Witch Way To Amethyst: The Prequel (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book 0) Read online

  DEDICATION

  For Jay Adler and Sharon Adler, who not only gave me a friend worth her weight in gold but a place to call home when I needed it most.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Huge thanks to my fabulous beta readers: George Annino, Shelly Toler Franz.

  Proofreading By: Shelly Toler Franz

  Cover Design By: Dane House, LLC

  Other Titles In This Series

  Opal Fire: Stacy Justice Book One

  Bloodstone: Stacy Justice Book Two

  Tiger’s Eye: Stacy Justice Book Three

  Emerald Isle: Stacy Justice Book Four

  Obsidian Curse: Stacy Justice Book Five

  Geraghty Girls Recipes

  Deadly Diamonds

  Other Titles By Barbra Annino

  Sin City Goddess: Secret Goddess Book One

  The Bitches of Everafter

  Anthologies and Shorter Works

  Gnome Wars

  My Guardian Idiot

  A Tale of Three Witches

  Every Witch Way But Wicked

  The Graveyard Witch

  Stained

  Cupid’s Arrow

  Naughty or Nice

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Description

  Stacy Justice is a young reporter who lives in Chicago, far away from the kooky small town of Amethyst, Illinois, where she was raised by a family of witches. She’s perfectly content with her career, her cat, and her lack of a love life until her cousin informs her that their grandfather is deathly ill. Stacy road-trips home only to discover that her grandfather was poisoned, her grandmother has confessed to the crime, and there’s a new chief in town who is easy on the eyes, but tough on witches.

  Now, the reluctant witch must prove her grandmother’s innocence, save her grandfather from meeting an untimely end, and fight the killer that’s bent on destroying them all.

  This is the prequel novel to the Stacy Justice Witch Mysteries—where secrets only lead to more secrets and being the member of a family means that you make sacrifices that can lead to murder.

  Chapter 1

  It all started with a penny.

  Earlier that day, in a mad rush to grab a bite before the copy was due on my editor’s desk, I rushed through the revolving doors of the Chicago Chronicle. As my luck would have it I didn’t exactly, well, revolve all the way.

  The moron behind me chose the moment my shoulder strap slipped to test his bicep strength. As I bent to retrieve my bag the glass slapped my forehead roughly. For a moment, I bounced around like a human pinball without an escape hatch. Then I landed on all fours, ass in the air, not entirely pleased with myself for choosing this day to wear my new $1.99 Tinkerbelle panties.

  “Hey, sweetheart, when you’re done flirting, can we move it along?” said the charmer behind me.

  I flipped him the bird and returned to a bipedal position. Then I gave the door a shove.

  It didn’t budge.

  Again, I pushed the glass but it was stubbornly holding its ground.

  Kick, smack, shove, pound, slap, scream.

  “What the hell?” I said.

  “It looks like it’s stuck on the bottom,” an amused bystander said.

  I knelt down, checked out the rubber sweeper thing that all revolving doors are born with and saw she was right. Wedged inside, standing completely upright was a penny.

  I extracted it and checked the date, as I always did.

  It was the year I was born.

  “Uh-oh,” I whispered. Then the door swung into action and I was tossed onto the street where four people applauded and exchanged bills.

  My cell phone sang out a tune as I wondered what the spirits were trying to tell me with that date. I shoved the penny in my pocket, an uneasy feeling sweeping through me.

  You see, long ago I learned from my grandmother, Birdie, that some pennies, when found under bizarre or unique circumstances, act as messages from our spirit guides. Those are the ones you hang onto, at least until you decode the message.

  Not that I still bought into her nonsense, but old habits die hard.

  I answered the call with, “Stacy Justice.”

  “Hey there.” It was Cinnamon. My younger cousin and closest friend.

  “Hey, what’s going on, Cin?” I could hear the clinking of glasses over the airwaves, telling me she was at the bar. Her bar, actually. Cinnamon owned the Black Opal in my hometown of Amethyst, Illinois, about three hours from Chicago.

  “I need to talk to you. You busy right now?”

  My stomach fluttered, anticipating the worst. No one ever says, “I need to talk to you” before delivering good news. It’s never, “Hey can I talk to you? You just won the lottery!” Nope. Does not happen.

  “What’s up? Is something wrong?”

  Cinnamon took a deep breath. “Well,” she started, then paused and shouted to someone else. “Scully! You touch that tap and so help me the next beer you drink will be through a barbed wire straw!”

  Yikes. Cin was about as tall as a Bratz doll but what she lacked in stature she compensated with in tone and creative threats.

  “Sorry about that. Listen, Stacy, Gramps is sick. Birdie asked me to call you. She thought you might want to come home.”

  I sunk onto a nearby bench.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Our grandfather was seventy or so, but he was in good health last I heard, so I wasn’t expecting this.

  “Actually, I don’t know.” Cinnamon sighed. “No one knows. It’s very strange what happened.”

  “What happened?” I glanced at the huge clock on the building. It was early afternoon on Thursday.

