Boji Stones

by Sandra Cox

  Partially mollified, Hank turned to Maureen. “What do you think?”

  Her shoulders slumped, weary as death she began walking toward the barn door, Wolf at her heels. “Do I trust him? No.” She glanced briefly at Jack and saw him grimace and shrug. “Do I believe him? Yes.” His eyes were as red-rimmed as a teenage girl crying because she didn’t have a date for the prom.”

  Jack straightened, cleared his throat and fell into step with Maureen. “Quite an analogy but I prefer something with a bit more machismo. How about his eyes were as red as a writer who’d been at his computer for the past thirty hours without sleep?”

  Hank rolled his shoulders as he walked on the other side of Maureen. “Maybe I overreacted.” All parties knew that was as close to an apology as Jack was going to get.

  Turning his head Hank studied her. “Girl, you look like you’ve been hit by a Mack truck and no wonder. Let’s get some breakfast in you.” He turned to Jack. “You can fix it, North Carolina.”

  “Aren’t you afraid I’ll try to poison you?”

  “I’ll be watching you.”

  “Do you think you can fix the coffee and watch me at the same time?”

  “North Carolina, I just don’t know what to make of you,” Hank said then lapsed into silence.

  “I’m not hungry.” Maureen shook her head. He didn’t understand Jack? She didn’t understand men trying to kill each other one minute then chatting congenially the next.

  They trudged back to the house. At least Hank, Maureen and Wolf trudged. Jack strode, his expression determined. The old screen door creaked loud enough to make him wince as they trooped inside.

  She touched her bare left forearm, bit her lip and blinked her eyes determined not to cry.

  As they walked into the kitchen Hank headed for the sink to wash his hands.

  As Hank dried his hands Jack washed his. Neither spoke.

  Maureen went into the bathroom. She put her hands under the running water then threw some in her face. God what a nightmare. She stared in the mirror. A wild-eyed woman in disarray stared back. Auburn curls flew around her face and over her shoulders. The skin stretched tight across her cheekbones and her eyes were ringed with purple stains. Hay and dirt clung to her and a circle of white on her forearm stood out in stark contrast to the honey-colored tan of her arm.

  Her hair fell forward as she put her face in her hands and keened then took a breath from deep in her belly. “Get a grip, Sinclair.” She lifted her head, fisted her hand into the air. “As the gods are my witness I’ll get back my amulet.”

  She caught sight of her dramatic pose reflected in the mirror and grinned wryly, adding, “To paraphrase Scarlett O’Hara.” Then she sobered, determined. “I will get back my amulet.”

  She walked back into the kitchen feeling marginally better, pulled out a chair from under the kitchen table and sank down on it. She stretched her legs out under the table, crossing them at the ankles and let her head drop against the wooden back. “What time is it?”

  “Little after six.” A wire whisk clicked against the sides of a stainless steel bowl as Jack whipped eggs. “When did you two go to the barn and what exactly happened out there?”

  Hank scooped ground coffee into the coffee maker. “I saw a light flickering in the barn close to midnight and went out to investigate.” He lifted a questioning brow to Maureen. “And you Marnie?”

  “A few minutes later.” She pushed herself up from the table trying to ignore the hard knot in the pit of her stomach. “I’ll make the toast.”

  The whisk clinked against the stainless steel bowl with more force than necessary. “Why didn’t anyone wake me up?”

  “I thought I could handle any problem out there myself,” Hank forced out, his body stiff.

  Maureen knew the admission cost him. She looked at Jack. “I should have woken you. It was damn stupid of me not to and it cost me dearly.” She rubbed her arm, cleared her throat and straightened. “Not that it’s any excuse but I was afraid that if something was wrong, by the time I woke you up and we got to the barn it would be too late to help Hank.”

  Looking slightly mollified, Jack poured the eggs into a black cast-iron skillet. “Just remember this is a three-member team now.” He looked at each of them in turn. “Right?”

  A shade reluctantly they both nodded.

  In less time than she would have thought possible, they were sitting at the table, the men inhaling fluffy yellow eggs and buttered toast. Hank had also insisted on a rasher of bacon to clog his arteries.

