Opal Fire Read online

  Her voice shot up an octave and I turned to watch her work, thankful I wasn’t that poor pear she was carving. I stared at my uneven shoes and thought back to earlier this morning. It seemed like a week ago. My stomach had been rumbling, but I was hungry. Seemed like a reasonable enough assumption since I had just woken up and didn’t eat much the night before.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure, but I hung the protection charm. Right inside the threshold like you taught me,” I said. That had to count for something.

  “Magic isn’t effective without common sense, Anastasia. I told you this was serious. You make mistakes, people get hurt,” she said. “This isn’t a game.”

  “And I told you, I am not a witch.” I tossed the cinnamon into the pot with the pears and added pear nectar and a splash of blackberry brandy. “Besides, the only one that got hurt was that poor chicken, and I’m pretty sure he was already dead.”

  The look on Birdie’s face told me my humor was wearing thin. “You need to study the spells, the enchantments, re-learn the early chapters of your youth you’ve tried so hard to forget.”

  “I read as much as I could. I got tired. How was I supposed to know someone would send me an exploding chicken?”

  “The rock through the window should have been your first clue.”

  Right. Of course she would know about that too, even if she had been in a cabin in the woods. That message taped to the rock made sense now. MORE WILL DIE. It was referring to Kathy Sims.

  “I’m trying,” I said.

  Birdie planted her hands on the counter and leaned in. “You came to me for help.”

  “Yes! And you ran away.”

  We were glaring at each other when Leo walked in. He looked from me to my grandmother, debated if an interruption would be wise and decided to take his chances. “I think your aunt Lolly’s a quart low,” he said, thumbing behind him. “She’s in there pretending Thor’s a plane and she’s trying to land him on an aircraft carrier.”

  I didn’t ask what the aircraft carrier was. I just grabbed the brandy and headed into the dining room.

  Turns out Mr. Smalls was the aircraft carrier and since Fiona was smiling at him, he didn’t care one bit. Thor gave me a long-suffering look.

  I shuffled to the sideboard for a goblet and set it in front of Lolly. Birdie came in with a fresh pot of coffee. I could tell she was loading up more ammunition.

  I filled Lolly’s glass with the brandy and patted her shoulder. She gulped the liquor like a thirsty sailor.

  “You are old enough to practice on your own. Everything you need is in that book.”

  The bell chimed on the stove, so I ignored my grandmother as I hobbled back into the kitchen.

  “That would only make sense if everything you believe about me is true,” I hissed to Birdie who was on my heels.

  “It is,” she said, firmly.

  “Right. Seeker of Justice and all that. But that’s not all your mother saw was it?”

  “Of course not,” Birdie said.

  I stopped and looked at her. “Are we talking about the same thing?”

  “Maegan made many predictions. I gather you didn’t get that far.”

  “The last paragraph after the history.” I didn’t mention the voice I had heard. “She spoke of a...” I glanced toward the doorway, making sure we were alone. Everyone seemed to still be invested in breakfast. “A person like her. A seer. Am I?”

  I heard Lolly suck in her breath all the way from the dining room.

  Birdie threw her shoulders back, looked me in the eye and said, “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know? Well thank you for clearing that up.” I waved my arm, swigged the brandy and immediately coughed.

  The oven mitts were hanging from the wall and I stuffed my hands into them to check the dish.

  “The point is,” Birdie said, “you don’t need me anymore.” Her voice was steady, determined. Pushing me away just like my mother had. Just when I needed her the most.

  I slammed the oven door shut and spun around. “That’s just it, Birdie.” It wasn’t until that moment, when I said it out loud, that I believed it myself. “I do need you. You’re all I have left.”

  Something flickered behind her eyes. A light. A truth. Hope. Then it was gone.

  CHAPTER 15

  Birdie and I never finished our conversation because Leo insisted that Tommy explain to me the dangers of handmade pipe bombs and how you should never, ever put one in your refrigerator. He also let me know that the bomb was small, activated remotely, with enough kick to burn up my hand, but not enough to kill me. Probably.

  Whoever planted it had intended it as a warning.