  “Late last night Pearl noticed he seemed disoriented, almost like he was drunk.”

  Pearl is my grandfather’s girlfriend. She owned a restaurant in town called Pearl’s Palace. Ironically, she bought it from another woman named Pearl. “That doesn’t make sense. Gramps hasn’t had a drink since he divorced Birdie.”

  “I know. Thirty years. They ran some tests. Thought he might have had a stroke, but the tests showed no signs of that. He’s been vomiting a lot too.”

  Oh boy. Not Gramps. If my family were a circus act, he’d be the guy standing near the ropes making sure a lion didn’t eat one of the kids. He was the only stability I knew. In fact, if something happened to him, then it would be up to Birdie to—

  A thought occurred to me then. "Cin, where was Gramps last night?"

  She blew
out a long sigh. "He was there.”

  Good grief. "Please tell me you don't think--"

  "What, that she finally followed through with it? Hell, I hope not."

  “I’m on my way.”

  Chapter 2

  ‘She’ was our grandmother. My mother’s mother, Brighid Geraghty, who insisted everyone call her Birdie. She was named after the Celtic goddess of fire and hearth. It means ‘one who exalts herself' and, well, let's just say that it suited her.

  Every third Wednesday since I could remember, Birdie and her two sisters hosted a family dinner at their guesthouse. Divorce or not, Gramps was still family so the invitation extended to him.

  Just so everyone knew where she stood on the idea, however, every so often Birdie would pass Gramps the pot roast and say things like, "Oscar, are you wearing your good teeth? Wouldn't want you to choke on a piece of meat." Or "does anyone smell something funny? Lolly, you didn't mix up the rat poison with the flour again, did you? No matter. Oscar will taste it first."

  Always with a wink and a smile. Of course, everyone laughed and Gramps shook his head, but he did have a habit of smelling his food before tasting it.

  But she didn’t really want him dead.

  I was almost seventy-five percent sure of that.

  This was why I wasted no time clearing the absence with my editor. Currently, the cat was in the carrier, a bag of clothes on the backseat, the Jeep was pointed west, and I was on my way home.

  The area where I grew up was beautiful, almost magical, although I would never say that in Birdie’s presence. Carved into the cliffs and valleys of the Mississippi River region in Illinois, Amethyst stood out like a jewel in the crown of the Midwest. Where the rest of the landscape is flat, the town looked like it was hijacked from New England and dropped there by a spaceship.

  Which was fitting, since Amethyst was like the Twilight Zone on acid.

  It was after six when I crawled up the hill to my grandmother’s inn. The sun had just begun to slip into the valley as the wind scattered leaves across the yard. The Queen Anne house looked the same as when I had last seen it a few years ago with a circular front porch, wicker rockers waiting for passengers, gingerbread dripping from every eave. The body was a buttery yellow while the trim burst with shades of teal, purple, and red, like a Victorian mistress who knew how to accessorize.

  I parked at the edge of the driveway, got out and stretched. The rosemary still clung to its greenness near the garden gate, unusual for late October. Rosemary for remembrance. That’s what I had painted on the marker when I was fourteen, the day after my father died. The same day Birdie spoke of spirit guides and my mother faded into the shadows.

  The smoky scent of burning leaves tugged at me. Gladys Sharp was busy raking her yard across the street, but she took the time to wave. I waved back, wondering if she was still a groupie.

  You see, the Geraghty Girls, as my grandmother and her two sisters were called, were a bit of a legend in this town.

  A few houses down, Bea Plough stuck her head out, scowled, and slammed the door.

  And like all legends, they were not without enemies.

  I took a deep breath, circled around the Jeep, and swung open the passenger door. “Well, Moonlight, you ready to meet the family?”

  Moonlight yawned and meowed.

  I hoisted him from the car and shut the door behind me.

  The brick path trailing to the front entrance was peppered with pumpkins and gourds. Nylon spider webs hugged the porch railing and a mannequin wearing a purple cape and pointy witch's hat filled the corner. I couldn't help thinking that was redundant as I cranked the bell.

  With three witches inside, why would they need any out here?

  Ella Fitzgerald belted out a tune from somewhere in the house as I waited to be greeted. “Let’s call the whole thing off…” After a moment, Aunt Lolly appeared. The oldest Geraghty Girl.

  "Oh, hello." Her hair was a mop of copper, springing from her head in all directions like loose wires. Her lipstick was almost inside the lines and her aqua eyes glowed beneath thin brows that appeared to have been shaved smooth then penciled in. With an actual #2 pencil, it appeared. "Do you have a reservation?" she asked.

  Her appearance coupled with the blank look on her face told me the boat was in the harbor, but the captain was below deck, sipping a cocktail.

  This had to be handled delicately, so I began cautiously. "No, Aunt Lolly, It's me, Stac--"

  "I'm terribly sorry." She smoothed the sequins on her chiffon gown. Lolly always dressed as if the President might pop over any moment. "We're all booked up."

  I saw the door shift a second too late. "Wait!" I tried to stick my foot inside but she was faster than she looked. Closed and locked.

