Bloodstone (A Stacy Justice Mystery) Read online

  Bloodstone

  Bloodstone

  Midpoint

  BLOODSTONE

  Book Two of the Stacy Justice Series

  By

  Barbra Annino

  A long-lost sister.

  A missing mother.

  And murder.

  Stacy Justice finds herself caught in a web of deceit, betrayal and family secrets that run deeper than the Mississippi.

  Not only must the reluctant witch determine if the teenager on her doorstep is her sister—she’s forced to confront her mother’s disappearance—again. Add to that a dead guy in the kitchen and Stacy’s at her witch’s end. She’s pretty sure the Blessed Book of her family’s ancestry holds the key. Except she can’t find it. And if the killer does—it may be over Stacy’s dead body.

  Is Ivy really her sister? Where is Stacy’s mother? And what does the dead guy have to do with it all? Find out in Bloodstone.

  Author’s Note: It is highly recommended that you read the first book in the series, OPAL FIRE before reading BLOODSTONE.

  PRAISE FOR OPAL FIRE

  “A truly enjoyable and engaging read requires several ingredients: an intriguing protagonist, interesting, well-rounded supporting characters, a brisk pace, a hint or more of danger, a slew of story questions, and a satisfying end in which the bad dude gets his just reward. Opal Fire by Barbra Annino has all this and more.”

  ~Author E.J. Knapp

  “A tantalizing mix of witchery, mystery, dogs, bars and small town fun all embodied in fast and fun protag Stacy Justice. Opal Fire burns your page turning fingertips with twists, turns and tenacious plotting. Annino is a major new talent in the genre and a fresh new voice in fiction.”

  ~Tom Schreck, author of Out Cold

  “If you want a fresh new series by a talented debut author, get your hands on a copy of Opal Fire. You’ll laugh, you will shake your head but most of all you’ll adore it!”

  ~Wicked Little Pixie Reviews

  “Barbra Annino presents us with the gift of a very entertaining story. Lots of humor, wonderful character descriptions, great one liners and a plot that will keep you guessing. You won’t want to miss this book, it’s a keeper. And, don’t miss the next installment of the Stacy Justice mysteries, Bloodstone. I’m sure it will be just as good as Opal Fire.”

  ~Night Owl Reviews

  “Barbra Annino has created a fun, laugh-out-loud story that will keep readers entranced. It’s a fast-paced story that is both hysterical and mysterious at the same time with a great cast of characters. Stacy and Cinnamon will quickly become beloved characters in this series.”

  ~Socrates Book Review Blog

  For George (they’re pretty much all for you)

  Special thanks to my beta readers, George Annino and Jennifer Watkin, not only for agreeing to read a first draft, but for shaping it into a better book. Thanks to the editorial hand of Leslie Gay who has a keen eye for polishing a script. Thank you too, Tara Barnow Smith of Pip Designs, for technical image altering. A huge shout out to the magnificent creatures known as book bloggers, especially my favorite Kindle mom. And a big slobbery kiss from Thor to the readers. Thanks for the emails, encouragement and gentle prodding to finish the thing. Surprises await you after The End.

  PROLOGUE (from the last scene of Opal Fire)

  Maegan’s words penetrated my head as we stared at each other. The Seeker of Justice shall cross with one who embodies the old soil, the force of which will have great impact on Geraghtys past, present, and future. The choice she makes shall decide her fate. One path leads to unity; three become one. The other leads to destruction—which shall never be repaired.

  Was this the moment Maegan had warned me about?

  “Why won’t you speak?” I asked.

  He looked down, his toes barely touching the carpet. I don’t know why, but I plucked the sword from the drywall and lowered it to my side.

  He seemed vulnerable—not threatening—standing there in the shadow of the sun.

  I sighed, my patience lost. “Okay, as you can see, I’ve had a pretty screwed up week. So off with the hat and glasses and let’s talk about what it is you want so you can leave my house and I can get on with my life. And if the sword isn’t a big enough incentive not to try anything that might get your arm lopped off, then take a gander at my boy, Thor.” I pointed out the window.

