Tiger's Eye (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Three)

by Barbra Annino

  Also by Barbra Annino

  Opal Fire: Stacy Justice Book One

  Bloodstone: Stacy Justice Book Two

  Gnome Wars: A Short Story

  Every Witch Way But Wicked: An Anthology (includes a Stacy Justice story)

  My Guardian Idiot—fantasy tales to tickle your funny bone

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2012 Barbra Annino

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Thomas & Mercer

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781612186146

  ISBN-10: 1612186149

  Dedication

  Dedicated to four-legged friends everywhere and those who love them. And, as always, for George.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Prologue

  (from the last scene of BLOODSTONE)

  Chance walked into my office and said, “Hey, gorgeous. You ready?” He came over and brushed his lips across my neck. Then he sat on my desk and pulled me to him.

  I stood, draped my arms around his neck, and kissed him thoroughly.

  “What do you say we get some takeout and go to my place?”

  “Only if it involves chocolate syrup,” I said.

  “Oh, that could be arranged.”

  I leaned across my desk to grab my bag and the phone rang.

  “Don’t answer it,” Chance said.

  I smiled. “Two minutes.”

  The voice on the other end of the line was gruff. “Stacy Justice?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Stacy Justice the second, right?”

  “Yes.”

  Chance tickled me and I laughed.

  “I just thought you should know that I have the tapes.”

  “What tapes?” I asked, slapping Chance’s hands away.

  The man on the phone swore softly. “You haven’t gone through his files yet, have you?”

  “Whose files? What you are talking about?”

  Chance looked at me, concerned. He raised his hand, questioningly. I shrugged.

  “It wasn’t an accident,” the man said.

  I sat down in my chair, that creepy-crawly feeling climbing up my spine. “Who is this?”

  “Your father was murdered.”

  Then he hung up.

  Chapter 1

  “It’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m wearing Milkbone underwear.”

  —Norm Peterson, Cheers

  If my high school softball coach could see me now, she would probably take a bat to my kneecaps. Not because I was wearing the most hideous pink uniform outside of Toddlers and Tiaras, or because I had struck out twice already, but because the opposing team consisted mostly of geriatrics slathered in mentholated ointment. And they were kicking my ass.

  “Next up in the batter’s box, head reporter of the Amethyst Globe, one-time record holder of most pop-ups in a single game, the master of disaster, the ultimate witchcrafter—”

  “Gus,” I hissed, “enough!”

  The guy on the bullhorn was Gus Dorsey, a man with all the charm and wit of Mr. Potato Head. He stood a foot away, dressed in striped knee-high socks and shorts last seen on Magnum P.I. Either they were hand-me-downs from his father or Gus was dabbling in the retro look.

  “Stacy Justice, folks.” He lowered the horn and looked at me as if I had just spit on his ice cream.

  Now I felt bad. Gus had droopy eyes and floppy ears so even in his happiest moments he gave the appearance of a Muppet that didn’t make the cut.

  I put my beer down and grabbed the horn. “Thank you, Officer Dorsey. How about a hand for those who protect and serve?” I said to the crowd.

  Claps and cheers drifted from the bleachers and I turned to wave until I noticed there was a turtle race going on with money exchanging hands. A quick glance at Gus told me that he would allow such infractions to slide on this, the Founder’s Day of Amethyst, Illinois.

  The baseball bats were stacked outside the dugout and I grabbed one that I hadn’t used yet in hopes of improving my average. I took a few swings to get the weight and rhythm of the wood, stepping onto the freshly cut grass. The sun felt like a warm massage on my exposed arms and the air was bursting with the aroma of grilled hamburgers and buttery popcorn. Off in the distance, I heard the squeals of delighted children winning prizes.

  In the Midwest, you cling to the days of cookouts, block parties, and county fairs. When light lingers in the sky and the earth is fertile for weeks to come—promising a bounty of vine-ripened tomatoes and bunches of fresh herbs—there is a sense that anything could happen.

  Anything at all.

  I stepped toward home plate, tipping my head to Shea Parker, my boss, who was standing off the first base line.

  He flashed me some hand signals.

  I had no idea what he was doing. I flicked my eyes to Derek, my coworker and the paper’s photographer. He rolled his eyes in return and leaned back against the brick wall of the dugout. He pulled his cap over his smooth, dark face and folded his arms.

  Parker rushed over to me and signaled to Gus, who was not only the announcer and scorekeeper but also the umpire.

  “You calling a time-out?” Gus asked.

  “Just give me a minute,” Parker said.

  “What?” My beer was getting warm and this game was getting old. Normally, I was all for sports. My body felt better when it was fit, and I enjoyed the friendly camaraderie of a pick-up game. But I had a lot on my mind today thanks to a creepy phone call I’d received at the office the day before. So I just wanted to grab a burger, suck down some beers, relax at a picnic bench, and enjoy the beautiful sunshine. For once, I wanted to do what I wanted and not what everyone else expected of me.

