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

by Barbra Annino

  I went straight to the back of the space and into Gramps’ office. It was open.

  The desk held pens, pads of paper, a laptop, and a few photos. Next, I went to the barrister bookcase. There were books on every subject from Winston Churchill to traveling Ireland. I flipped through several of them, found a scrapbook of my articles, and an early photo of Birdie, but nothing more. There was no closet, no filing cabinet.

  Where did he keep important papers?

  A few end tables in the living room held nothing I was looking for so I circled back through the bedroom where there was a chest of drawers on the far side of the bed. Men's socks, boxers, undershirts. On the other side was a hefty wardrobe that anchored the wall. Belts and scarves hung on the back of the thick door. Dresses, skirts, blouses, and slacks hung along the top bar. Above that, a shelf lined with shoeboxes.

  I moved in further. Behind the everyday clothes, on a second bar, were a few sequined costumes in red, blue, and purple. All short, strappy things, like you might see a magician's assistant wearing. Or a knife thrower.

  I stepped on the little ledge to reach for the shoeboxes. Inside were shoes.

  As I hopped down I heard a slight pop. It sounded…hollow. I knocked around the wardrobe until I found the noise again. It felt like a built-in secret compartment. There was a keyhole, but no key on the ring would open it, so I searched for a screwdriver in the kitchen and found one in a junk drawer. I pried it open and in the box, I found what appeared to be a slew of letters. I sat on the bed to read the first one.

  Chapter 36

  Dear Dad,

  I realize it has been a long time since you’ve heard from me. I truly am sorry for that. I can explain all of that soon, but I’m writing to you now because I need your help. A devastating car crash has left me in dire straits. Physically, I am fine now, but the cost of medical treatment has crippled me financially. I know I don’t deserve it, but if you could find it in your heart to lend me the money to get back on my feet, I would be eternally grateful. You should know too, that I look drastically different. This is part of the reason the cost of treatment was so exorbitant. The wreck disfigured my face so much that reconstructive surgery took almost two years. I have attached the records, the photos (so you won’t be shocked, should you decide to meet with me) and a copy of my birth certificate. I would prefer that we keep this between us. For reasons, I am sure you understand, Birdie cannot know.

  It was a typed letter, signed in my mother’s name, in what could have been her handwriting. There was no mention of me. No envelope. No return address.

  I flipped through the box and found the records mentioned, a few more letters, photos of a woman’s face that appeared to be badly beaten and then patched back together.

  Could this be true? Was this one of the reasons she had stayed away so long? The records and bills were so convincingly detailed, the photos so graphic, so real. But Gates could have falsified the records and photos can be altered.

  Was Gretchen parading as my mother?

  Or was she my mother?

  But Parker said the real Gretchen Swanson died five years ago. Not that the name was uncommon.

  I shoved the papers back into the box and tucked it inside the compartment. As I did, I felt soft velvet brush my fingertips. I pushed some garments aside and found a black cloth, folded, thick and heavy. I set it on the nightstand and unfolded it gently. Buried inside were knives nestled between satin ribbons. Pearl’s, I presumed.

  My head was spinning with so much confusion, I almost missed the twist of the doorknob.

  In a mad dash, I shut the wardrobe and dove beneath the bed.

  Someone entered and closed the door. Soft beeping sounds floated from the living room and a voice said, “It’s me.”

  Gretchen. Or whatever the hell her name was.

  “I say we just cut our losses and get out of here. We have enough. I’m telling you, it’s getting too sticky.”

  A pause.

  “No. I don’t care about that. This granddaughter is a pain in the ass. She’s like a bad penny that keeps showing up.”

  Interesting word choice.

  “Don’t you dare put this on me. This is not my fault. How the hell was I supposed to know she had a kid? The woman droned on about her mother, her rich daddy, her crazy aunts, everyone in this back-ass town, but she never mentioned a stupid kid.”

  So she was posing as my mother. And Mom never mentioned me?

