Bloodstone (A Stacy Justice Mystery)

by Barbra Annino

  I felt a pinch of jealousy at their solid relationship. They made it look so easy. I couldn’t even hold on to a dry cleaner.

  I plucked my phone from my pocket, called Iris and asked who was in charge of the murder mystery dinner this evening. She said it was headed up by Bea Plough which was not good news. Bea Plough was on the board of the Convention and Visitor’s Bureau for the town of Amethyst. Bea also taught Sunday school which made my grandmother Public Enemy Number One in her eyes. Despite the friendship between her husband, Stan, and my gramps, I was a bad seed.

  Cinnamon grabbed a hoodie, zipped into it then put her jean jacket over that. She trotted back and said, “Let’s roll.”

  “I have to make a stop at the Plough’s house first.”

  “What in God’s name for?” Cin was not a willing participant in Bea’s class. Her mother insisted on her attendance until Bea tried to smack Cinnamon with a wooden paddle. Cinnamon wrestled the paddle away from Bea, smashing a statue of a wise man in the process. She was not invited to return.

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  The Ploughs’ home was a two-story Federal brick set back from the road. I followed the cement walkway, stepped onto the porch and cranked the old-fashioned doorbell.

  Bea Plough answered. “Yes?” Her voice was firm, authoritative.

  She didn’t look happy to see me.

  “Hello, Mrs. Plough. My name is Stacy Justice—”

  “I know who you are, Stacy,” Mrs. Plough said in her own special way.

  “Of course. Excuse me. I was hoping I could ask you a few questions about the murder mystery dinner event this evening?”

  Bea pursed her lips and smoothed out her gray skirt. Her gray hair was knotted in a bun that rested on top of her pink scalp. “I’m very busy Stacy. The dinner is in a few short hours and there is much to attend to. You can question me about it afterwards for the newspaper. Goodbye.” She shut the door in my face.

  I cranked the bell again.

  After a moment, the door creaked open.

  “Yes?”

  “Please, it isn’t for an article and it will only take a moment.” I smiled, piously, I hoped.

  “No.” Slam.

  Gave the bell another turn.

  “What?” She was hostile now.

  “May I at least see the instructions you gave to the participants?”

  “No.” Slam. Lock.

  Oh, this bitch was asking for it.

  Ring, knock, ring, knock. Ring! Knock!

  The door opened again. “Stop that!”

  “Look, lady, normally I would play this game all goddamn day just to watch you have a nervous breakdown, but I am in a bit of a time crunch. So knock off the bullshit and give me the fucking paperwork or else I swear to Christ I’ll draw a pentagram on your lawn so big it’ll be visible from the Hubble telescope. Then I’ll tell Iris that you’ve taken to dancing naked under the full moon.”

  Bea’s face fell and I knew I had her. Those Sunday school classes were her pride and joy, although, I suspect more from the power it granted her than the privilege to preach the message of her heavenly father. If word got out she switched teams, her post would surely be yanked out from under her.

  “What’s going on out here, Bea?” Stan said behind her.

  “It’s nothing,” Mrs. Plough said over her shoulder.

  “Mr. Plough!” I called.

  “Who is that?” Mr. Plough came forward and his wife stepped aside. “Stacy?” He was a thin man with a thin mustache perched above thin lips. He reminded me a lot of Vincent Price. But maybe that’s just because I always assumed living with Bea would be like living in a horror flick. “Hello, Mr. Plough. Your lovely wife was just offering me some information on the murder mystery dinner.”

  “Well certainly, come in. Bea, would you please get Stacy some tea?”

  I held up my hand. “No, that’s alright. I’m fine.” She’d probably spit in it.

  Bea said, “I’ll just get that information for you then.” She disappeared for a moment and Stan commented on the weather, which he thought was clearing up. I thought a shit storm was coming and I had no umbrella.

  Bea returned, handed me an envelope and said, “Here you go. Now Stan, don’t forget you need to drive me soon.”