  Maybe that was selfish, but we all need me time now and then.

  “You are not taking this seriously. Don’t you remember the signals?”

  “Sorry, I don’t.”

  “That’s because you only came to two practices.” Parker held up two fingers as a visual aid.

  Only two? I spent five days a week with the man. Since he was my editor, that was a job requirement. Wearing this stupid neon jersey with a matching headband was not. The uniform wasn’t his fault, though. I had Gladys, the research assistant for the Amethyst Globe,
to thank for that. She’d been tasked with outfitting the team and her favorite color was fuchsia.

  I sighed. “Just tell me. What do you want me to do?”

  He craned his neck around, nervously eyeing the field behind him.

  “What is the big deal? It’s a charity game, for crying out loud,” I said.

  Parker shuffled a bit. He leaned in and said softly, “With you and Derek, I might finally win one of these things.”

  “Fine. What’s the plan?”

  “Bunt.”

  I nodded, and looked at my opponents.

  The game was an annual Founder’s Day event. The sponsorships and donations supported extracurricular activities for the local schools. Kids counted on that money every year. With the state slashing budgets for sports and the arts, communities like ours were forced to fund those projects via taxpayers and events such as these.

  But it wasn’t like you got a bonus for winning.

  Most of the players were local business owners and their employees. The teams were usually chosen at random, but this year someone decided that it would be a great idea if tavern, restaurant, and B&B owners went up against bankers, realtors, and newspaper staff.

  In other words, nine-to-fivers vs. hospitality folks.

  Which pretty much pitted me against my whole family.

  I kicked my cleats against the dirt and surveyed the field. Cinnamon, my cousin and the owner of the Black Opal Bar and Grill, crouched at first base like a bear protecting her cub. A local restaurant owner guarded second, and Monique, proprietor of Down and Dirty nightclub, was way out in left field adjusting her right boob.

  I stepped into the batter’s box and arched the bat behind me. Lolly, my great-aunt, grinned up at me from her position as catcher. Her face was slashed with black ink that football players used to keep the sun from their eyes. She wore a white tennis skirt, saddle shoes, and a sequined tube top with a red bra fastened over it.

  My grandmother, Birdie, was on the mound. I had never seen her in Spandex. Hopefully I never would again.

  Birdie lowered her head and hinged forward, eyes glued to her eldest sister. The sun penetrated her coppery waves, lending her hair an iridescent shine. She paused, nodded at Lolly, then wound up, took a step back, and fired the ball through the air.

  It was about to enter that sweet spot just above my waist, just where I liked it. Then, as I was poised to crack it over her head (bunting was never going to happen), the ball dove up—as if mocking me—and charged straight into Lolly’s mitt.

  “Strike one!” yelled Gus.

  Dizzy from the force of a failed hit, I wondered, What the hell happened? The ball had been right over the plate.

  I stretched my arms briefly, shook my shoulders and hands, before stepping back inside the box.

  A glimmer in Birdie’s emerald eyes gave me pause. Had she done something to that ball? Would she cheat?

  I shot back a fierce glare, hoping my own eyes—a lighter green than hers—appeared as cold as a shark’s. My head nodded slightly.

  I know what you’re up to, old lady, and it won’t work. You’ve been training me, yes, but I’m younger, stronger, and faster. I don’t need magic to win.

  Laughter. Loud, clear, and very familiar. Only it wasn’t external. She was literally inside my head. I smacked my ear to shake her out.

  So, she was going to play dirty. Well, two could play at that game.

  I steeled myself, flexed my biceps, and curled my lip up in a snarl.

  This time, Birdie did a full 360-degree spin and launched the ball. It was coming over the plate, right into range. I swung. Hard.

  The damn thing twirled around the bat, hit the wood, then bounced off the far fence and rolled into Lolly’s glove.

  I stepped out of the box. “Cut that out, Lolly!” I pointed to Birdie. “You too!”

  She had to be using magic. There was no physical explanation for how that ball moved.

  Lolly gave me a sinister smile.

  Parker was cheering me on. “Come on, Stacy. Bring it home. You’ve got two strikes and no balls.”

  He was right about one thing. I had two strikes. “Time!”

  Gus came over and dusted off home plate.

  Lolly stood and cracked her neck. She pulled out a silver flask with her initials engraved on it and downed a shot. Jameson, from the smell of it. I could only imagine how many she had belted for breakfast to play so sharply. Normally, she functioned like a hot air balloon with a faulty pilot light, but alcohol acted as brain fuel for Aunt Lolly.

  Parker came over and asked what the problem was.

  “She’s cheating!” I pointed at Lolly. “Gus, tell her to knock it off. She put some sort of sp…” I was going to say spell, but I chewed the word off and came up with “spin on it.”

