Obsidian Curse (A Stacy Justice Mystery Book Five)

by Barbra Annino

  The walls were still white. The old spare bed had been removed and there was a new white dresser with a baby-changing table next to it. No bunny-themed wallpaper and thankfully, no Chuckie dolls.

  When I returned, Thor was lying at Cinnamon’s feet.

  “So it’s only the kitchen where things…are different?” I asked.

  My cousin nodded.

  “Even the nursery is still mostly the same,” I said.

  Another nod from Cin.

  This whole thing really didn’t make much sense and I suspected maybe Cinnamon was simply fatigued, hormonal, and scared about her new addition. Perfectly normal, I would imagine.

  I sat down across from her in a leather chair and clasped my hands. Leaning forward, I said, “I think you’re just preparing to be a mother, Cinnamon. Decaf coffee, a scrumptious frittata, and butt-ugly kitchen accessories do not a crisis make.”

  She smirked. “But what about the appliances? The toast?”

  That part was strange. I rolled it over in my mind for a beat. Then I thought about something. It was a far-reaching theory, but at least it would explain a few things.

  “Was Thor here when you fell asleep baking that pie yesterday?” I asked.

  “I think so. He was here when I woke up.” Her eyes widened as if she knew where I was headed with this.

  I looked at my familiar, stretched out at my cousin’s feet chewing his own toenail. He was a typical Great Dane in many ways, but the truth was, Thor had talents even I wasn’t aware of. It was highly likely he could have had something to do with Cinnamon not burning her house down. I certainly wouldn’t put it past him and I was grateful he was here to prevent a tragedy.

  Cinnamon fired a look at me, then Thor. “If you’re about to tell me that the dog turned the oven off and then reheated the pie to perfection, you’re nuttier than I am.”

  I shrugged. “Cinnamon, you are a Geraghty, like it or not, so technically anything is possible in this family. I know you’ve long dodged the family bullet, but maybe this time it was a direct hit.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “So what are you saying, Seeker?”

  Cinnamon, I should point out, has known about the “prophecy” written by our great-grandmother Meagan in the Blessed Book forever. However, she didn’t know that it came true.

  I shrugged, thinking that if Cin did have some magic in her, maybe I wouldn’t feel so alone in this. “I’m saying it could be the dog, it could be the baby, or it could be that you, my dear cousin, are a late bloomer.”

  Cinnamon groaned, sinking deeper into the sofa. She covered her head with a pillow. “That can’t be it. It just can’t.”

  I went over to her and rubbed her shoulder. “Look, nothing dangerous is going on, that’s the important thing.” I frowned. “Although I don’t like that you don’t remember buying that stuff. Did you drive to a store that sells the Brothers Grimm collection of freaky-ass tchotchkes?”

  Her muffled voice said, “eBay.” She peeked out from behind the pillow. “Are they really that bad?”

  “Scary bad.” I looked toward the kitchen and shuddered. “I think you should bury them in Birdie’s backyard and we’ll do a banishing spell so they can never harm again.”

  The fact that she wasn’t driving at the time of her memory lapses gave me a wave of relief. Still. “I think you need to tell Tony what’s going on.”

  Cin bolted up and in a deadly serious tone said, “No. No way. Promise me you won’t tell Tony.”

  I didn’t think that was a good idea, but neither did I think it was a good idea to upset a pregnant woman with a history of violence and newfound powers of uncontrollable electrical surges.

  “Okay. For now. But at the first sign of weirdness, I’m calling you out, and Thor comes and goes as he pleases.”

  Thor abandoned his manicure at the sound of his name. He snuggled Cin’s knee.

  “Nuh-uh. He’s your dog, Stacy. I have too much on my mind without worrying about that sack of gas.”

  “Well, then maybe Birdie and the aunts can help. Maybe they’ll know what’s happening. At least let me go to them.”

  “What? Absolutely not. Out of the question.” She shook her head fiercely.