  She leaned back and breathed in the bracing aroma of the fresh brewed coffee as she pushed her eggs around on her plate with her fork.

  “So is somebody going to tell me what happened?” Jack asked around a mouthful of eggs.

  Maureen lifted her head. “He tasered then chloroformed us.”

  Before Jack could respond, a knock sounded on the screen door. She looked at Hank. “Who could that be?”

  Hank wiped his mouth with a napkin and threw it on the table. “I’ll go find out,” and slid back his chair.

  He opened the screen door and felt his jaw drop, incapable of speech.

  In front of him stood the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Oh Marnie was a beauty all right with her long, lithe form and sun-kissed face. She’d inherited her mother’s good looks. But this woman surpassed anything he’d ever seen, bar none. If Marilyn Monroe were alive today she’d look like this woman or so he imagined.

  He glanced down. A large white cat wound in and out of her legs. His gaze traveled back up the silky length of her ’til they locked on beautiful blue eyes. For the first time in his life he had the sensation he was drowning.

  “I’m here to see Miss Sinclair.” The woman’s voice was velvet smoke.

  As he stood there mute, she repeated, “Does Ms. Sinclair live here?”

  Curious, Maureen came to the door. “I’m Miss Sinclair. May I help you?”

  The woman looked at the white band of skin on Maureen’s left arm.

  “Damn. I’m too late.”

  * * * * *

  He threw his head back, his arms thrown wide in an unholy parody of a religious supplicant. “The healing has begun.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I beg your pardon?” Maureen hoped she didn’t look as witless as she probably sounded.

  The blonde stuck out her hand. “I’m Isabella Tremaine.”

  Maureen reached out and clasped it, noting the firm grasp. “Maureen Sinclair. May I help you?”

  “I was hoping we could help each other. She rolled up her left sleeve. A two-inch strip of white skin stood out against her tan.

  Maureen’s eyes widened and her jaw dropped. “I don’t believe it.”

  She remembered the picture of Victor Price misshapen and grotesque at odds with the beautiful cold-eyed man. “Beauty!”

  Isabella nodded. “Smart as well as pretty aren’t you, honey?”

  Maureen stepped back and motioned her in. “Please come in.” She glanced at the cat looking at her with a bored expression on his handsome features. “Oops, just a minute, let me put Wolf away.”

  “Don’t put him up on Puss-Puss’ account.”

  Maureen cleared her throat. “Wolf is exactly that. He’s a wolf mix. He’s okay with the barn cats but I don’t know how he’d be with Puss-Puss here. She’s a beauty.” She bent to pet the cat.

  Puss-Puss snarled and Maureen hastily drew back her hand.

  “He. You’re all male aren’t you, sweetums,” Isabella cooed. Bending down to pet him, she displayed a bounty of creamy white cleavage set against the siren-red silk of her blouse.

  Maureen glanced at Hank. “Put your tongue back in your mouth,” she hissed.

  He straightened and turned red as a firebrick.

  Maureen glanced down at the cat winding in and out of Isabella’s legs. “Yes, I can see he is,” she said, her voice dry. She fought to keep the censure out of her tone. “I take it you don’t believe in altering you
r pets. If you knew the thousands of cats that die each year…”

  Isabella waved a negligent hand in the air, her long shiny red nails glittering in the sunlight like rubies. “Save it darling, I’m not against altering in the normal way of things but I’d no more think of altering Puss-Puss than you would those prize stallions you’re famous for.”

  “Oh he’s a purebred is he?” Maureen kept her face perfectly blank but could hear the sneer in her voice.

  Isabella gave a soft laugh that tinkled like bells. “Honey, he’s pure alley cat. Pulled him out of a garbage can where he was searching for food when he was no more than six weeks old. That was eight years ago. We’ve been together ever since.”

  Maureen blinked confused. “I don’t understand.”

  Isabella shrugged her shoulders. “He’s the bad boy of the cat world and I wouldn’t change anything about him including his maleness.” She winked at Hank. “You can relate with that can’t you, handsome?”

  Hank nodded still mute, his expression dazed.