  Which didn’t really make me feel better.

  I helped feed everyone and slipped out with Thor on the excuse that I desperately needed a shower and a change of clothes, promising to call Leo later that evening.

  Right now, though, I was bundled up in my Jeep, Thor in the back with a scarf around his neck, and Bruce Springsteen on the radio, begging for Rosie to come out tonight.

  According to Map Quest, the Sims lived at the edge of Culver City and the drive should take about twenty minutes. It was after eleven, so I didn’t think I would be interrupting breakfast and if they were church goers, they should be home already.

  Culver City was a blue-collar town. A sheet metal factory was the main industry. It had its fair share of bars, a corner grocery, and a sprinkling of churches, but it lacked the luster of Amethyst. Although the terrain was right out of a Thomas Kincaid painting, the houses, streets, and buildings could have posed for a Mellencamp album.

  I pulled up next to a modest, clapboard house with black shutters, two of which were missing slats.

  I threw a blanket over Thor and told him to wait, grabbed my notebook, clipped off my spare key and left the car running with the heat on, but the doors locked. I took a deep breath and punched the doorbell.

  A small woman with ribbons of gray hair and huge eyes creaked the front door open.

  I knew those eyes.

  “Mrs. Sims?” I asked.

  “Yes, how can I help you?” Her words trickled from her lips like raindrops.

  “Hi. You don’t know me, but I—”

  “Then why are you here?” She avoided looking right at me like you might a solar eclipse.

  “Well, Ma’am—”

  “Are you selling something?”

  “No, Ma’am. My name is—”

  “Because I don’t need anything.”

  “Of course. I just wondered if I might speak with you a moment?”

  “Are you one of those Jehovah’s? Because we aren’t Jehovah.”

  This woman should be guarding the president, I swear.

  “No. I’m not a Jehovah’s Witness. I’m from Amethyst and I—”

  “I have to go now. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait!” I put my hand on the door and Mrs. Sims screamed like I had stabbed her.

  “What the hell?” Boomed from another room and a barrel of a man with a beard and a mop of curly hair was at the door in a flash. He glared at me and gingerly touched the woman’s shoulder. “Alma, honey, go fix some tea,” he said.

  He watched her leave the room and snarled, “Lady, whatever you’re sellin’ we don’t want it.” Then he slammed the door.

  I paused for a minute and decided to just go with, “It’s about Kathy.”

  When the door didn’t open right away, I assumed he thought I was a nut job and went to get his shotgun. I wondered if maybe I had made a mistake. Perhaps I had the wrong house?

  Then, slowly, the door opened and Mrs. Sims stood there, those wide eyes seeking answers I wasn’t sure I had.

  When we all had our tea spruced up and I was certain Mr. Sims wasn’t going to snap me like a pool cue, I began.

  I chose my words carefully. I wanted to be sure I had the right family. “I’m a reporter for the Amethyst Globe, and I stumbled across an old newspaper clipping with a picture of a young girl I thoug
ht I recognized. Her name was Kathy Sims and she had accompanied Matthew Huckleberry to a 1989 homecoming game in Amethyst. Is that your daughter?”

  Mrs. Sims clapped her hands and Mr. Sims sat up straighter, but still reserved.

  “Yes, yes!” squealed Mrs. Sims. “That’s her. That’s Kathy. Oh, is she okay? Do you know where she is?”

  Oh. My. God.

  How could I have been so stupid? It hadn’t occurred to me that these people might consider their daughter to still be alive.

  I really should have thought this through.

  Mrs. Sims held her breath, her teacup clanking against her wedding ring. Mr. Sims scratched his beard and I saw a sparkle of hope.

  They must have wanted to know the truth, one way or another. Not knowing—that would be much worse.

  I took a deep breath and said, “Did Kathy have a gold pin, shaped like a ‘K’?”

  “Yes. Yes, she does.” Mrs. Sims bobbed her head in agreement, but something on my face extinguished the sparkle in Mr. Sims’ eye.

  “Do you have a picture of her?” I asked.