  Stan said it was nice to see me and left. I didn’t bother thanking Mrs. Plough as I turned to go.

  I heard her say behind my back, “They should have locked you up along with your mother.”

  I stopped dead in my tracks. I must have looked strange because Cinnamon straightened up in her seat, staring at me.

  I turned back, “Excuse me?”

  Bea gave a sinister smile and creaked the door closed.

  When I got back in the car, Cinnamon asked, “What’s wrong? Did you get what you needed?”

  I faced her. “She said something about being locked up with my mother. Do you know what she’s talking about?”

  Cinnamon faced the road and twisted the ignition key. “She’s just a mean old bat, Stacy. Pay no attention to her.”

  I shook my head, clearing the negativity from my brain. “You’re right. Let’s go.”

  Cin pulled away from the curb just as I spotted the Jehovah’s Witnesses a block up. I asked her to pull up next to them and when she did, I leaned out the window and gave them the Plough’s address.

  Then we were on our way to the bank. On our way to discover what the key in Ivy’s backpack would open.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  I have too much respect for the truth to drag it out on every trifling occasion.

  -Mark Twain

  Cinnamon’s car smelled of lavender thanks to one of those tree-shaped car fresheners hanging from her rearview mirror. Lavender is supposed to have a calming effect, but when your cousin is flying down the highway at 85 miles per hour, even a morphine drip wouldn’t settle the nerves.

  The Smokey and the Bandit soundtrack was in the CD player and I was white-knuckling the dashboard.

  “We got a long way to go and a short time to get there,” Cin sang. “Watch old Bandit ruuuuuun.”

  “Cinnamon slow down! I don’t want to die in this outfit!”

  “Relax, I’ll get us there.”

  I took a few deep breaths as Thor tried to stick his head out my window. I fumbled through the center console compartment and found a pack of tissues I used to wipe the gunk off my face. Then I took off the chaps and the nine-knives belt and tossed it in the backseat, saving one that I stuck in my boot.

  The envelope Bea handed me was on my lap so I opened that next. It contained the brochure for the dinner and a number to call for tickets. That was it. No instructions on how the game was played, nothing about character sheets or a list of attendees.

  I decided not to draw the pentagram, but I would tell Iris that Bea Plough once worked as a go-go dancer.

  I recognized the number on the brochure as belonging to Gladys.

  She answered on the first ring in that thick Polish accent of hers. “Ya?”

  “Hi Gladys, it’s Stacy.”

  “Good to hear from you Stacy. I get message from Derek. Am looking up information now.”

  “Perfect, Gladys. Listen, I hear you’re in charge of the tickets for the mystery dinner tonight.”

  “Ya. I am Zelda woman. Reader of the balls.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You know, like fortune teller. Is my character.”

  “Oh you read crystal balls. Good for you.” Because really, who would want the alternative?

  “You want ticket? Is half price.”

  “No, I don’t want—”

  “I make commission on tickets. Is good price.”

  “No, thanks, I—”

  “Get cocktails, dinner, dessert, prizes.”

  “Fine, two tickets, Gladys.” Anything to speed this along. I gave her my credit card number as Cinnamon gave some guy the bird for honking his horn.

  “So Gladys, do you know anything about how the game is
organized or who is in what role?”

  “No. You come. Is surprise. You see.”

  Another call came through. Derek.

  “Okay then, call me back when you finish the research.”

  “Ya. Bye-bye.”

  Derek didn’t bother saying hello. “My aunt says the only counter effect to zombie powder is bat shit.”

  Of course. “Can you get some? I think they might have it at Glenda’s Garden Shed. People use it to attract bats to their homes so they eat the mosquitoes.”

  “Hold up. First of all, I can’t confirm her nutty theory with anyone. Not even on the net. Second, why the hell do you need it?”

  “Just humor me. Bring it to the Riverview Hotel by six-thirty.”

  Derek sighed. “I’ll do my best. I found the other girls in the Campbell party. Anita Delaney and Kimberly Vaughn. They’re staying at the Riverview now.”