  “No, you were supposed to check everything out when you got here, remember? Not shack up with that skank while I was doing time. This was supposed to be the big payoff. I mean it was perfect, especially after she blew town and never came back.”

  There was a brief pause and then she said, “You better wake him up soon. I am not taking the rap for that old man’s death.” Another pause. “What do you mean you’re off the case? Goddammit.”

  Gates. She was speaking to Gates.

  “No. No way, Norman. I’m a con artist, not a killer. Let’s just leave this one. We’ve still got Cincinnati.”

  Norman Gates? Are you kidding me? People should really be more careful what they name their children.

  Gretchen was still arguing with Norman when a Daddy Long Legs joined me under the bed. I wasn’t exactly afraid of spiders, but in my experience, these guys like to climb and I wasn’t too thrilled about an arachnid using my face as a sidewalk.

  Gretchen swore again and said, “Fine. I’ll take care of it.”

  Her footsteps came closer to me as the spider camped out on my cheek.

  Please leave, please leave, please leave.

  I didn’t know which one I was talking too, but it didn’t matter since they both appeared to have made themselves at home for the time being. I heard the con woman filtering through drawers as my eight-legged friend waltzed down my neck.

  I heard the wardrobe open and the shuffle of papers.

  Mr. Spider decided to explore my mouth then and I blew him off of me.

  Gretchen stopped whatever she was doing. She crossed to the bed and peeked under.

  She smiled wide. “Come on out.”

  I played dead.

  “Come out or I will drag you out by your scalp.”

  I didn’t like the choices but I rolled out from under the bed anyway.

  “Hi, Mom,” I said.

  Chapter 37

  Gretchen paused, unsure if I was serious. Then she said, “You realize I have to kill you now.”

  “You can’t kill me. You’re a con artist, not a killer. You said so yourself,” I pointed out.

  She frowned. “I can kill you. I can kill you if I want to.”

  The elevator slid open in that moment and the imposter thought fast. She grabbed me in a bear hug as Pearl stepped through the doors.

  I wriggled, but she was stronger than she looked. “Ew. Stop it, Psycho Sally.”

  Gretchen hissed, “If you say one word, I swear to you she dies.”

  “Oh my,” Pearl said. “Does this mean…?”

  “That’s right, Pearl.” Gretchen held her arm around me. Tight. Like she wears Powder Fresh deodorant tight. “Stacy knows who I am now. No more pretending.”

  Pearl clapped her hands and said, “I’m so relieved. No more secrets.” She gazed at me with love and there was no doubt that Pearl had nothing to do with this situation. “Wait right there. I’ll get the camera.”

  Perfect, because I really want to remember this moment.

  Pearl left and I shoved Gretchen off of me. “Leave now and I won’t take you down. I won’t say a word.”

  “You expect me to believe that?” she scoffed.

  “No one got hurt. Let’s keep it that way. You and Dr. Doom just get the hell out of my town and stay the fuck away from my family.”

  “I wish I could, but you see, I need enough to get gone for good.” She regarded me, probably assessing the threat level. I was without a weapon, had forgotten a lot of my self-defense training and all of my witchiness. But I was pissed
off as all hell and a good deal younger than her, so this thing could go either way.

  However, I wanted it over. “I’ll pay you. I’ll get the money from Gramps as soon as he wakes up. I’ll tell him it’s for my grandmother.”

  Gretchen said, “You know, I almost lost my lunch when I found out you existed. What kind of a mother doesn’t talk about her own kid?” She shook her head.

  “Yeah, the nerve of her omitting information like that. She could have screwed up this whole diabolical mission you’ve got going on.”

  Gretchen glared. “So I told them I didn’t want to alarm you. That we should lie about who I was for now until we spent more time together. I was only thinking of my precious daughter. I wanted to spare her further pain and embarrassment. Pretty clever, don’t you think?”

  “Genius. You’re like a Bond villain.”

  “Shut up,” she snapped.

