Bloodstone (A Stacy Justice Mystery)

by Barbra Annino

  “It’s okay, I want to chip in,” she said.

  The ten bucks she laid on the bar earlier was in my pocket. I had flipped Monique my own money and tried to return Ivy’s to her, but she argued with me the entire time it took for Chance to arrive to pick us up, so I let it go. I figured I would sneak it into her backpack when she wasn’t looking.

  Sometimes you have to pick your battles. I shook my head at Chance and he let the money sit there.

  The second bag was screaming my name. I reached for the beef with broccoli and set it on a plate. We gathered around the pub table, the three of us exchanging sauces and food. We made small talk as we ate and Ivy offered me an egg roll.

  It was perfectly crunchy with just a hint of oil. I dabbed a napkin around it and bit in, listening to Ivy and Chance talk about the Wii match they would have over the weekend. Billiards, tennis, Mario, and a game called Black Ops, which I was about to protest until I bit into something metallic.

  I grabbed a napkin and spit into it.

  Ivy made a face. “Ew, that’s vile, Stacy.”

  “Tell me about it,” Chance said. Then he looked at my face. “You okay?”

  “That didn’t taste right.” I opened the napkin, examining the contents.

  There, between the cabbage and the carrots, was a penny.

  I dumped the egg roll onto my plate and walked to the garbage. My thumb on the penny, I slid the contents of the plate into the trash and headed for the sink.

  When I didn’t make a fuss about tasting the head of our sixteenth president, Ivy knew something was up.

  Chance folded himself into the refrigerator, carefully lining up the leftover cartons and avoiding eye contact while I offered to take the garbage out.

  “What’s with the weirdness all of a sudden?” Ivy asked.

  No one answered her.

  “Fine! Don’t tell me, but you know I’ll find out sooner or later.” She stomped into the living room and turned on the television.

  Later, please. Much later.

  Outside, I took the penny from where I had stashed it and looked at the date.

  Just as I feared.

  The year Ivy was born. Or at least the year she says she was born. Or the year she was told she was born.

  Birdie taught me from an early age that pennies were sent from our spirit guides. According to her, those who passed on left us little messages in the shape of a molded piece of copper. Not just me, but everyone. Mostly, the message simply said, “Hi, I’m doing fine. Thinking of you.”

  But not always.

  The day she told me that, my father had been dead for three months. We were gardening—planting rosemary in remembrance of him. I stuck a steel trowel in the mud and along with a clump of soil, out popped a penny.

  It was a bright shiny copper, the color of Birdie’s hair, not dull as you might expect a penny buried in the dirt to be.

  She looked at the date and noted that it was the year my father had come into this world.

  “There, now,” she said. “You see that, Anastasia? That is your father waving hello.”

  There are rules to reading these messages. A penny cannot just be lying in the street. You can’t walk into a grocery store, see a penny on the floor near the cucumbers and assume it was sent from a spirit guide. It has to be in an unusual place. Like on top of a lamp. Or in an egg roll.

  Here’s what Birdie hadn’t know then. And still didn’t, today.

  Weeks before my father’s crash, I was finding pennies stamped with the year he was born everywhere. In my sock drawer. In my locker at school. Inside my gym shoes. Once, I even found one at the bottom of an ice cream cone. Coincidence? I think not.

  So to me, they are more than a wave. They are a warning.

  Right now, all I could think about was the danger waiting for me—for us—just around the corner.

  IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS

  by Ivy Geraghty

  Entry #5

  Tonight marks the start of our Mission. Anastasia and I will stealthily break into her cottage and retrieve the Blessed Book (right, so she has a key, but we’re still going incognito so as not to disturb the Old One). It is the treasure that holds the secret to the whereabouts of our mother. I am certain of it!

  We shall tread quiet as mice. Slink careful as cats. And then, finally, we will have the Knowledge that will lead us to our mother’s Salvation. We shall slay those who have taken her (or at least kick ‘em in the nads) and Victory shall be ours!