  Isabella flung back her silky blonde hair. “Haven’t we wandered from the subject at hand? Weren’t you about to invite me in?” She looked around at the rolling green countryside and the banks of brown-eyed Susans growing in profusion around the house. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  “Thank you.” Maureen looked at the sleek cat. “I would really feel better if…”

  A low growl sounded from the doorway causing her to spin around. “Oh dear, quick shut the screen door.”

  Unconcerned, Isabella adjusted the shoulders of her blouse.

  Another growl sounded this time from the outside steps.

  Maureen’s eyes widened and she gasped. Puss-Puss’ fur stood on end, his eyes glowed with green demonic fury and his lips were drawn back in a snarl showing razor sharp white fangs. He slithered in the door and began stalking the dog.

  Wolf’s tail drooped and he began to whine, backing up.

  “I see what you mean,” Maureen said, her voice dry.

  Hank shook his head as if to clear it then reached for a hat to doff. Realizing he wasn’t wearing one, he ran his fingers through his hair instead. With a gallant gesture he motioned Isabella in. “Please come in.”

  Puss-Puss sauntered in, his nose in the air, his tail straight up, followed by Isabella then Maureen. Maureen glanced at Hank and rolled her eyes at the glazed look on his face. Leaning over, she whispered, “You’re drooling…handsome.”

  She had the pleasure of seeing him temporarily snap out of his state of idiocy.

  Jack, his coffee cup halfway to his chiseled lips, set it back down untouched. Scraping his chair back from the kitchen table, he stood up.

  This should be interesting.

  He eyed Isabella appreciatively but unlike Hank he didn’t go comatose.

  As the gorgeous blonde approached, he held out his hand. “Isabella Tremaine isn’t it?”

  Maureen looked at him in surprise.

  Isabella took his hand then let it go as Hank inserted himself between them, held out a chair seated away from Jack and scooted Isabella up to the table. After she sat down he pulled out a chair and sat squarely between them.

  Maureen watched Jack bite back a grin as he sat back down.

  Isabella put her elbow on the table, leaned across Hank and looked at Jack. She tapped her chin with a shiny red nail. “I’ve seen you somewhere before.”

  Maureen started to introduce them.

  “No wait,” Isabella waved her off. “I never forget a face.” She snapped her fingers with a click. “Dr. Jack Wolfe, author of Indigo Feather.”

  He nodded.

  Bella eyed him from beneath long lashes and gave him a steamy smile. “I know you from your book cover, Dr. Wolfe but how did you know me?”

  “I’ve seen your pictures. They are breathtaking.” Appreciation gleamed in Jack’s eyes.

  Maureen was thinking several uncomplimentary things involving calendars and pinups.

  Jack continued, “I read an article once on you in the paper. The picture they ran with it was good but it didn’t do you justice.”

  “Why, thank you, sugar.“ Bella patted her hair.

  “I’m afraid I’ve never heard of you,” Maureen rudely interrupted the mutual admiration society.

  “Not surprised, honey. People know me in my home state but that’s pretty much where my fame ends.”

  “I know you,” Jack put in.

  “You’re practically in my home state, honey.”

  He grinned.

  “And where might that be?” Maureen asked becoming more annoyed by the minute.

  “Georgia, darling. Of course.”

  She shook her head. The situation was going from bizarre to ludicrous. What was Isabella Tremaine doing here? What difference did it make where she was from? What mattered was the amulets. “Who the hell cares where you are from? Our amulets are gone and we are sitting here exchanging social niceties.”

  The men looked at her and raised their eyebrows.

  Isabella looked into Maureen’s eyes, her expression sober all traces of the empty-headed Southern belle gone. “Sometimes it’s easier to deal with the mundane than harsh reality, sugar.”

  For the first time, Maureen realized there was a shrewd brain housed in all that fluff. She smiled and said by way of holding out an olive branch. “Are you sure you aren’t an actor?”

  “People see what they expect to. My friends call me Bella, I hope y’all will too.”

  “She’s an up-and-coming painter in the South,” Jack put in.

  Hank got up and poured her a cup of coffee. “Cream or sugar?”

  “Just black and strong, honey.”