  I stood up. “Look, I have to go to work. You have three choices. Tony, the Geraghty Girls, or Thor. Final offer.”

  She mumbled something to herself.

  “What’s that?”

  “Fine. He can stay, but he goes home at night.”

  I looked at Thor. “Agreed?”

  He flopped on his back and pawed the air, happy to be on assignment.

  Suddenly Cinnamon said in a small voice that cracked my heart, “I miss my dad.”

  “I know you do, sweetie. I miss him too.”

  That gave me an excellent idea. Maybe it was Uncle Deck who was looking after his daughter and his granddaughter? He was always a boisterous man who loved gag gifts. Could that be what was happening? Could he be trying to reach out to his daughter through tacky kitchenware? I decided I would try to reach out to him later in the Seeker’s Den. I hadn’t used my gift in a few weeks. Now was as good a time as any to wake the dead. And if I could help him pay her a visit, maybe this would all go away.

  Cinnamon’s voice sliced through my thoughts. “Stacy, you know that book Birdie was always going on about?”

  “The Blessed Book?”

  She nodded, hopefully. “Do you think there’s something in there about me? About this?” She rubbed her stomach.

  “Maybe. I can check for you.”

  “Thank you.”

  I was about to leave when I remembered that it was her father who had believed Joseph Conrad’s—now Blade Knight’s—story regarding the skull. I asked Cin if she recalled anything about the case.

  “That kid whose parents were killed? Oh, wow, it’s so weird you brought him up. You know, he’s in town. He’s doing a book signing tonight. Tony and I are going.”

  I explained that I was working with Blade on a project.

  “Yes, my dad talked about the case a lot. He always felt like he was missing a piece of the puzzle. Said if he had just gotten his hands on that…man, I can’t remember what he called it.”

  She tilted her head in the air as if locating the memory.

  “Skull?” I prompted.

  She snapped her fingers. “Yes! He thought there was some missing skull that could have cracked the whole case wide open. It was the only case that ever stuck with him years after it happened. He only talked about it with me and I wasn’t even born when that happened. Never with anyone else on the force. Not even Mama. I think he was afraid that the other cops would mock him or something. And Mama hated it when he talked about work.” She thought for a moment. “You know, I may have some old notes from his private files. He was always jotting down ideas, theories, whenever a thought struck him. I can look if you want.”

  “Thanks. That’d be great.”

  Before I left, I turned off the router to the Internet to shield Cinnamon from further fairy-tale harassment, then I asked the one question that hadn’t even occurred to me until that moment. I spun around, keys in my hand. “Do you know if he ever talked to Birdie about that case?”

  Cinnamon shrugged. “You’d have to ask her that question.”

  I nodded. “I just might,” I said and left.

  Chapter 18

  I called Tony on the way to the newspaper office and learned that my car might not be repairable, which, given all the other crap I had to worry about now, was the least of my problems.

  It was nine when I got to the office. Monique’s red Honda was already in the parking lot. I pulled into the slot next to it, checked for witnesses, then pulled out my athame and punctured her front left tire. It might buy me a little time at least.

  Derek’s office door was open so I popped in to discuss th
e plans I had for the day.

  He was sitting at his desk, redesigning the website.

  “Hey there,” he said. “I’m pretty swamped trying to fit all these ads into Wednesday’s edition. I was hoping you could edit Monique’s column for me.” His face told me he didn’t have high hopes that I would agree to it.

  “Sure.” I sank into the brown leather chair across from him and crossed my legs.

  Derek furrowed his brow. “That’s it? No argument?”

  I shrugged. “We’re a team, right?”

  “What’s your angle, woman? What do you want?”

  “An espresso machine.”

  “Done.” He smiled. “I’ll e-mail it to you. How’s the reunion piece going?”

  “I still have to do the interviews, but I have a good start on Blade Knight’s profile.”