  He peeked, then faced me again.

  He looked at the carpet, contemplating his next move.

  He chose the right one.

  The sunglasses floated down first. Then the mustache, then the gloves.

  He lifted his head up and slowly removed his hat.

  I gasped as a pool of long red hair, the same color as the setting sun, spilled around the shoulders of a female.

  I stepped back, staring. Disbelief overwhelmed me.

  Green eyes.

  Red hair.

  But it couldn’t be. It was impossible.

  I have only seen that shade of hair on one other person.

  She removed her coat, exposed a cape.

  And before she said a word, bells were ringing in my ears and somehow my heart knew. Just knew.

  Geraghtys past, present and future...Maegan whispered in my mind.

  But I would have known. I would have felt it these last few days. All these years.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  The words reached out at me, knotted around me.

  “My name is Ivy. I’m your sister.”

  The snow was knee deep, my leg hurt, and my sweats were soaked but I was hopped up on painkillers and a huge dose of pissed off so I didn’t care.

  “Stacy, wait!” Ivy said behind me, her voice desperate.

  I ignored her as I marched into the Geraghty Girls’ House, slammed the door behind me and screamed into the foyer. “Birdie! I need to talk to you right now!”

  How could they keep her from me? Why would they keep her from me? A million questions swirled in my head. How old was she? Did my mother know she was pregnant when she left?

  “Stacy, don’t, please.” Ivy spoke in a hushed tone. “Listen to me.”

  “This is not about you, Ivy. Just back off,” I said.

  “No, wait. You don’t understand. They can’t see me.” She squealed in that high-pitched voice that only teenagers could manufacture.

  I stopped and turned to her. “What do you mean they can’t see you? Are you invisible? Are you a hallucination?”

  At this point, anything was possible.

  “Please,” she begged, “come outside.”

  “Tell me one good reason right now, Ivy.”

  “Mom’s in trouble,” she said quickly. “And Birdie doesn’t know about me.”

  I wasn’t sure I believed that. Birdie knew everything.

  “Please,” she said again.

  We locked eyes and as I read her young face, I knew my life was about to change forever.

  Meet the Cast

  Stacy Justice: A reluctant witch with the grace of a newborn giraffe and the determination of a Jehovah’s Witness. The not quite 30-year old heroine of our story.

  Ivy: A mysterious teenager claiming to be Stacy’s sister.

  Thor: A 180-pound Great Dane with a sensitive side.

  Cinnamon Panzano: Stacy’s cousin and owner of The Black Opal bar.

  Leo Warick: The police chief of Amethyst and Stacy’s former beau.

  Gus Dorsey: The deputy who makes Barney Fife look like Eliot Ness.

  Derek Meyers: Photographer for the local newspaper.

  Birdie Geraghty: Stacy’s grandmother, owner of a guesthouse and ringleader of the Geraghty Girls.

  Fiona Geraghty: Stacy’s great aun
t who still has the legs of a Rockette.

  Lolly Geraghty: Stacy’s eldest great aunt who is a few slices short of a whole pie.

  Tony Panzano: Cinnamon’s husband and auto mechanic extraordinaire.

  Chance Randall: Stacy’s high school sweetheart and the world’s most reliable contractor.

  Monique Fontaine: Cinnamon’s nemesis.

  Iris Merriweather: Coffee shop owner and gossip columnist.

  Shea Parker: Publisher of the local paper.

  Gladys Sharp: Research assistant for the local paper.

  ONE

  I made a wish more than twenty years ago and it finally came true. You know how they say be careful what you wish for? They aren’t kidding.

  My name is Stacy Justice and until a short while ago, I thought I was an orphan. My father was killed when his car collided with an eighteen-wheeler on a snowy day my first year of high school. My mother couldn’t handle the loss and faded away little by little until one day, she disappeared altogether.

