Emerald Isle (A Stacy Justice Mystery) Page 2

  I slid the stool back and stood. “Birdie, shouldn’t we wait until after Mom is home?”

  My grandmother paused for a minute, her back to me. All I could see was a spark of copper hair poking out from beneath her hood. Finally, she turned and said, “This is your time. Your mother’s revival will come when it’s her time.” She opened the door, tossed a smile at me, and left.

  Had I known at that moment the surprise in store for me later that night, I would have crawled back under the covers with Thor.

  Chapter 2

  I finished my second cup of coffee, showered, and dressed all before Thor climbed out of bed. I was just pulling on a pair of brown leather boots over my new jeans when he sauntered into the living room and did a full-body shake, launching a glob of doggie slime onto the ceiling.

  “Good morning, boy. Are you hungry?”

  He tap-danced around the living room and barked, raising a paw in the air.

  “Okay, business first, breakfast second.”

  I let my dog out the back door and reached into the cupboard for his stainless-steel bowl. I mixed him up a hearty portion of boiled chicken, pumpkin, and rice, laced with olive oil and a few vitamins. Thor had recently recovered from a nasty injury, and at our repeated visits to the vet, his doctor managed to convince me that cheeseburgers and pizza were not the best source of nutrition. There were no excuses for my ignorance on canine care, and I had to admit I was grateful for the fresher-smelling air in my house. Although every once in a while, we still indulged in a junk-food fix.

  Thor let himself in the screen door a few minutes later by pulling on the handle with his teeth. The door slapped back and forth, and my giant familiar went to investigate what the morning’s meal consisted of while I reached for a strawberry yogurt.

  My phone rang as I was cleaning up the breakfast dishes.

  “Happy birthday!” Cinnamon, my cousin, said. “I hope you don’t have any plans today, because I booked us some girl time.”

  “Does it involve pampering?”

  “It does.”

  “You rock.”

  Cinnamon laughed, and we made arrangements to meet at the Amethyst Oasis Spa at eleven o’clock.

  I called Lolly after that and requested her famous balsamic chicken and fried zucchini for dinner with peach ice cream and apple cake for dessert. Her gift to me every year was a fabulous meal I didn’t have to help prepare. As busy as she, Birdie, and their middle sister, Fiona, were running the bed-and-breakfast they owned (converted from the house their father had built), the three of them rarely took any time off. The last week of September was the one exception they allowed themselves. I wasn’t sure if it was a happy accident that my birthday fell around that time, if they planned it that way to celebrate in private, or if they just welcomed the break between the busy summer and the even busier fall season. Regardless of the reason, I had no complaints. I helped out at the inn whenever they needed a hand, which was quite often, so no guests for them meant a break for me as well.

  A short while later, I was in the car with Thor in the backseat, headed to the office of the newspaper where I worked.

  We walked into the new editor’s office at the Amethyst Globe just as he was wrestling with the printer. There was a wad of paper at his feet—crimped, crumbled, and generally strewn about in choppy pieces.

  Before I could ask if he needed a hand, he started kicking the machine and a stream of colorful insults gushed from his mouth. “You worthless, archaic, made-in-China crap factory!”

  I cleared my throat. “Need a hand?”

  Derek turned around. “I hate this thing.” He glared at the printer like it had just slept with his girlfriend.

  “Allow me.”

  I walked over to the printer and turned it off, then on again, then off. I opened the paper tray, pulled out the jammed wad, and turned the machine back on, and it went about its business. Thor decided to nest in the pile of discarded refuse on the floor.

  “Thank you,” Derek said. “Tell me again why is it that I’m the editor and not you?”

  I sat down in the chair across from his desk. “Because we both decided that you’re much better at delegating than I am.”

  “Bull. You just don’t want to be stuck behind a desk all day.” Derek took a seat behind his desk.

  “True. But you get shot at way less than I do.”

  “True.” He fist-bumped me and I smiled.

  Our old boss and my father’s long-ago partner, Shea Parker, was convicted a short while back on several charges, including obstruction of justice, withholding information to defer an investigation, and tampering with a corpse. He was serving six months in a county jail. Parker was sole owner of the paper, having inherited the 51 percent my father owned when he died. Before going into lockup, he signed that 51 percent over to me. My grandfather, who had a small fortune, offered to foot the rest of the money so that I could own the paper outright, but that was the kind of responsibility I just couldn’t take on right now. Derek’s father, an East Coast investment banker, lent Derek the money to invest in the remaining 49 percent. So now we were partners.

  Derek said, “So what brings you by? I thought you were taking the day off.”

  “I was, but I needed something from my office and I thought I’d pop in to see how things were going and to invite you to my birthday dinner.”

  Derek narrowed his eyes. “Is it at your grandma’s house?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’m busy.”

  “Don’t be such a baby.”

  Thor was chomping loudly on a piece of paper to my left.

  “I’m a baby? Are you serious? Now, hold up, woman. Even you have to admit that place is superfreaky. People getting killed. Murderers booking rooms. Dead men just walking away. Sheesh.” He shook his head, shuffled some papers around. “I’m not a baby. I don’t want my head chopped off is all.”

  I sighed. “First of all, the dead man was in the morgue when he walked away, not at my grandmother’s house. And second, no one’s head ever got chopped off. That was a complete fabrication. Quit believing everything the locals tell you.” I stood up and said, “You should come. It’ll be fun. Six o’clock.”

  “Come where?” a voice behind me asked.

  I smelled her before I saw her. She was wearing a scent usually found in red-light districts.

  I leaned toward Derek. “Please tell me she’s placing a singles ad.”

  Derek shook his head but wouldn’t meet my eyes.

  “Help wanted?” I asked.

  Another shake.

  “I’m the new sex columnist, Stacy,” Monique Fontaine said from behind me.

  I went to high school with Monique. She dressed like a stripper, talked like a truck driver, and had all the personality of a used-car salesman. Individually, these traits might be annoying but bearable. Package them all up in a silicone-enhanced, overtanned body, and they made you want to poke her with a sharp stick.

  I turned to face her. “No.”

  She folded her arms. “Derek already hired me.”

  I had to admire her bravery as she snapped her gum at me. Her choice of clothing, not so much. I was pretty sure she was wearing a Frederick’s of Hollywood costume called Naughty Secretary. The skirt, although plaid, was hiked up to her hips, she wore long white socks with platform Mary Janes, and the buttons on her gray blouse were losing the war with her DD implants. I was thankful for the tie tucked into her cleavage.

  “He did that without my approval.” I glared at Derek.

  He stood up. “What do you want me to do? You’re taking a two-week leave pretty soon. I need to fill up some space.”

  “So give Gladys a column. She’s been wanting to do more than just research anyway.”

  “Gladys has a hard time speaking the English language, let alone writing it. You know that.”

  He had me there. The sixtysomething was from Poland and spoke in broken fragments, but she would have been a better choice for our tame little
town. People in Amethyst wanted to read about ice cream socials, church fund-raisers, and how to plant a sunset mum garden. Not how to give a hummer and still keep your lipstick intact.

  I turned to face her. “Don’t you have a bar to run?”

  She shrugged. “Down and Dirty has slowed now that your cousin’s place is up and running. I decided to close on the slow nights, pick up a part-time gig.”

  Cinnamon owned the Black Opal Bar and Grill, which had been a Main Street icon for eighty years. The place had recently received a makeover, thanks to a fire, but it was freshly renovated and fully functional again.

  I looked from Derek to Monique and said, “This is a trial run.”

  They both nodded. I looked at the two of them and then at Thor. “I’ll be right back. Don’t slime anything.”

  Derek said, “He won’t. He’s a good pooch.”

  “I wasn’t talking to the dog,” I said.

  My office was just down the hall. I hurried to retrieve the three muses sword my grandmother had given me when I landed my first job as a reporter. I was going to need it tonight for the ritual.

  I climbed on top of a chair and unhooked the sword from the small triquetra that anchored it to the far wall. Just as I grabbed the hilt, my office door slammed shut, the lights went out, and a sharp jolt sizzled through me as my feet faltered. I toppled to the floor.

  The wind was knocked out of me, so I lay there a few moments on my back, trying to catch my breath. The sword was hot in my hands.

  That’s when she appeared.

  Chapter 3

  Birdie Geraghty busied herself by shopping for supplies for the evening’s ritual. Her mind had been racing a thousand miles a minute, and doing something so mundane as pushing a shopping cart through an uninspired, fluorescently lit structure calmed her thoughts.

  She loaded milk, sugar, eggs, and cheese into the basket. There were plenty of herbs, spices, vegetables, and fruits harvested from her own garden back at the house, but there was only so much three old ladies could do on their own anymore. Truth be told, Birdie didn’t miss the days of making candles, shearing sheep, or weaving cloaks. She rather liked leaving some of the work up to others. She did, however, miss the archer hunts, the fencing, and the psychic competitions.

  But she had left all of that back at the Academy. It seemed like a lifetime ago now, as her knees protested a squat to reach the flour on the bottom shelf. A lifetime ago and a continent away.

  Birdie’s thoughts returned to the present day as she passed the wine aisle. They would need some for the ritual and perhaps extra should her granddaughter invite friends to her birthday celebration.

  She ticked off several more items on her list. Orange, brown, and yellow candles, maize, a few extra gourds, as this year’s crop hadn’t yielded many, graham crackers, and molasses.

  She stood in the fourth aisle of the grocery store, having added a jar of green food coloring to the cart for the Green Man tribute, checking the basket’s contents against her list. A smile crept across Birdie’s face as she scratched off the remaining items.

  Today is the day she comes back.

  It had been years since Birdie had felt connected to her oldest granddaughter. The little ball of energy had been filled with an insatiable passion for life and an enthusiastic understanding of her gifts from the time she could crawl. Birdie would watch the child scoot across the carpet, chattering in Gaelic to her ancestors, giggling and gibbering in that manner in which only the innocent can. By the time she was five years old, the girl was enchanting herbs, identifying gemstones, and reciting recipes. By ten, she was a master spell crafter and the dead were visiting her regularly. Once, the Samhain that Anastasia was thirteen, a dark spirit forced its way through the veil during the yearly ritual celebration that took place in the woods behind the Geraghty Girls’ Guesthouse. It clung to the girl and followed her home. That night, Birdie’s daughter had called to relay the story of how the young witch single-handedly banished the spirit back through the veil, binding it to harm none.

  Then, one year later, after the girl’s father passed, she turned her back on all of it. Her passion, her visions, her lessons, her very essence was extinguished. It was as if someone had reached right inside her soul and turned out the light.

  There is always an emptiness that washes over an elder when a child reaches independence. Tragically, Anastasia’s willfulness arrived far too soon in her young life, with the added burden of guilt and the weariness of loss. Guilt over not having been able to prevent her father’s death, loss of her mother to imprisonment. Birdie simply hadn’t been prepared for it. Nor had she been prepared for the secrets and the lies she was forced to tell to protect Anastasia.

  Yet, somehow, rather than protect her granddaughter, the secrets had broken her.

  It shamed Birdie to even think about those days. What she wouldn’t give to turn back the clock. Perhaps she would be gentler with her granddaughter. Perhaps she should have told her what had happened to her mother. Except Birdie didn’t have all the answers to that mystery herself.

  Would it have mattered? Would it have reignited Anastasia’s drive? Forced her to face her destiny once again? Or would it have only driven her mad?