  “About that—I thought you could run a separate piece on Blade. Maybe cover the book signing tonight. I’ll be there to shoot it.”

  “I can do that. Do we have enough space?”

  “We’ll put the signing in tomorrow’s edition. Push the reunion piece back to Friday.”

  Our little paper only published three days a week: Wednesday, Friday, and a weekend Saturday edition for the tourists that mostly included articles from the historical archives, special events in the area, restaurant reviews, and new shops on Main Street.

  “That works. I also agreed to help Blade with his project, so don’t say I never do anything for you.”

  “Now when have I ever said that?”

  I smiled, got up to leave, and told Derek I’d be in my office this morning, but in the field the rest of the afternoon.

  There was a note on my office door from Gladys asking me to come see her. I plugged in my laptop, fired it up, and put the locket around my neck, tucking it under my sweater.

  Monique was teetering down the hallway in thigh-high boots, her hair freshly bleached, her lipstick a glowing shade of fuchsia. She was wearing leopard-print tights, a cropped sweater that must have had industrial-strength buttons, and a red micro-miniskirt.

  “Hey, I had a lot of fun with your boyfriend last night. He was a big hit with the ladies,” she said in that squeaky voice that made me want to scatter mousetraps all around her.

  Be cool, Stacy. Think about Chance.

  I forced a smile to my lips and felt my face contort into what could only be a spot-on impression of The Joker. “I heard. About that, I thought you and I should discuss how the reunion planning is going. It would add another dimension to the piece I’m working on.”

  “What the hell is wrong with your face? Your Spanx too tight or something?”

  My smile faded. Maybe I should just let the Leanan Sidhe take her body. Maybe I could bind them together and send them both to Danu and Badb. Like a two-for-one package deal.

  “Pinched nerve.”

  “Huh. You should work out more. I do yoga.” She struck a pose. I was so happy it wasn’t downward-facing dog that I almost did a cartwheel right there in the hallway.

  “I’m sure you do. I’ll take that under advisement. So let’s get together on that article.”

  Monique buffed her nails. “I’ll see how my schedule looks. Maybe I could squeeze you in.”

  I wanted to say, You mean, in between blow jobs? But I bit my tongue. “You do that.”

  I brushed past her as fast as I could before I ended up slashing more than her tire. I could still feel her eyes on my back, but I was certain in that brief encounter that Monique Fontaine was still her usual nails-on-a-chalkboard, infuriating self. For now.

  Gladys was working on a pagan-themed crossword puzzle when I got to the research room. She seemed to be having trouble with six down because she had penciled in letters and erased them so many times, the area was a big gray smudge. It began with an N and there was an a where she had filled cauldron in across and another n that was crossed with the word newt.

  “Hello, Stacy.”

  “Hi, Gladys. What do you have for me?”

  She pulled out a manila envelope. “I give these to you.” She handed me the folder and picked up another one. “These, I take. Ya?”

  I flipped through the folder. It contained a list of names and occupations of the valedictorians I had asked her to find. Next to the names were phone numbers, the graduation date of the students, as well as times and locations for interviews she had scheduled for today and tomorrow.

  She had assigned me the author, the scientist working on a cure for Alzheimer’s disease, a homemaker, and an archeologist.

  “Looks good. Let me see who you’ll be talking to,” I said.

  She reached around and grabbed the other folder. I thanked her and flipped it open. She would be interviewing a surgeon specializing in spinal cord injuries, a fashion designer whose work was all the rage in New York and London, and an animal behaviorist.

  I handed the folder back to her and said. “Perfect. Send me the interviews as soon as you’re done and I’ll incorporate them into the piece.”

  Gladys beamed. “My first writing work.”

  “You’ll do great.” I pointed to her puzzle. “I can tell you six down if you want.”

  She nodded. “Yes, please. Is killing me.”

  “Necromancer.” I winked and left Gladys to her puzzle and her interviews.