  P.S: (There’s something freakalicious about the whole penny-in-the-egg roll thing. Can’t wait to crack that code.)

  -Ivy Geraghty, Junior Apprentice Warrior Goddess (in training)

  SEVENTEEN

  A few hours later, dressed head to toe in all black (Ivy’s idea), we left Chance’s house and headed up the hill to the inn. Thor wanted to come with us, but since The Geraghty Girls thought Chance was doggie sitting, I decided it might not be a good idea to have him wandering around the property, coating the windows with slobber. To Thor, giant house equaled warm, yummy food. Fiona spoiled the crap out of him, fixing him pot roast and mashed potatoes every Sunday. Which more than made up for the fact that Lolly treated him like a dress-up doll.

  The streets were bare, lit only by a few scattered streetlights and a sliver of moon. Aside from a few raccoons robbing a garbage can, the town was deadly quiet.

  The porch light glowed at the house, highlighting her best features. The Queen Anne was well over a century old, dripping with gingerbread, spindles and turrets painted in complimentary shades of teal, red, and purple. It was the details that made it stand out from the rest of the homes on the block. Amethyst boasted many architectural gems in various styles from Italian Renaissance to Federal brick, but something about the Geraghty Girls’ House beckoned you to step inside and discover her secrets.

  It was built by my maternal great-grandfather who willed it to his three daughters when he passed away. Since none of them had a husband at that stage in their lives, they decided to turn it into a bed and breakfast.

  There were three cars in the driveway. Presumably the three guest rooms were full. There was no movement from inside and just a few lights on. Wine and cheese hour had long passed so most likely, everyone was either asleep or enjoying a nightcap on Main Street.

  The black wrought iron gate framed only the main house so I tapped Ivy and pointed towards the cottage and she nodded.

  We hurried along the side of the property and headed straight for the back door of the cottage. I shoved the key into the lock, but didn’t need to twist it.

  The door creaked open.

  I hesitated, looking for a spider web, or some sign that someone had been there. Birdie had taught me long ago—and I had since learned it was laser beam accurate—that a spider’s web netting a doorway meant an uninvited guest had come into your home.

  Ivy whispered, “Did you forget to lock it?”

  I put my finger to my mouth and shook my head. After years of living in the city of Chicago, I would never leave a door unlocked.

  She cupped a hand over my ear and whispered again. “What should we do?”

  I stood perfectly still, listening to my body, trying to decide if I had nausea or just a gut feeling that something wasn’t right.

  Nothing.

  Quietly as I could, I told Ivy to wait on the stoop and entered the cottage.

  The back door emptied into the kitchen, which spilled into the living room. There was one bedroom to the left and a bathroom to the right. I didn’t have a flashlight and I was afraid to turn on any other lights because I didn’t want to alert Birdie or the aunts to my presence.

  What to do?

  I decided that if there were someone in the cottage, the Geraghty Girls would be the least of my problems.

  Just before my hand hit the switch, Ivy whispered loudly, “Stacy.”

  I turned and she tossed me a pen light.

  The kid reminded me of Inspector Gadget.


  I gave her a thumbs up and turned it on, pointing it around the cottage from where I stood in the kitchen.

  “Son of a pussbucket,” I said softly.

  “What, what is it?” Ivy asked.

  “Fiona re-decorated.” I didn’t bother to hide my irritation.

  When I first moved into the cottage it looked like the inside of a genie bottle. Slowly, I had given the place a more scaled down decor thanks to the clearance sales at Pier 1 Imports.

  Now, it looked like a club on the corner of a red-light district. Red and pink velvet everywhere, a leopard print sofa shaped like lips and more beads than a topless drunk girl at a Mardi Gras parade.

  What the hell did she do that for? It would take weeks to get the scent of jasmine out of the carpet.

  “Is it okay to come in?” Ivy asked.

  Fiona probably just forgot to lock the back door.

  “It seems to be. Come on. The book should be in my bedroom,” I said.