  He placed it on the table and sat down. She elbowed him in the ribs. “If I got any sweeter I’d just ooze all over this table.”

  Maureen hid her twitching lips behind her coffee cup, amusement warring with vexation at Hank’s vacuous expression.

  “Yes ma’am,” he mumbled.

  Bella shook her head. “Honey, you’re a caution.”

  Maureen got her lips under control and sat down her coffee cup. “Bella, would you like some breakfast?”

  “Love some. Got any grits?”

  Jack grinned and winked at Bella. “I’m in love.”

  The chair scraped as Hank got up. “Not sure what that is but as you can see we got eggs, bacon and toast. I’ll get you a plate.”

  “That’ll do just fine, honey.”

  Rubbing her left forearm, Maureen watched Hank pull a tan speckled stoneware plate with brown edging out of the cabinet then set it in front of Bella.

  “Thanks, sugar,” said Bella. But her eyes were on Maureen. “Feels like you’re missing an arm or leg doesn’t it?”

  Maureen nodded. “Or like there’s this huge hole in the pit of my stomach.”

  Bella took a mouthful of cold eggs, grimaced and reached for a piece of equally cold toast. “I’m guessing the man who took your amulet was either grotesque or handsome as sin.”

  “The latter.”

  Bella nodded. “Know anything about him?”

  “His name is Victor Price. How did he get your amulet?” Maureen asked.

  “Victor Price you say.” Bella shook her head. “The sneaky little weasel. He came to the house one day when I was painting. It was sitting in plain view in my studio. I never paint with it on. It gives me an unfair advantage.”

  Maureen’s respect for the woman went up a notch. She leaned forward expectantly.

  Bella settled back in her chair. “He came to the door in a wheelchair. He said he was a disabled veteran collecting donations for the Southern Disabled Veterans Association.” She gave a crack of laughter. “Don’t that just beat the Dutch? Then he says, ‘Aren’t you Isabella Tremaine the painter’ and tells me how he’s such a fan and how he’s always wanted to paint but with his injuries and all his hands aren’t steady enough. And would it be too much of an imposition to see my paintings.”

  Isabella shook her
head at her gullibility. “I take him to my studio, he gushes about my work for several minutes then runs a shaky hand across his forehead saying he’s feeling peaked and could I get him a glass of water. The kitchen by the way is at the other end of the house. I go rushing to the other end of the house leaving the amulet setting on a table that holds my paints and brushes. I come back with a glass of ice water…”

  “And he’s gone,” Hank jumped in, caught up in the story.

  “Oh no, he’s there all right.”

  Jack nodded his head. “Ah, he tasered you.”

  “No.”

  Three pairs of eyes stared at her, fascinated, lost in the story.

  “I hand him the water. He drinks it, says he’s feeling better and doesn’t want to take up any more of my time. And I might add he’s looking better by the minute. And I of course being the sap that I am press a twenty on him for the disabled vets’ fund.

  “I offer to call him a cab and he says that he called for one while I was in the kitchen. I get up and check and sure enough one is waiting. After he leaves, I glance at the amulet…”

  “It’s still there?” Maureen interrupted leaning forward, her elbow on the table, her face in the palm of her hand, enthralled.

  Bella continued as if she hadn’t been interrupted, “I chastised myself for leaving it on the table when a stranger was present then went back to my painting. I painted all afternoon. After I finished I got cleaned up and put the amulet on. “

  She took a swallow of coffee then sat the cup down. She grimaced, whether from the coffee or the story no one was sure. “Nothing happened. No creative juices flowed, no glow to my skin.”

  Maureen gasped. “Oh my God, he substituted one!”

  “Prettiest little rose quartz and tourmaline amulet you ever wanted to see but it wasn’t my amulet.”

  Maureen shook her head. “The man must have nerves of steel.” She slumped back in her chair, finger-combed her hair back from her forehead and asked, “How did you find me?”

  Bella patted her lips with her napkin, leaving red smudges on the white paper. “He was in bad shape. I knew the healing amulet would be the next one he’d go for. I got on the internet and contacted everyone I know in the holistic community. I’ve been chasing down leads all over the country. Last week I went to Alaska. Nearly froze my buns off.”