  It wasn’t exactly a secret—my family of witches. Most people in town knew what we were, even accepted it. But I was still warming up to the idea. Still wrapping my brain around all that had transpired in the year since I had been back home.

  As a reporter, I relied on facts, not the fantastical.

  As a woman raised by witches who considered me the Seeker of Justice, I had to face the very real, unexplainable events that happened around me far too often.

  It wasn’t easy, but I was getting there with the guidance of my grandmother and her two sisters. Not to mention the Blessed Book of our theology and family history. It contained not only spellcraft, herbal remedies, and recipes, but predictions for future generations (hence the Seeker of Justice title I now carried) and the history of my ascendants, whose roots reached back to an ancient tribe of Druids from County Kildare, Ireland. The book had been passed from Maegan, Birdie’s mother (who also helped me out on occasion, though she was long dead) to Birdie. Now it belonged to me.

  “Now, Stacy,” Gus said, “don’t be a sore loser.”

  Aunt Lolly stuck her tongue out at me.

  See, when they acted like escaped mental patients, my faith wavered.

  Gus stepped in before I kicked dirt all over the catcher. “Your aunt Lolly was MVP of the farm league four years running. Of course she might play better than you.”

  My mouth dropped. “She was? I never knew that.”

  Parker and Gus both looked at me as if I were the worst grandchild on earth.

  “Your grandma Birdie too. She was home-run queen.” Parker scratched his chin. “Fiona played some ball as well, but she mostly looked gorgeous in the uniform. Don’t tell me you’ve never even seen the photos?”

  Aunt Fiona did a beauty pageant wave from third base, wiggling her hips and showing off her supple legs. It was my belief that most garages in this town had been plastered with her pinup at one time or another.

  I shook my head. “Fine.” I stepped back up to the plate and Lolly repositioned herself.

  This time when the ball came at me, I took two hop steps toward it—before it got near Lolly—and smacked a line drive over Birdie’s head.

  I tossed the bat and ran as fast as I could. Cinnamon leaned in to field the catch. I was a few inches taller than my cousin, but she was a powerhouse of a woman. If Cinnamon were a car, she’d be a Challenger with flames painted on the side and a Hemi under the hood.

  First base was three steps away. I could smell the sweetness of victory as I pumped my legs. Cin reached to catch the ball and her foot slipped off the bag.

  There was no choice.

  I had to slide.

  Which was a much easier task for a teenager than a woman in the twilight of her twenties.

  My arms stretched out in front of me as my chest skidded across the dirt. My chin bounced off a rock before my body came to a complete stop.

  There is no way to describe the taste of dirt. It just tastes brown. But the salty taste of my own sweat mixed with the metallic flavor of the blood leaking from the bite in my lip definitely added to the buffet going on in my mouth.

  I felt leather and I yelped in excitement. At least I had reached the base.


  “Out!” yelled Gus.

  What the…? “Are you freaking kidding me? Doesn’t the tie go to the runner?” I said, barely lifting my head.

  “Um, Cuz?” Cinnamon said.

  I looked up. My hand was touching her shoe. “Son of a bitch.”

  Cinnamon helped me to my feet, a brief look of horror crossing her face.

  “What?”

  “I don’t think they make Band-Aids that big, Stace.”

  I looked down. I was a walking road rash.

  Gus got on his horn again. “Well, that’s it for the eighth inning, folks. Let’s give our teams a hand.”

  “You okay?” Cinnamon asked me.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  She patted my back and jogged toward the dugout as the crowd clapped without enthusiasm.

  Parker walked over with a cold beer and a wet towel. I thanked him, drank half the beer, washed up, and tossed the towel. There was hardly any skin left on my knees and they stung like hell.

  Derek was our team’s first baseman and he was kind enough to bring me my mitt as he took position.

  “Really?” was all he said.

  “They were cheating. It was my best option.”

  “And you care why?”

  Good question, but not good enough to warrant a response. I put my glove on and carried the rest of my beer toward right field.

  My bear of a Great Dane trotted over and sat in front of me, defiantly blocking my path.

  “Hi, Thor.”

  He gave me a pitiful look as if to say he was incredibly disappointed. Thor could be rather competitive when it came to sports. You don’t want to see him on a volleyball court.

  “I’m sorry, buddy. I didn’t even get us on base. My bad.”

  He grumbled, his black muzzle moving in waves over his sharp canines. He licked my right knee and stood, his giant head anchored regally above his massive tan frame.

  “Tell you what, big guy, you get us three up, three down and I will not only buy you the biggest hot dog they have in that tent, I’ll take you swimming tomorrow. Okay?”

  He considered this, then howled in approval.

  “Great. High five.”

  I lifted my right arm and Thor reared up to meet it with his left paw, towering a full foot over me. His landing shook the ground and he trotted over to his place at short-stop.