Crewel Intentions (An Anastasia Pollack Crafting Mini-Mystery) Read Free

is that?”
    She shrugged. “Ease of remembering, I suppose.”
    I guess I missed that bit of WitSec trivia from the TV show, but the explanation made sense. I couldn’t imagine the anxiety involved in Erica having to remember an entirely new back-story of her own life. What if she slipped up? Or forgot something? Keeping her first name provided her with a sense of familiarity and maybe a small amount of comfort.
    I polished off a croissant, washing the pastry down with a sip of coffee, then helped myself to another croissant. The time had come to get down to the reason for my visit. “So what kind of trouble did you get yourself into, Erica Miller?”
    “I’m being stalked.”
    “What?!” I nearly choked on a mouthful of raspberry croissant. “Jeez, Erica! You need to tell your WitSec contact. What do you expect me to do?”
    “I told you on the phone, if I tell WitSec, they’ll move me, and I can’t move.”
    “Because your new boyfriend can’t move. I know. But you didn’t tell me why he can’t move.”
    “Darren’s divorced. He shares custody of his kids with his ex-wife. WitSec would have to move all of them, and his ex would never agree to that. They’re not on the friendliest of terms. Besides, he doesn’t know I’m in the program. He can’t know. No one can.”
    And yet, here I am. I tried to reason with her. “You’re in danger. What on earth do you expect me to do?”
    “I need you to figure out who’s stalking me. No one has threatened me. The situation may have nothing to do with my past.”
    “If no one has threatened you, how do you know you have a stalker? Do you sense someone following you? Have you seen anyone lurking around outside?”
    She shook her head. “No and no. But unsigned notes keep showing up. Slipped under my door. On my car windshield. On my desk at work. And gifts sometimes. Left on my porch or at my back door.”
    “What kind of gifts?”
    Erica rose and walked over to the pantry. “I’ll show you. I’ve saved them.” She opened the pantry door, pulled down a large box from the top shelf, and returned to the table. I moved the platter of croissants to the kitchen counter to make room for the box that Erica placed on the table between us. She opened the lid and began removing the contents—dozens of pastel envelopes and various small items, all wrapped in white tissue paper and tied with pink satin ribbons.
    I unwrapped one of the packages to find a lace edged, white cotton handkerchief embroidered in silk thread with pink tea roses at each corner. I marveled at the museum quality workmanship. “This is quite old,” I said. “And definitely handmade.”
    “There are more.” Erica unwrapped a second package. This one contained a set of crewel-embroidered white linen tea towels, also with a pink rose motif. A third package revealed a pair of ivory gloves, embroidered at the cuffs with rows of tiny pink rosebuds.
    “I’m beginning to see a pattern here. Are all the gifts embroidered?”
    “Yes, and all the embroideries contain pink roses.”
    “Are pink roses your favorite flower?”
    She nodded.
    “Who knows that?”
    “Dicky knew, but he probably forgot. He never brought me flowers.”
    Dicky. AKA Ricardo. I doubt that slime bag forgot anything, but if he’d escaped from prison, the authorities would have notified us. Besides, Ricardo wouldn’t send Erica antique embroideries. Such gifts didn’t seem like her father’s style, either. “What do the cards say?”
    Erica opened one of the envelopes and removed the contents, a perforated paper card. Not surprisingly, the cross-stitched design was of a pink rose. I opened the card and read the note written in a flowing script: My darling, I will be yours forever . Under that, a hand-drawn rose. No signature, of course. That would be too easy.
    “I’ve received more than two dozen cards so far,” said Erica, indicating the stack on the table. “All with different pink rose designs, a flowery