were found in their room,” said Lawrence.
    “What if they got into a fight?” I asked. “Pablo may have walked out on her before she overdosed.”
    Lawrence laughed. “Be serious. She was his meal ticket. Why would he walk out on her?”
    The answer seemed obvious to me if not to Lawrence. “She wasn’t much of a meal ticket once Ira cut off her credit cards. Why would he stay?”
    “Anastasia’s right,” said Mama. “Listen to her. She knows all about solving murders. She’s had lots of experience.”
    “She’s hardly a law enforcement professional,” said Lawrence, “just someone who’s repeatedly stuck her nose in places that got her in trouble.”
    Hmm…I was beginning to sense Lawrence had as little love for me as I had for him.
    Mama ignored his comment and turned to me. “Maybe you should offer your services to the police, dear.”
    “I’m sure they’re handling things well enough without me, Mama. Anyway,” I continued, staring pointedly at Lawrence, “there are many possible scenarios. Right now all anyone has are assumptions based on circumstantial evidence. No proof of anything. I doubt the police are ready to close their investigation.”
    “Well, I disagree,” said Lawrence. “I think it’s obvious what happened. My daughter overdosed on drugs supplied by Pablo. He panicked, dumped her body in the canal, and fled. As for what happened to him, he was probably trying to horn in on someone else’s territory.”
    “What makes you so sure Pablo was a drug dealer?” I asked. “We have no proof of that.”
    Lawrence sneered at me. “How could he not be? Cynthia had to get her drugs from someone.”
    “Perhaps she had her own connections,” I said. “You told us she’d done drugs for years.” I turned to Ira. “How long has Pablo worked for you?”
    Ira shrugged. “I have no idea. He worked for the pool service I contract with, but I don’t remember seeing him before this summer.”
    “Which means he probably wasn’t her supplier,” I said. “Not if she’d been using drugs before and throughout her marriage to Ira.”
    “Has the medical examiner released Cynthia’s body yet?” asked Mama, changing the subject slightly. “We’ll need to plan her funeral.”
    “Last Wednesday,” said Ira. “I had her cremated the following day.”
    “Then we’ll go with a memorial service,” said Mama, the Martha Stewart of funeral planning, thanks to her vast experience with spouses dying on her.
    “We decided that under the circumstances a service would be inappropriate,” said Lawrence.
    “When did you decide that?” asked