  “Did you say Delaney?” That was one of the clan names. Mahoney, Delaney, Geraghty.

  “Yeah, but I checked them out. College girls. Lots of bikini and beer shots on Facebook. None of them work, none of them are Goth girls or even remotely threatening. Kimberly’s favorite quote is ‘you can lead a horticulture but you can’t make her think.’ Dorothy Parker.”

  “What about Anita?”

  “She’s pretty hot. She’s got that Beyonce thing going on. Her favorite quote is ‘Love is or it ain’t. Thin love ain’t love at all.’ Toni Morrison. Sweet, huh?”

  “Adorable. Find out all you can about her, okay? Then call me back.” Delaney was a common name, but still, there was a good chance.

  “Not a problem. I’m picking her up for a drink later.”

  “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Um, did you not hear me say she looks hot in a bikini?” Then he laughed. “Oh you cannot think this little girl zombified a dude. Come on, Justice.”

  “Just be careful. Anything else? Anything on Sayer?”

  “Nada. It’s like the dude doesn’t exist. The couple staying in the cottage are everything you said they were. He investigates judges and she’s a court reporter. Although Deirdre spent a little time in a psych ward when she was a teenager.”

  That got my attention. “Do you know why?”

  “No, the records are sealed on that, but she was ordered a mental health evaluation from a judge after she beat the snot out of her boyfriend.”

  “Wow.”

  “Yeah, shattered the guy’s jaw, which could have been a felony. She’s a Taekwondo black belt. Anyway, I’ve got Gladys working on the other couple. I’ll meet you at the hotel later. Peace out.” He hung up.

  Deirdre was a Taekwondo black belt?

  Thor pierced through my thoughts with a long howl. His feeding call. And I had nothing to give him.

  “Front door service,” Cinnamon said and I looked up to see that we had made it to the bank fully intact.

  I said, “Great. Thanks for driving. Listen, can you run and get Thor something to eat?”

  Cinnamon loved Thor as much as I did although she was far less patient with his antics. She gave him a rigid look and said. “If I do will you stop bellowing?”

  Thor licked her cheek.

  “Fine. I’ll pick something up and park in the back lot to feed him. Meet me back there.”

  I agreed and scooted out the door.

  The bank was in a strip mall and it had that dull flat carpet that wears well but looks horrendous. The key was in my pocket as I approached a short teller with wide-set eyes and a ponytail. She could barely see above the counter.

  “How may I help you?”

  I smiled at her, not sure what to say. I’ve never had a safety deposit box because I never had a need for one. Well, I never had a need for one before I learned that my family was the Secret Service for Ancient Texts of the Emerald Isle. Now I probably should invest in one.

  “Yes, I need to access a safety deposit box.”

  “Certainly. What’s the number and I’ll see if you’re on the list.”

  Uh-oh. “List?”

  Her name plate read Tanya. “Yes. All the boxes have a list of names that are allowed access. So I’ll need your identification and the number on the box.”

  “Oh, of course. Um...” I pulled the key out and she punched some buttons on her computer. “The number is 33299.”

  “And your name?”

  “My name?”

  What if I wasn’t on there? Would they confiscate the key?

  “I need your name, miss,” she said calmly. “And ID.”

  A man walked over then and said, “Tanya, Mrs. Heff is in my line and she’s insisting that you’re the only one she’ll give her account number to. Can you help her? I’ll take this lady.” He looked at me with warm brown eyes. “Why don’t you step over here, miss?”

  I followed his direction trying to come up with a reason why I didn’t know my name.

  He held out his hand and winked.

  That took me aback.

  “Mrs. Smith, isn’t it?” He raised both eyebrows and I nodded.

  The key felt warm as I extracted it. I hesitated. Could I trust him?

  Then he said, in the softest tone, “She said you’d come.”

  I handed him the key.