  The Sims’ ushered me into the room of their dead daughter and the scent of Love’s Baby Soft smacked me hard. Then a rush of damp death consumed the air.

  It was her. She was here.

  “I got it,” I whispered so Kathy would stop beating me with her scent.

  “What’s that?” asked Mr. Sims.

  “Um, I spot it. The pin.” I straightened and walked toward the dresser, pointing to a photograph of Kathy wearing the brooch, Matt’s arm around her.

  “Was he her boyfriend?” I asked.

  Mrs. Sims started twirling her hair between her fingers. “Why do you talk about her like she’s gone? She just ran away is all. We was hard on her, see...”

  “Alma,” Mr. Sims said gently. He met her gaze and smiled. Then he looked at me and frowned. I wasn’t winning any brownie points with Mr. Sims.

  “Let’s talk in the living room,” I suggested.

  After so many tears, I explained to them what we had discovered, leaving out the details of where, why, and how, careful to stress that I wasn’t sure it was Kathy. They understood they would be contacted should they need to come to Amethyst to examine the belongings for a positive identification. The Sims opened up then. They relayed how they had gotten into a huge fight with their daughter near the end of her senior year in high school. She wanted to go to some “Back in Time” dance and they wouldn’t allow it. She was a rebellious girl, and she snuck out through the window after dinner with a packed bag. They assumed, to meet up with her boyfriend, Matt Huckleberry.

  Back in time. That explained her costume.

  “We never heard from her after that,” Mrs. Sims sobbed.

  “I’m so sorry,” I offered. “And Matt. Did he hear from her?”

  Mrs. Sims shook her head. “That’s the kicker. He never heard word one from her. Said he was asleep in bed all night. Said she never came by. He was such a good boy. We sure liked him.” She looked up at me. “I thought maybe she run off to Hollywood, like she was always talkin’ about, you know? We checked with the train people and, well...” Her words fell off.

  I nodded, aching for her. I knew what it was like to lose someone and not know why or how. Always wondering, questioning what could have been done differently.

  One way or another, the Sims were going to get their answer.

  “Did you file a missing person’s report?”

  Mr. Sims scoffed. “Damn cops just kept telling us she run away is all. Said she was eighteen and since she took a bag and there wasn’t no trace of foul play wasn’t much they could do. They sniffed around, asked a few questions here and there, but no one seen her. They figured she hitch-hiked outta town.”

  I learned that Matt Huckleberry sent the Sims a Christmas card every year. Matt lived on a farm in an unincorporated section of the county, off the beaten path. It was lunchtime when I finished speaking with the Sims and I had yet to eat, so I swung through a drive-through and ordered Thor a couple of cheeseburgers and a grilled chicken sandwich, no mayo, for myself. We ate in silence as I jotted a few notes and contemplated what I was going to say to Matt. I was sure he knew of my family, even if he didn’t know me. Since his father was close with my uncle, he had to know Cinnamon at least.

  Come to think of it, I wondered why I didn’t see more of him around Amethyst. I assumed he lived nowhere near town, but he was only a few miles away.

  A soft snow began to fall as I backed out of the parking lot and pointed the Jeep west. I circled down an empty road, as the Sims had instructed, and found myself winding around a frozen lake with no houses in sight.

  The wipers were doing their job when I spotted a hand-painted wooden sign dressed with twinkle lights ten minutes later. The sign read: HUCKLEBERRY’S FRESH CUT TREES.

  I turned down the long driveway. Acres of snow-capped pines and firs drifted by, leading me to a grand Victorian draped in fresh garland. Candle lights in each window and red velvet bows along the porch railing made me think for a second that Bing Crosby was about to tap dance across the hood of my car.

  I got out of the Jeep and clipped a leash on Thor who immediately whizzed on my tire.

  “Dammit, Thor, there’s a thousand trees around here,” I scolded.

  “Ah, but warm rubber doesn’t poke like a Scotch pine,” said a voice behind me.

  I jumped and scooted around, face to face with a man who had to share Robert Redford’s genes.

  He wore a blue scarf that matched his eyes and a thick down jacket that hid all the good parts.