  Back in my office, I checked my e-mail. Derek had sent me Monique’s column, titled “How to Steal a Man.” Except steal was spelled steel. I saved the file to my hard drive and went through the excruciating process of editing it. Then I compiled a list of questions for each interviewee, jumping on the Internet every so often to research the hot topics going on in their professions.

  One of the biggest news stories in archeology recently was the discovery of what was believed to be Pluto’s Gate, or, as the mainstream media insisted on calling it, the Gate to Hell. The dig took place in Turkey and the team uncovered a kind of pit emanating gases so noxious that some animals wandered too close and were killed instantly. They were in the process of covering it back up. My contact wasn’t on that mission, though. In fact, I couldn’t find any ground-breaking (no pun intended) stories on her at all. I wondered if perhaps she was teaching now.

  The scientist was working on a cure for Alzheimer’s disease, which was a subject near and dear to me since Aunt Lolly seemed to suffer from it in a very bizarre way. I found a few papers he had written on the topic, discussing the importance of stem cell research, what he believed is the genetic link, and how brain imaging could warn patients at risk. He was also working on a controversial new drug that he claimed to drastically improve, if not cure, the symptoms of sufferers.

  The homemaker, I discovered, was much more than that. She had a pretty popular blog as well as a host of YouTube videos where she demonstrated step-by-step instructions on how to attain the looks of bygone eras. Her videos showcased hairstyles like 1930s pin curls, 1940s victory rolls, and 1950s Hollywood starlet styles, plus the face-painting techniques to finish the look. There were also video reviews and giveaways of what she called “new vintage” clothing, undergarments, makeup, hair products, and kitchenware.

  Around noon, I saw Monique sashay past my office door. I stuffed my research notes and the folder in my bag and hurried out of the office. I lagged behind her a few steps, trying to act nonchalant, and followed her out to the parking lot.

  “What the fuck!” she screamed when she saw her flat tire.

  I was standing near the driver’s side door of Birdie’s car, about to plug the key into the lock. “Problem?” I asked.

  She whirled around and glared at me. “My stupid tire is flat and I need to pick up the decorations for the reunion.”

  “Do you have a spare?”

  She looked at me like I was the stoner of the class who only served to piss off the teacher. “Do I look like I know how to change a flat
tire?”

  I was careful not to smile this time. If I was going to keep tabs on Monique, I couldn’t treat her too differently.

  “You look like you should be selling raffle tickets at a streetwalkers’ convention in Nevada, but that’s not the point.” I tilted my head toward Birdie’s car. “Come on. I’ll drive you.”

  She gave the Buick a disgusted look, then slid her eyes to Derek’s Mercedes. “Forget it. I’ll just ask Derek for a lift.” She turned around to walk away.

  “He’s swamped today. He brown-bagged it,” I called.

  She flipped her hair back and twisted her neck toward me. “Then I’ll just borrow his car.” She took a few more steps.

  “Don’t think so. That was a present from Daddy. Doesn’t even run it through the car wash. He just buffs it with a cotton diaper.”

  Monique tossed her hands in the air in exasperation. “Fine.”

  I locked the doors after she got in, twisted the key in the ignition, and fastened my seat belt. I swung the car out of the parking lot, gaining speed to make the first light into downtown.

  I said in a flat tone, “Why don’t I buy us lunch? We can talk about the reunion committee.”

  She eyed me with the suspicion of a woman being propositioned for a ride in a dark alley. “Why are you being nice to me?”

  I shrugged. “We’re coworkers. I don’t believe in a hostile work environment.” I turned on the radio, hoping she’d shut her trap.

  She snorted. “Oh, yeah? You could have fooled me. Hostile seems to run in your family. Especially that wacko cousin of yours. Of course now that she’s knocked up and looks like a Teletubby, she’s not such a raging bitch.”

  The light turned yellow and I slammed on the brake. Monique wasn’t wearing her seat belt, so her head smacked the dash, leaving a good-sized welt on her noggin.