  It was rumored that she checked into a mental hospital. It was also rumored that she flew to Las Vegas to swing from a pole and (my personal favorite) ran off to Florida to read tarot cards in a trailer park.

  Nothing had been confirmed.

  The day my father died was the day I stopped believing in magic, both literally and figuratively. Unfortunately my grandmother, Birdie, and her two sisters, Lolly and Fiona, took to raising me in the tradition of the Old Ways. This meant I grew up in the Victorian Era family home with crystals in every corner, herbs simmering on the stove, and black mirrors—scrying mirrors if you want to get technical—on the walls. Birdie insisted on teaching me everything she knew, but what she didn’t understand was that if I couldn’t save the people I loved most in this world, I had no use for witchcraft.

  You see, it was my fault Dad got behind the wheel that day. I had dreamt the night before of him falling on the ice, smacking his head into a fire hydrant. I thought he would be safer driving to work instead of his usual walking route so I begged him to take the car.

  It was the last time I ever saw him.

  But I’m getting ahead of myself, because at the moment I had bigger problems than battling my grandmother.

  You see, the baby sister I wished for on my sixth birthday appeared on my doorstep a few days ago claiming that the mother we shared was missing. And as if that wasn’t a loopy enough roller coaster ride, she made me promise not to involve Birdie.

  I was out of options. So I came here.

  TWO

  Ivy was engrossed in a trashy reality show called the Bad Girls Club. Two young women were beating the crap out of each other for no apparent reason on the screen. On the couch, the girl claiming to be my little sister was scribbling furiously in a green notebook. That notebook had not left her side since we met.

  “What is she writing?” Chance asked. A fair question since she was occupying his sofa and her combat boots were covering his latest Sports Illustrated.

  “She won’t tell me,” I said. “It’s personal.” Emphasis on personal.

  Ivy called over her shoulder. “Chance, can I have another cupcake, please?” This would be her third. Preceded by a bag of Cool Ranch Doritos, two Cokes and leftover pizza. It was 10:30 on Friday morning.

  “Sure. Help yourself.”

  Ivy bounded off the beige sofa and headed for the pantry.

  Chance watched her movements carefully, his blue eyes sharp, jaw set. The man looked like he just stepped out of the latest Ford Truck commercial. All American and sexy as hell. It was no wonder I fell so hard for him in high school.

  “How can you be sure she even is your sister?” he whispered.

  “I can’t be sure right now, but there is some family resemblance.”

  Green eyes, red hair of the Irish, although Ivy’s facial features were more angular than mine, her skin not as pale. The build of our bodies was different too. Most of the women in my family were lean and tall. Ivy had the look of a gymnast.

  “How do you know she doesn’t dye her hair?” Chance asked.

  “I don’t, but what would you have me do? I’m in uncharted territory here, Chance. Plus, with everything that’s happened lately...” My voice trailed off and I watched as a cloud passed over his face. I was sure he was thinking about my injuries at the hand of a maniac not so long ago.

  “You cannot dodge Birdie forever, you know. What about Cinnamon? Have you called her?”

  “Not yet.”

  My cousin, Cinnamon, was in Ireland with her husband, Tony, on the trip I was supposed to take with Leo, the man I recently parted ways with. Their schedule was open since the bar they owned, The Black Opal, was currently under construction due to a fire.

  Chance leaned forward in his chair and watched as Ivy sunk back into the couch and grabbed the remote. My Great Dane, Thor, climbed up after her and rolled onto his spine, waiting for crumbs to fall. A train of spittle dangled from his huge black and tan muzzle.

  “Why don’t the, um, three of you stay here? After the guests leave over the weekend, maybe you’ll have it all figured out and you can go back to the cottage.”

  I thought about that. Chance lived on a quiet street in a modest house with a finished basement, plus a spare bedroom. I hated to impose, but the offer was tempting. It would only be for the weekend and I had seen enough motel motif for the time being. I couldn’t go home if I was to keep my promise to Ivy of not involving Birdie just yet because my grandmother owned a bed and breakfast and I lived in a cottage on the property.