  We crept quietly and I wondered where Moonlight could be. He was my little white cat I brought with me when I moved back to Amethyst. Fiona said she would care for him while I was “out of town” but I doubted that meant he could stay at the inn. Maybe he was on the prowl.

  Ivy was right behind me as we made our way toward the bedroom door. I couldn’t help but notice that my desk, my chair—even the sword Birdie had given me—was gone.

  “Where is all my stuff?” I muttered.

  The handle on the bedroom door squeaked then. And rotated.

  That’s the problem with my “gift”. The dead never show up when you need them.

  EIGHTEEN

  Ivy clutched my coat behind me and I said, “Go!”

  She turned and catapulted forward so fast she was airborne. I followed, but being the sister with all the grace of a newborn giraffe, I tripped over the stupid sofa and landed face first in the carpet. My consolation prize was a rug burn across my chin.

  The door flew open hard enough to bang against the wall. I was sure there would be a dent from the impact. “Who the hell are you?” A man’s voice. Deep. Angry. Like a volcano that had swallowed one too many virgins and had a serious case of indigestion.

  I was on all fours, ass poking the air. Not exactly a good first impression. Especially since my legs were my best feature.

  I lifted my head and noted that Ivy, thankfully, was nowhere in sight.

  “John? Honey?” A woman’s voice.

  Crap.

  I could pretty much piece together what was going on at that point. I started to get up and heard a soft click.

  Then again, I’d been wrong before. I flattened my body back into the carpet wishing to the gods I had brought Thor.

  “Go back to bed, Deirdre,” John said and when I heard the door shut, I figured Deirdre knew better than to argue with him.

  “I’ll ask you again, real slow so we understand each other. What the hell are you doing here?” Chicago accent. Probably a Sox fan. I hated Sox fans. There’s a reason they call that park the Cell. Actually it’s Cellular Field, but double entendre and all that.

  Any light from the moon had scurried away to the corners of the cottage. There was only blackness.

  I found a voice, but it wasn’t mine. It was on loan from a Muppet. “I, I, actually used to live here.”

  “You always break into houses you used to live in?”

  Youdsed. He actually said youdsed. I had a sudden urge to empty my bladder. And to order an Italian sausage sandwich.

  “What I mean is, I live here.” Until my aunt sold me out. Dammit, Fiona. “You rented this place, right? For a week probably? The Geraghtys are my family.”

  My voice sounded more like my own by then and John told me to stay put.

  “Why you sneaking around in the dark?” he asked.

  Good question. I thought fast. “Um, well, I needed something...from my bedroom.” I flung an arm behind me. “And, I, well, I, um, gee—”

  “What are you retarded?”

  Whoa, that was uncalled for! How do these people choose my family to spend their vacation with? “Hey that is an offensive word! People with mental disabilities prefer to be called challenged. I think. Anyway, it’s something like that, but if you must know, no, I’m not. Challenged, that is.”

  “Turn around, sweetheart.”

  I hated to be called sweetheart more than I hated Sox fans. I was still doing the breaststroke in the carpet facing away from him, so I wasn’t quite sure what he meant by ‘turn around’. I considered rolling over like a dog for a moment, but opted instead for an all-fours three point turn.

  “Stand up.”

  I did.

  “Turn on the light.”

  I did. Wish I hadn’t.

  As soon as my eyes adjusted to the light I caught a full on shot of John buck ass naked. The pistol he was sporting was larger than any I had ever seen.

  So was the gun.

  I shut my eyes.

  “Deirdre?” I called.

  John chuckled. Apparently my squeamishness was amusing him.

  Deirdre poked her head out the door as I opened one eye.

  She must have realized there was some kind of mistake. “John, put your pants on!” She opened the door wider.

  We looked at each other for a minute. She had all the curves of a Champagne flute with a shock of jet-black hair. The doily on the coffee table was less revealing than Deirdre’s negligee. I could see some sort of tattoo wrapped around her thigh.

  “You must be on your honeymoon.” I was mortified.

  Deirdre cocked her head and nodded.