  Damn.

  I sighed and rang the bell again.

  From farther away, Fiona called, "Lolly, honey, get the door."

  No, no, no. Didn’t Fiona sense me? What good is all that hocus-pocus if you don’t know when your own grandniece is standing on your front step?

  I put the cat down and searched the plants and the welcome mat for a key. Nothing. Then I pulled up a rocker, climbed on, and steadied myself while I felt above the threshold.

  “Excuse, me?” someone said.

  I screamed, tipped back on the rocker, wobbled for one fleeting moment, then dove toward the hedges. My sneaker got snagged in the stupid nylon spider web and it clung to me, dipping me up and down like a teabag. Head in the bushes, head out of the bushes. Head in the bushes, head out of the bushes.

  “Ahhh!” I yelled.

  They weren’t those soft evergreens that you could touch without needing stitches either. Nope, these were the real prickly deal.

  Then a flashlight blinded me and a man’s voice said, “What the hell are you doing?”

  What kind of question was that? Did he actually think I planned this impromptu plunge over the railing for the amusement of the neighbors? Did he not see me fall? “I’m redecorating, Einstein. I thought the hedges needed a living, bloody display to better scare the kiddies. What does it look like?”

  “It looks like you were trying to break into this house.” He said it all stern like a high school principle. When did they get a neighborhood watchdog?

  “I wasn’t breaking in. Who looks for a key before they break in? This is my family’s home.”

  I still couldn’t see the guy or anything for that matter since the flashlight was pumping out some high wattage directly into my retinas. It also didn’t appear help was on the way, so I performed the hardest sit-up of my life and pulled over the banister. The flashlight darkened then, so I turned to see who was behind it.

  Through the faint dusting of the remaining sun, I could make out his features. His incredibly sexy, angular features, highlighted by a five o’clock shadow. He didn’t carry himself like a man who grew up in a small town and I certainly did not recognize him.

  For a brief moment, I fantasized about shaving him in the shower. Then I remembered it was his fault I just had an evergreen facial.

  “I’ve never seen you before,” he said. “Are you related to the Geraghtys?”

  “What are you, a cop?”

  He cocked his head and said, “Yes I am as a matter of fact. Now it’s my turn. What are you doing sneaking around the Geraghty porch?”

  Foot in mouth disease ran chronic in the family. “You really are a cop? You aren’t wearing a uniform.” In a small town like this, police officers didn’t roam around in denim jackets.

  He flashed a badge. “I’m going to ask one more time. Who are you?”

  I was tired of this guy’s attitude, cute or not. “You got me.” I picked up Moonlight. “I’m a cat burglar. Get it?”

  He mumbled something about ‘gotta be related’ and ‘nuts’, but I didn’t catch it because he was rounding the porch and heading up the stairs.

  Then, miracle of miracles, my Aunt Fiona opened the door. “What’s all the activity?” she asked in that throaty voi
ce that says she should be working the receiving end of a 900 number.

  “Hi, Auntie,” I said.

  “Mrs. Geraghty,” said Cop Guy, nodding at her.

  “Oh, Stacy, it is so good to see you!” She pulled me in for a hug and whispered in my ear. “You’re so pretty, why must you always look frightful? And in front of this handsome man.”

  She stepped back and cocked her head. Then, in a louder voice, “Leo, have you met my gorgeous niece, Stacy?”

  Subtlety was not a Geraghty trait.

  Leo smiled and held his hand out. “A pleasure.”

  I leaned in to flash a sexy pose and clasp his hand, but there was some lingering sap on my eyelids and I forgot the web was wrapped around my foot. Luckily, a ripe pumpkin broke my fall.

  “Jeez, are you okay? Let me help you.” Leo bent down, reaching for me.

  I lowered my head and put my hand up. This was so embarrassing. The first hot guy I’d met in months and not only did he think I was a criminal, but he was probably certain I had vertigo. “I’m good, thanks.” I turned my attention to the orange goop splattered on my sweatshirt and the knots around my feet.

  Fiona said, “Leo, my darling niece has had some trying news of late, not to mention a very long trip. I’m afraid she’s quite taxed and isn’t herself this evening. Now then, how may I be of assistance to the law on this fine day, you sweet boy?”

  Man, she was good. She was one of those women that you just know was a pinup girl at one time and probably still could be.

  Leo said, “Ms. Geraghty, I was hoping to talk to your sister, Birdie.”

  I perked my ears and managed to rip the web off my feet.

  “I’m afraid she isn’t here at the moment. Something I might help you with?” Fiona asked.

  Leo was about to speak but then he stopped. He shot me a look as if I had just escaped a mental hospital. Then to Fiona, he said, “No, that’s all right. It can wait. I’ll come by another time.”

  I couldn’t help notice how well his jeans molded to his backside as he stepped off the front porch.

  Fiona said, “Stacy, I have the cottage all fixed up for you. Why don’t I take you back there so you can freshen up while Lolly finishes dinner? By that time, your grandmother should be home from her errands.” She handed me a key.