  Let the past lie in the shadows, Birdie, she thought. It served no purpose to shine light on painful memories. Tonight would be a new beginning. She had much to be thankful for. Both of her granddaughters were turning into such fine young women. Cinnamon was a wife, business owner, and soon-to-be mother. Anastasia was a truth seeker, reemerging as the powerful witch Birdie always knew she was. Both such strong young women. And soon her daughter would be home.

  Yes, indeed, she had much to be thankful for.

  The cart was nearly full by the time Birdie reached the checkout line. She began unloading her groceries onto the conveyer belt when suddenly a pang gripped her chest.

  “Are you all right?” the young cashier asked.

  Birdie clutched the edge of the cart and struggled to focus on his features.

  The man’s face blurred until it was completely gone, her breath with it.

  The air in the room chilled, and I had a vague awareness of Thor barking as my breath came in stiff spurts. I was still flat on my back, and a bit sore from landing on my ass, but too scared to do anything about it.

  I didn’t recognize the woman. She was transparent. Nothing more than a pearly mist like a moonbeam, but the shape, and the wavy hair that floated around her head, definitely looked female. She didn’t radiate the same vibe as other ghosts. As she hovered over my body, she didn’t seem desperate to pass along a message, as the dead so often did when they revealed themselves to me.

  She seemed pissed.

  Finally, the illuminated apparition spoke.

  “Tonight, the Seeker burns a path through history.

  In the forest, may only humans be.

  Choose your words wisely. Choose them well.

  For words are only words until they create a spell.

  Should you reveal weakness or a hint of fear,

  They will come, and you will meet the Web of Weird.”

  Her eyes had the glow of blue marbles as her stare ripped through my soul. She hovered, waiting for…what? Acknowledgment?

  I gave a faint nod, despite understanding none of the riddle. Then she was gone.

  I scrambled to my feet in a coughing fit, as my lungs devoured all the air in the room. There was a crash down the hall—breaking glass—and the thunderous gallop of a Great Dane on a mission. Thankfully, the lights flicked on, the door flew open, and Thor charged into my office without having to demolish the door.

  Apparently, Derek had not been so lucky.

  “Dammit, Thor!” he said from behind my dog.

  Thor came to me first, then, deciding I was fine, proceeded to inspect every inch of my office, snout twitching.

  “He broke my door down,” Derek said.

  “What the hell was that?” Monique asked.

  “A power outa
ge,” I said.

  Derek eyed me suspiciously. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine. I just took my sword off the wall. Lost my balance,” I said. “I’ll call Chance. He’ll fix the door.”

  “A power outage wouldn’t have slammed the door shut,” Monique said, looking around my office. “Derek’s door slammed so hard, we couldn’t even open it.”

  “Thor took care of that, though. It’s more of a passageway now,” Derek said.

  “Must have been the wind,” I said.

  Thor came over to me, and I leaned on him for a moment, still catching my breath. He didn’t have a scratch on him.

  Monique looked skeptical, but she didn’t say anything. Her eyes were glued to my sword.

  I put the chair back behind my desk and said, “Happy Friday. Sorry about the door, Derek. I’ll pay for it.”

  As Thor and I left the building, the ghost’s words echoed in my head, and one thought came to mind.

  What the hell is the Web of Weird?

  Paralyzed for what seemed like an eternity, Birdie finally felt her limbs relax and her sight clear. The young, smooth face of the cashier transformed into the lined, graying, distinguished head of Aedon O’Neil, the highest council member, as he took control of the cashier’s body

  “Birdie, I have been trying to reach you all day. I tried the house phone, the wall mirror, I even went on that FaceTime to contact you through your mobile, which you know I loathe.”

  The youngest Geraghty Girl was stunned. Aedon had been her closest friend at the Academy, and more for a time. Birdie knew he would never take such a high risk in contacting her in this extreme manner if it weren’t urgent.

  She checked her phone. She must have bumped the volume button while it was in her pocket, because it was turned all the way down. She made certain no one was near before she asked, “What is it, Aedon?”