  “I’m so sorry. I’ll be out of here in a minute. I was just looking for a book.”

  Ivy said, “Stacy! That’s a secret.”

  Deirdre raised an eyebrow. “Come out from there,” she called.

  Ivy scooted into the doorframe and Deirdre’s face relaxed. She smiled at Ivy, her eyes so blue I could see waves crashing through them. The woman appeared to be in her mid-thirties.

  Deirdre looked at me. “I got a sister too. The things they put you through, huh?” Deirdre said. “C’mon, sit, I’ll make coffee.”

  On my reverse bucket list of the top ten things I never wanted to experience, sharing a honeymoon with the Sopranos and Buffy the Vampire Slayer would rank right up there.

  “No,” I said hurriedly. “We should get going. I cannot tell you how sorry I am to interrupt your honeymoon.” I pushed Ivy towards the back door.

  John came out of the room with his pants buckled and his shirt unbuttoned.

  “Whoa,” Ivy said.

  “Don’t stare.” I tapped her shoulder.

  “Did you see the size of that gun?” she asked.

  I hoped she was talking about the Glock in his holster.

  “You girls need a ride somewhere?” John asked.

  Before I could clamp my hand over Ivy’s mouth, a sickening scream pierced the walls.

  NINETEEN

  “A fear of weapons is a sign of retarded sexual and emotional maturity.”

  -Sigmund Freud

  Ivy jumped and Deirdre yelped.

  John rushed to the window, hand on his holster.

  “What was that?” Deirdre demanded.

  I hugged Ivy close to me, wondering the same thing. It wasn’t a playful scream. It was a scream of pure terror. And it came from the direction of the Geraghty Girls’ House.

  John parted the thick curtains, tassels smacking his face. “Get dressed, Deirdre.”

  “Do you see anything?” she asked.

  He shook his head. “Just get dressed.” Deirdre rushed into the bedroom and I began inching closer to the door, tucking Ivy behind my back.

  John tossed a look over his shoulder. “You two stay put.”

  My body began prickling, a twitchy nervous feeling that told me something was not right. There was no nausea, which is what usually hit me when I encountered a man holding a gun, but something bad was about to happen.

  Every inch of me
felt it.

  I said, “I think it’s best if we left.”

  “I didn’t ask what you think.” John started buttoning his shirt.

  Gun or not, this machismo act was pissing me off.

  “Look, unless you plan to tie us up and hold us hostage, we’re leaving.” I turned to the door.

  Ivy looked at me like I had lost my mind.

  “Wait a second,” John said. “Wait one freaking second there.”

  I turned back, praying to the Goddess Morrigan he didn’t have the gun pointed at me. “Don’t I know you?” he asked.

  “Nice try,” I said.

  “No, I do.” He snapped his fingers. “You’re Stacy, ain't you?”

  Ivy widened her eyes.

  I tensed. This man did not look familiar. “How do you know my name?”

  John laughed. “Holy crap! Hey, Deirdre, get out here!”

  What the heck was happening here? “Who are you?”

  Deirdre came out of the bedroom wearing a tight knit turquoise dress, hair teased to the ceiling.

  “This is Stacy,” John said to her.

  Deirdre clapped her hands and I was growing ever more uncomfortable.

  “Well you are a doll!” Deirdre said.

  John said, “Hey, ain’t you supposed to be on vacation?”

  How could he know that? I didn’t like how this scenario was playing out one bit.

  I could hear muffled voices outside then and John peeked out the window. “Uh-oh,” he said and looked at Deirdre, then me. “We got trouble.”

  “Seriously, who the hell are you people?” I said, not bothering to hide my frustration. I felt like I was trapped in a Dashiell Hammett film except without the witty banter.

  Deirdre rushed to the window, peered over John’s shoulder and said, “I’ll call Leo.”

  “Get my badge too, honey,” John told her.

  Leo? Badge? “You’re a cop?” I asked.

  John gave me a wicked grin. “I think the term is peace officer.” He enunciated the words perfectly.

  IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS