Bloodstone (A Stacy Justice Mystery) Read online

  The sink was filling up with water but I hadn’t plugged the drain. I twisted the faucet and went fishing for what was causing the blockage. The stopper put up a fight but it finally relented and popped out with a clang, clang, clang.

  Only it wasn’t the stopper that made the noise. It was a penny. The year I was born.

  I padded back to the bedroom. Ivy was already on her side of the bed and I slid in beside her. I set the alarm for six a.m., enough time to talk to Birdie before she served her guests—and prayed for a dreamless sleep.

  The last thought that ran through my mind before I drifted off was if that thing was what I think it was, I am in way over my head with this kid.

  IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS

  by Ivy Geraghty

  Entry #8

  Today, I shall meet the mother of my mother, Brighid Geraghty, descendant of the Great Goddess Brighid whose fire still burns on the Green Isle in the county of Kildare. (Although I think it’s completely asinine to roll out of bed at the crack of dawn). At the home of my mother and her ancestors, we shall combine the talents of two generations of Geraghty women and continue our quest to save one of our own.

  -Ivy Geraghty, Junior Apprentice Warrior Goddess (in training)

  TWENTY-NINE

  “Ivy, hurry up in there. We have to get to the house before breakfast,” I said through the bathroom door. Saturday breakfasts were a little more hectic than Sundays. Guests were usually in a rush to get downtown for shopping and sightseeing. Not only did we need to talk to Birdie, but also I needed to get my hands on the book. Where had Fiona stored my things?

  The trophies and the shelf were stacked in a corner of the basement and I dusted up the crumbled drywall and tossed it in the trash. There was a note for Chance on the kitchen counter telling him where we would be and the pennies were tucked in the tiger’s eye locket that hung around Thor’s neck. I was showered and dressed and in desperate need of coffee.

  I sat on the bed and reached for my black boots thinking about the thoughtform from last night.

  A thoughtform (also called on egregore) is a manifestation of energy created through visualization. They aren’t real beings, but often take on an anthropomorphic or zoomorphic form. They serve as watchers, messengers, even companions. It takes a good deal of concentration and practice to develop one and only the most powerful and well-honed witch can charge a thoughtform.

  Never have I heard of anyone who could do it in her sleep like Ivy had done with Petey.

  The door clicked softly and Ivy emerged from the bathroom all sleepy-eyed. She yawned and said, “It’s practically still dark outside. Why on Earth do we have to leave so early?” She yawned again and fumbled through her backpack. She pulled out a black ball cap with a white pentagram embroidered on it and cupped it on her head, tucking her ears under, then straightened her fiery mane. She walked over to give Thor a belly scratch.

  “Because the guests are served at eight o’clock and the sooner we get this over with, the better.” I ushered her toward the door.

  We made it to the inn in under ten minutes. There was no sign of life in the front of the house, but I was certain there was some food preparation happening in the kitchen.

  If only that were all that was happening, things may have turned out differently.

  THIRTY

  The view through the glass panes in the door showed Mr. Sayer slumped across the apothecary table that served as the prep island, a dagger sticking out of his back and blood staining his shirt. For a split second, I panicked, but then I remembered he was taking this whole murder-mystery weekend seriously. Although, I suspected his cover was blown at that point.

  The spare key was kept in a gargoyle’s mouth that guarded the flowerbeds. I liberated it and unlocked the back door. Ivy followed.

  “Stacy, I have to use the bathroom,” she said.

  There was no sign of Birdie or the aunts.

  “Down the hall to the right.”

  She scampered off and I greeted Mr. Sayer. He stuck to character, not uttering a word, so I crossed to the marble countertop near the old Hoosier cabinet to pour myself a cup of coffee. The sun was peeking through the window over the farm sink when Aunt Fiona emerged from the back stairway a few minutes later. Lolly trailed behind her.

  “Oh, hello, dear. You’re up early.” Fiona so put together for this ungodly hour, one might suspect she had a crew working on her all night while she slept. Lolly, on the other hand, decided to set her hair in pin curls. Using actual safety pins. She looked like a voodoo doll experiment gone horribly wrong.

  Lolly shuffled, head down, towards the countertop where the mug tree dutifully carried all the coffee cups on its sturdy wooden arms. Fiona reached for a bottle of Bailey’s Irish cream as Lolly contemplated which mug should set the tone for the day. She chose one with a caption that read Life’s a witch and then you fly.

  Birdie emerged from the fruit cellar then, two jars of homemade jam in her hands—raspberry or perhaps strawberry and peach. Most of what they served their guests was either harvested from the gardens on the property or supplied by local farmers.

  “Anastasia. What a surprise.” She said it like it was anything but. “Come to help us with breakfast?”

  I held up my coffee cup in a gesture of greeting. It had been a gift to me from Birdie years ago that I never packed up when I moved out. It read: My grandma can put a spell on your grandma.

  “Sure.”

  She nodded, then turned to the apothecary table to relieve herself of her load. She glanced over at Mr. Sayer and grunted. “For Pete’s sake, is he still at his silly game?” She picked up the not quite empty mug next to Mr. Sayer, placed it in the sink, and crossed to the cast iron stove where she turned the dial to 350 degrees.

  “Guess he really wants to win that prize,” I said, sipping my coffee. “What is it by the way?”

  Birdie waved her hand. “Who knows. There’s some dinner down at the Riverview Hotel and that’s where the festivities will take place this evening.” She pulled out a pan from the refrigerator. Stuffed baked French toast, from the looks of it, with blueberry filling. Then she said, “I don’t know why I let the chamber members talk me into such nonsense. It only serves to attract the lonely and the unbalanced.”

  The Geraghty Girls House attracted that clientele every weekend, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I reached for a warm up and wondered where Ivy had gotten off to and how exactly I might introduce my grandmother to her new granddaughter—or if she would even believe Ivy’s story.

  I ran a few introductions over in my mind as I watched Fiona dice fresh fruit compote to accompany the French toast. “So Birdie, guess who has a sister?” Or perhaps, “It’s a girl!” might be the way to go.

  “Stacy, be a dear and please wake him. He must have fallen asleep or passed out. I have no time for shenanigans during the breakfast hour.” Birdie put the French toast pan on the counter to let it reach room temperature. Then she climbed back down the steps to the fruit cellar.

  I set my coffee down and said, “Mr. Sayer? Rise and shine. It’s almost breakfast time.”

  He still lay there, like a growth that had sprouted from the wood. I stepped forward and said louder, “Come on, I’ll help you back to your room and you can practice being the murder victim later.”

  He didn’t stir. In fact, he was silent.

  Really silent.

  My stomach did that flippy floppy thing it did right before I heard Mrs. Honeycut’s scream. The vision flashed again, piercing my head with nothing but red. Blood red. The chair caught my sway and I stilled myself.

  Fiona was humming as she chopped the fruit. A Billie Holiday tune. “You say tomato, I say tomato...”

  I looked closer at Mr. Sayer, or more accurately, the knife standing on his back that seemed uncomfortably familiar.

  “Fiona, does that, er, blade handle look like anything you’ve seen before?” I asked.

  She turned around, looked at Mr. Sayer, and
frowned. “I suppose it might be a plastic imitation of the ritual athame your grandmother uses.”

  I stepped closer to Mr. Sayer. Maybe he was just a really good actor with the air capacity of a zeppelin. I saw no movement coming from any part of his body. Statue stiff.

  My voice cracked as I called, “Birdie...did you see Mr. Sayer earlier this morning?”

  “I did. Did you get rid of him yet? Can’t have any stray bodies lying around.” She sounded irritated, still banging around down the cellar steps, mumbling about purple potatoes.

  I had to be mistaken. Had to be. A corpse in the kitchen would be really bad for business. “What, um, exactly did he say?”

  Fiona looked up from her chopping. Arched her swan-like neck.

  “Honestly, Anastasia, I don’t have time for this,” Birdie called.

  After a moment of shuffling noises, she still hadn’t come back up the stairs so I ducked my head down.

  “Humor me, Birdie,” I said.

  One exasperated sigh later, I heard her say, “If you must know, he didn’t say much of anything. He came home smelling like a brewery last night and asked me to pour ketchup on his back. Said he was really enjoying the game. I must have forgotten to latch the door after I went back into the kitchen. I found him there drinking coffee this morning. Your aunt Lolly had a time of it last night, what with all the excitement, so she needed her rest and I didn’t have the energy to chase him out.”

  Lolly was the primary chef. It kept her out of trouble and Birdie away from the guests first thing in the morning. Birdie didn’t mind cooking, but she did mind strangers in her kitchen and no matter how many notices you post, people will wander where they aren’t supposed to at a bed and breakfast. She once caught a group of people—not even guests—who had come in off the street while she was in the garden. They were looking for a place to stay and since they were told Amethyst was such a friendly community, decided to help themselves to a vintage Merlot. I don’t know what she slipped into the open bottle as she explained there were no vacancies, but I didn’t see those people anywhere in town the rest of the weekend. Or ever again for that matter.

  Fiona smiled widely and made a gesture like she was wiping sweat from her brow.

  I walked over to Mr. Sayer and gently shook his arm. “Mr. Sayer?”

  A trace of lavender floated directly behind me. Fiona was at my back. She put a hand on my shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

  “He’s not moving,” I said to her. “Feels just a bit cold.”

  “Well, it isn’t yet Spring. The air is still sharp.”

  We both looked at Lolly who grinned back, took a hit of Bailey’s Irish Cream and began unpinning her hair.

  I said, “Okay, let’s go with that.”

  Birdie emerged from the cellar, a jar of honey in her hand. “I cannot find the purple potatoes.” She looked to me, then Fiona and said, “What?”

  I spoke. “He isn’t moving, Birdie. Not even his chest. You know—where the air comes in.”

  Birdie rolled her eyes. “Oh, please. He’s fine. Probably just passed out. See if he has a pulse. I have to dress.” Then she floated up the back stairwell.

  Fiona nudged me and I briefly wondered how I got stuck with the job of pulse checker for the family business.

  Gently, I peeled back the collar on Mr. Sayer’s shirt then hesitated.

  “What is it dear?” Fiona asked.

  “His shirt is damp.”

  Fiona leaned over my shoulder to get a look.

  Behind me, I heard Ivy say, “Whoa, dude was a vampire snack.”

  I snapped my head around and looked at Ivy standing in the doorframe that led to the dining room.

  “There are no such thing as vampires.” I glanced at Fiona for clarification on the matter, because honestly, how the hell would I know? “Right?”

  “That’s right, dear,” she said.

  Then the front doorbell rang and since I couldn’t think of a worse time for Ivy and Birdie to meet, I sent her to answer it. Luckily, Fiona seemed more concerned with the issue at hand than about Ivy and the Bailey’s had yet to kick into Aunt Lolly.

  When there’s a dead guy in the kitchen, everything else seems much less important.

  IVY GERAGHTY’S PERSONAL BOOK OF SHADOWS

  by Ivy Geraghty

  Entry #9

  The power that radiates from the house of my ancestors is electric! I can feel it everywhere and I know in my heart of hearts that the blood of the Goddess from whence we came still flows through my body generations removed. My grandmother is an inspiration to witches everywhere and especially to me, as it will be my first encounter with an High Priestess of the Old Ways. I have much to learn before I am initiated into the coven, but study hard I will and the Mission shall continue. (Except there’s a stiff in the kitchen who is seriously crunching my mojo.) Now I shall see who calls on the house of the Geraghtys.

  -Ivy Geraghty, Junior Apprentice Warrior Goddess (in training)

  THIRTY-TWO

  After a quick phone call to the police station, I darted out the back door around to my cottage.

  John’s hair was unkempt and his shirt inside out as he stumbled to answer my knock. No sign of Deirdre. I quickly explained the situation and asked if he would come check it out since I was, after all, just a newspaper reporter and not a doctor. However, from the condition of Mr. Sayer I was doubtful an ambulance would help. I was trying to buy Birdie and the aunts a bit of time and save their guests from waking up to sirens. Hopefully, they could send the wagon or whatever they call the vehicle that picks up bodies around to the back of the property without disturbing the guests.

  Fiona prepared a cup of coffee for John while Lolly wandered into the dining room. I heard the clang of silverware a few seconds later as she set the table.

  As if a guest dropped dead every day before the timer on the oven buzzed.

  John scratched his head and leaned in to smell the man’s shirt. “Who poured ketchup on him?”

  I nodded toward my grandmother.

  John looked at her and asked, “Why?”

  She sighed. “He asked me to. Yesterday evening. I can’t believe he’s wearing the same shirt.” She was checking on the baked French toast and didn’t turn around.

  John snapped his fingers and said, “Oh, yeah, that murder mystery thing.” Then he circled the table, squinting at the body slumped across it and scratched his head again. Fiona offered up the coffee and he thanked her.

  “Tell me again why you didn’t call Leo.” This, directed at me.

  “I did. Gus told me he was out on a call and he would send him over ASAP. Said he would let him know what was going on.”

  “Did he say how long he would be?” John took a big swig of java, eyeing Birdie.

  “He just said Mr. Shelby called to report someone had altered his goats again,” I told him.

  Fiona sighed and shook her head. “The poor dears. What was it this time?”

  I shrugged. “Something about writing ‘Go Eagles’ in block letters on a dozen of them.”

  John looked like someone just poked him in the forehead with a sharp stick.

  I tried to explain, although really, it didn’t make much sense to me why people harassed those poor goats. Last time, they had been smeared with Nair. “The high school basketball team has a good shot at making it to the state finals.”

  I continued, “I really didn’t want Gus to be first on the scene.” Gus made Barney Fife look like Sherlock Holmes. “Plus I was hoping to avoid a marked car parked out front so the guests wouldn’t be frightened. I thought maybe you could help sort things out until Leo can get here.”

  John sucked down more coffee. “You should have just called an ambulance. They’d pick him up in a small town like this.”

  “So...is he? Dead I mean?” I asked.

  Fiona said, “Perhaps his heart attacked him?”

  I looked at Mr. Sayer who was on the far side of fifty. He could have seriously benefited from a g
ym membership.

  “What about around his neck? It’s wet,” I said.

  John held out his cup, seeking more caffeine and Fiona obliged. “Deirdre accidentally spilled her drink on him when they were singing Karaoke. No telling cause of death without a coroner’s exam.” He looked at Birdie. “Mrs. Geraghty, if you don’t mind, just run through it for me step by step. When did you first see Mr. Sayer in the kitchen?” He pulled a stool out from beneath the table, flipped it around and straddled it backwards.

  Birdie was draining bacon on a paper towel. She explained that Mr. Sayer was sitting in the same stool he was in now when she arrived down the back stairs. He had already helped himself to coffee. She greeted him and went to work on preparing the morning’s meal.

  John stopped listening half-way through the story. He was close enough to Mr. Sayer that he could lean his head over the man’s back. Then he blinked a couple of times, sat back, frowned and said, “You want the good news or the bad news, ladies?”

  THIRTY-THREE

  “What’s the good news?” I asked not really wanting the answer.

  John crossed his arms. “The good news is he won’t be annoying any of you or your guests anymore.”

  Lolly chimed in, excited. “What’s the bad news?”

  We all stared at her for a moment and John said, “Not sure he died of natural causes.”

  I shook my head. “No, no. That can’t be.”

  John rose to his full height. “Stacy, there is some blood on his shirt. That may not be a prop knife, but I’m not going to touch it to find out.” Then he frowned. “Although there isn’t as much blood as there should be if he were stabbed.” He looked at Birdie. “Mostly it’s ketchup.”

  Suddenly, Ivy was very noticeably absent. Panic bubbled in my stomach. What was taking her so long at the door? The thought of a knife-wielding maniac prowling the house jump-started my legs into action.