  “Wow, you are clever, what with those snappy comebacks and all.”

  She moved toward me just as Pearl appeared.

  A camera hung around Pearl’s neck and she was carrying an old photo album. She insisted I sit next to Mommie Dearest on the sofa and started snapping pictures. I felt like I was in a Stephen King novel.

  Worst family reunion ever.

  After a few minutes, Pearl said. “Boy, you two do have the same eyes.”

  We regarded each other. Her eyes were the same color as my mother’s, same shape. Only my mother’s eyes had once held hope, happiness, love. Gretchen’s were full of greed.

  “Pearl, why don’t you show Mom some of your old tricks from the carnival days?” I said.

  Gretchen jabbed me in the rib, still smiling at Pearl.

  “Oh, no, dear, I couldn’t do that. Don’t even know where my props are,” Pearl said and slapped her knee. “Hey how about I make some tea?”

  “Pearl,” I said pointedly. “I think you should show off your talent.” I eyed the knife set on the nightstand.

  Unfortunately, Wilma Whackjob saw what I was doing.

  We exchanged the briefest glance and then both lunged for the velvet case at the same time. She was closer and got to it first. Before I could blink, Gretchen was waving a nine-inch blade at me.

  I clamped onto her wrist with both hands, wrestling the knife away from my neck.

  “Girls! Stop that right now,” Pearl said like we were two twelve-year-olds horsing around.

  Why do they give convicts access to weights, I wondered as she fought me step for step, her biceps rock hard through her top. I managed to stay her off, guiding her towards the bed. We wrestled and grunted as we each fought for control of the blade.

  “I mean it now. What is wrong with you two?” Pearl said.

  Just one more step and I could gain leverage.

  “Oh, for Heaven’s sake,” Pearl said. “Stop.”

  Almost.

  “Please, stop that, girls.”

  A few more inches.

  Gretchen pushed back slightly and I gripped harder. The tip of the knife was aimed at my eye now. I reached my foot forward to trip her. But my foot had other plans as it met the velvet case. I slipped and my legs went with me.

  I landed flat on my back, the wind knocked from my lungs.

  Gretchen hesitated, holding the knife high. For a moment, I thought she had second thoughts.

  Then it plunged directly into my chest.

  Chapter 38

  My breath caught in gurgles. I gasped, coughed, fought for air.

  Gretchen’s eyes widened.

  Then I realized the blade hadn’t broken my skin. In fact, I felt nothing at all. Not an ounce of pain.

  “What the hell?” said Gretchen.

  “Are you two about done?” Pearl asked and I bucked my attacker off me.

  “You mean to tell me these knives aren’t real?” I asked.

  “Absolutely not. What do take me for? You think I used to practice with real knives? They’re prop knives,” Pearl said. “You see in a show, the knives pop out from behind the wheel and—”

  “Shut up,” Gretchen yelled.

  “Well, I believe I do not like your tone, young lady.” Pearl parked her fists on her hips. She glared at Gretchen.

  “I can’t take this anymore,” Pseudo-mom said and went for her purse. I tackled her and screamed for Pearl to call the police.

  “She isn’t my mother, Pearl, she’s been conning you!”

  “Stacy, you just don’t recognize her,” Pearl said. “It’s all in the paperwork. Where is the paperwork?” she asked the imposter. “It will explain everything,” she said to me as Gretchen kicked me in the stomach.

  Gretchen belly-crawled away from me, planting a parting shot in my head that made me see stars. I scrambled to hold her down and wound up with one red pump in my hand. It made a nice dent in her cheek as I spiked it at her but she got to the purse anyway.

  She fumbled around inside for a second but lost hold when the end table I lobbed at her clipped her arm.

  The contents of the purse skidded across the wood floor in all directions. Lipstick, a pen, gum, and needles. Big juicy ones. Pearl took one look at them and she must have realized that something was wrong, finally. She darted from the room as I dove for the needles. I didn’t know what was in them, but I didn’t like this chick’s track record. That reminded me. Had Leo ever run her prints?