  Brian was the name in front of his window. He grabbed a set of keys, escorted me to a door with a keypad entry, punched in some numbers and the door slid into the wall. Then we walked through to an expansive room with little lockers lined up on top of and across from each other. There was a door inside that room too. Also with a keypad.

  Brian walked over to the box number that matched the key, pulled out his set and handed me mine.

  “We both twist at the same time, so go ahead and insert the key.”

  I did and the door popped open. I pulled out a dull tin rectangular shaped box.

  Then Brian walked over and pressed some numbers on the keypad to the other door. He said, “You’ll want privacy, I’m sure.”

  “Who said I would come? How do you know me?”

  Brian shrugged. “I don’t know you but Mrs. Smith, my manager, showed me a picture of you and said you would come for her safety deposit box. She said you were the only one authorized to open it. But she forgot to put your name on the list.”

  Or she left it off on purpose. Mrs. Smith. An alias? Or was Ivy’s last name Smith? “Is she here? Mrs. Smith?”

  Brian said, “No. Up and quit with hardly any notice a couple weeks ago. Right after that old guy came to visit her.”

  “What old guy?”

  “I don’t know who he was. Met with her in her office for a good hour. That day after closing she told me about the box and how only you were to access it. Said if I did her this favor that she would make sure she left a glowing recommendation for me to replace her. And she did. She kept up her end of the deal, so I will too. Your lucky you got here when you did. We only stay open until five one Saturday a month.”

  “What does Mrs. Smith look like?”

  Brian stepped back and I thought I had blown it. But he wasn’t weighing his decision to grant me access to the box. He was checking me out.

  He shrugged again. “A little like you, I guess.”

  I thanked Brian and stepped inside the privacy room with the box.

  IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS

  by Ivy Geraghty

  Entry #16

  My beloved Petey does not come. Perhaps it is that he only comes at night (or maybe my senses are dulled to whatever concoction they used to send me to LaLaLand.) But Moonlight is close, I can feel it!

  (Note to self, thank the big sis for giving up her cat.)

  -Ivy Geraghty, Prisoner of War

  SIXTY

  Inside the box was a map with a plastic cover encasing it. It looked incredibly old, yellowed and fragile. There were mountains and roads with names I didn’t recognize and a long river cut through the center of the paper. At the foot of the river was a thick black X.

  A treasure map? Was
this what it was all about? A buried treasure? Birdie had said the first page of the Ballymote book had been destroyed, but maybe this was a copy.

  In the Ogham code, our mother wrote that this was a token of insurance. I wasn’t sure why, but I knew this might save Ivy’s life. Or mine.

  Now who was the old guy? A member of the council perhaps? Verifying Ivy as the Warrior? But then why would our mother flee?

  Unless the man was a Hunter.

  Brian knocked and said, “Closing time.”

  I slipped the map inside my jacket pocket. The left wristband was starting to itch so I stuck my nail underneath and scratched. There was an odd tingling sensation as I did so and both bands tightened as did the boot straps.

  That was strange.

  Brian led me out of the secured area and I thanked him for his help.

  It was five o’clock when I stepped outside. Cinnamon’s car wasn’t in front so I circled around to the back and scanned the parking lot.

  It wasn’t there either.

  Where the hell was she?

  I heard a crunching sound at my back and I whirled around to face Deirdre.

  Startled, I jumped back and said, “What are you doing here?”

  Deirdre said, “I was hoping you would come here.”

  There was only one car in the lot near the dumpster and I recognized it as one that was at the inn. It must have been hers or John’s. Deirdre was standing in front of it.

  The area was eerily vacant. My senses were on high alert and I could feel the cold steel of the blade tucked in my left boot.

  I took another step back.

  Deirdre took a step forward as two words ran through my head.

  Black belt.

  I was a fighter, but this woman could probably kill me with one kick. Ivy, on the other hand, would have a better chance. She knew martial arts. I knew how to run, but these freaking boots wouldn’t help me there.

  “Don’t come any closer,” I said.