  “Hi, there,” he said, extending his arm, “Matt Huckleberry.”

  I shook his hand, expecting a bad feeling, but got nothing through the gloves.

  “Hi, uh, I’m...”

  Thor ran past me and I stumbled into Matt as the dog pounced on the porch.

  Matt smiled at me and helped me right myself. Then I yelled, “Thor! Come!”

  “Oh, he's fine. He’s probably cold. Why don’t you both come inside? I have some fresh hot chocolate.”

  “Well, um, I.” Complete sentences, Stacy, you know this.

  “Come on.” Matt put his hand on the small of my back and led me to the front door. I moved forward.

  The smart girl inside me was saying, don’t go inside, what if he killed her? But the shallow slut was duct taping her mouth shut.

  Blame it on the Winter Wonderland.

  A bell chimed as we entered the foyer and a train sped over my head, whistling. Thor bounded after it and Matt laughed.

  As promised, hot chocolate steamed on a buffet with a bowl of miniature marshmallows next to it and oatmeal cookies stacked high on a plate.

  There was a crisply scented tree just to my right covered with heart-shaped ornaments and pink tinsel.

  It was all too surreal.

  “This is our Valentine’s display, but we still have 75% off on our Christmas decorations,” Matt said as he poured the cocoa.

  This was the guy? Santa’s hot little helper?

  “Marshmallows?” he offered.

  I shook my head.

  “So what can I help you with?” He handed me the warm mug.

  “Actually, Matt, I don’t know if you recognize me, but, my name is Stacy Justice and I wanted to talk to you about—”

  “Stacy? Oh my gosh. Look at you all grown up! Of course, I know who you are. Wait, are you here about my father?”

  “No. I’m here about Kathy Sims.”

  Matt stepped back and stared at me for a beat. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time,” he said quietly. He removed his scarf and hung it on a hook.

  “Yes, well, I wondered if I could ask you a few questions about her?”

  “Why?” His voice raised an octave.

  “Well,” I stammered, unsure how much I should reveal. I placed the cocoa on the side table.

  “Has she contacted you?” he asked.

  Yes. She appeared in my bathroom mirror. “No,
but I may have stumbled across something that belonged to her and I wanted to return it, but I was told that she...left the area.”

  Please don’t ask what I found.

  Matt stalked forward, eyes glued to me. I took a step back and clutched my amethyst necklace.

  “What did you find?” His voice told me he didn’t believe me.

  I took another step back, reaching behind me for the door handle.

  “What. Did. You. Find?” He grabbed my wrist.

  “A pin,” I blurted.

  “You’re lying,” Matt said, still holding me.

  “No, I’m not. Thor!” Where the hell was that dog? Protector my ass.

  “Tell me, Stacy, did Kathy come to you?” Hell, it was like Jeffrey Dahmer disguised as Jimmy Stewart.

  “What? No.”

  He grabbed my other wrist, urgency in his tone. “Did she come to you? Did Kathy visit you, Stacy?”

  Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

  “Look, I know what you are, Stacy Justice. I know all about the Geraghty Girls,” Matt said.

  “Thor,” I squeaked and gave a slight nod.

  “Is she dead?” he asked.

  I gave a slight nod.

  Matt pulled me to him with force and I held my breath.

  “I knew it, I knew it,” he said and hugged me. Then he buried his head in my hair and sobbed.

  Okay, this guy was freaking me out.

  “Come into the parlor, we’ll talk,” he whispered.

  “No thanks, it’s late. Thor!” Cripes, where does a 180-pound dog hide?

  “Come on.” Matt pulled at me, still holding my arm, and dragged me further into the house.

  I counted three doors and twelve windows, deciding Thor was on his own before Matt said, “I loved that girl. She was my best friend.”

  He sighed and ushered me to a settee as he sunk into a chaise lounge, rubbing his temples.

  “Friend?”

  Matt looked at me and nodded.

  “That wasn’t the impression I got.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I thought you two were a couple.”

  Matt laughed. “Yes, well when you’re captain of the football team in a small Midwest town and your homophobic father runs a dive bar, people make assumptions.”