  It sounded like the simplest solution. I had to sort out this mess with Ivy plus, I needed some answers.

  Like was she really my sister?

  Where had my mother been all this time?

  And if we were related, did she know our family history dated back to the Druids of Kildare?

  Perhaps most important—did we have the same father?

  THREE

  I had told Birdie I was taking the train to visit an old friend from the city, so I was able to pack a few things. The bags were now in Chance’s truck since I had planned to ask him for a lift out of town.

  “Ivy,” I called, “We’re going to stay here for the weekend. How does that sound?” I asked.

  “Whoop!” Ivy yelled. “Fine by me. Chance has cable, Wii, and he knows how to shop for food.” She tossed a glance my way. “Stacy doesn’t even OWN a television. And the best thing she has in the fridge is Tofruitti. That stuff is nasty.” She made a face.

  “Will you please run down and get my bags? And there’s a box on the front seat. Grab that too.”

  Ivy ran over to us, her face open and eager. “Finally! Are you hatching a plan? Should I get my crystals?”

  I turned to her. “Excuse me?”

  “The box on the front seat—is the Blessed Book inside?”

  “What do you know about the Blessed Book?” I asked.

  The Blessed Book is a recording of our family history and theology. It’s filled with stories, recipes, spells and predictions for future generations. It began as an oral history hundreds of years ago, passed down to every daughter born to a Geraghty woman. When my great-grandmother, Meagan Geraghty, came to America, she recorded what she knew and passed it on to Birdie. Now it belonged to me.

  “Mom told me.” Ivy shuffled her feet a bit. “She didn’t talk about it much, but once in a while I’d hear bits and pieces about the book.”

  “I got it.” I held up a hand.

  But I didn’t get it. I couldn’t freaking believe it, actually. Ivy was about the same age I was when my mother left me. Before then, she refused to teach me anything about magic. She and Birdie went round and round about it. And although I knew the book existed, through Birdie and the aunts, I always thought my mother had a very good reason not to discuss it with me—that she was protecting me from whatever was inside it.

  Was she really protecting the book from me? Was I not a worthy enough descendant to take part in the tradition? Obviously, sh
e trusted Ivy enough. So why her and not me?

  Ivy snapped her fingers in front of my face. “Hello, Earth to Stacy,” she said.

  “Please just get the box and your bag. And no—” I said as she opened her mouth to ask another question, “It’s not the Blessed Book in that box, it’s my laptop. We’ll do this the responsible way. No magic.”

  “You’re the worst witch ever.” Ivy stomped her foot.

  She wasn’t wrong, but it still stung. A part of me really wanted this kid to like me. What was the point of having a little sister if she didn’t worship you?

  “Just leave me the letter she left you. I want to read it again,” I said.

  She gave me an odd look, tossed me a slip of paper and slammed the door. I stared at the space she had occupied willing a sign, a vision—anything to come to me. And then I wondered, if she was a Geraghty, what was Ivy’s gift?

  FOUR

  You see, every female Geraghty is born with a gift—a talent she is expected to nurture until it matured enough to use for the greater good. For instance, my Great Aunt Lolly was a thought-reader. If the phone rang, she knew who was on the line without looking at the caller ID. If I were to dream of apple pie for desert, it appeared on the table that night. Unfortunately, these days Lolly was about three cards short of a full house and often forgot her own name. We plied her with liquor to avoid these episodes since that seemed to keep her gears well oiled.

  Fiona’s talent was matchmaking. She could melt any man’s heart and smooth over the rockiest relationship with a look and a few words. Brad Pitt would still be married to Jennifer Aniston had they consulted my Aunt Fiona.

  Birdie was a healer. She could whip together a poultice or potion for just about any ailment. She was also the most powerful woman—never mind witch—I ever met.