  “I can’t find the cell phone!” Pearl yelled.

  “Use the landline!”

  Gretchen pounced on me before I could get to whatever poison she was toting around town. My hand grazed the pile and the needles skidded under the bed. I flipped over and belted her in the jaw. Then I popped her eye for good measure.

  “We don’t have one,” Pearl said.

  “Then leave! Pearl, go get help!”

  Gretchen yowled and slugged me right back and it hurt like a mother. She must have split my lip because blood filled my mouth. She tried to get up, but I kicked her in the ribs and she sailed back, smacking into a wall. I peeled myself up as the doorknob twisted.

  Good Pearl. Very good.

  I was hoping the kitchen had real knives.

  When I turned to race toward them, I saw Gates standing over Pearl’s motionless body. A dripping needle in his hand.

  I ran to her. “No! Oh God, Pearl.”

  “She won’t feel a thing, I assure you. She’ll just go to sleep,” said Gates.

  “You son of a cocksocket.” I charged him like a tiger.

  He produced another little pointy friend which jolted me to a stop. “Enough of this.” He turned to his accomplice. “We need to get to the bank, quickly. Clean yourself up and gather the paperwork. Then we’re gone.”

  “Are you sure the birth certificate is enough?”

  “Gretchen, the ends of your stupidity are boundless. If that doesn’t help, we have the hospital records.”

  “What about the other man listed on the document?” Gretchen said. “At least, that would give us some extra insurance.”

  “This is already too messy.” He shot me a glare. “Let’s go.”

  I spat blood at him. And maybe a tooth. “No way, douchenozzle.”

  It was difficult to argue with whatever was in that needle, so a few minutes later, after I washed up according to orders, Gates shoved me into the driver’s seat of a car.

  “You do anything stupid and I won’t just kill you,” he said. “I’ll infect you with a disease that will make you wish you were dead.”

  I glanced at Gretchen in the rearview mirror. She had the nerve to look defeated. Or maybe it was her black eye, crazy hair, and torn blouse. She was clicking her jaw as if to check that it was still hinged together.

  Gates instructed me to follow a long winding road that stretched about six miles out of town. The car climbed up a steep embankment that led to a modern cottage with windows for walls, allowing for spectacular vistas.

  What kind of a hideout has that many windows?

  Dr. Dread walked around the driver’s side, opened the
door and said, “Get out.”

  He pushed me along a flagstone path that wound to a large oak door.

  “By the time they find out about this place, I will be long gone with your grandfather’s money. This house is rented under Stephanie’s name.”

  I just stared at him.

  “You didn’t think her real name was Gretchen, did you?” Gates laughed. “I’m not even sure it’s Stephanie.”

  He moved me into a large bathroom and handcuffed me to the sink. Then he began flipping through the medicine cabinet, which was about the size of my jeep. The needle drawer alone held more tools than Monique’s makeup chest.

  “Ah, here we go. Something to make you sleep.”

  “Look, can we discuss this?” I squirmed on the toilet. “You don’t have to do this. You said yourself, no one would find me.” I really didn’t want to die on a toilet.

  He rolled his eyes. Then he grabbed a vial and said, “Wouldn’t want you to scream. Not that anyone could hear you out here.”

  He put the needle in his shirt pocket. Then he prepared a new syringe.

  As Gates leaned in, the shiny point of the needle reflected in his glasses just long enough to make him squint.

  I kicked it from his hand and it rolled near the tub. Close enough for me to smash it with my foot. The liquid spilled out.

  He stood up, hands on hips. Not a very masculine stance for a cold-blooded killer. “We could be here all day or you could just trust that I am not going to kill you. You will only be unconscious for a while.”

  Said the Big Bad Wolf to Goldilocks.

  “What if I’m allergic?”

  “You’re not allergic.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Do I have to gag you?”

  “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  “Are you going to cooperate?”