Tiger's Eye
Also by Barbra Annino
Opal Fire: Stacy Justice Book One
Bloodstone: Stacy Justice Book Two
Gnome Wars: A Short Story
Every Witch Way But Wicked: An Anthology
(includes a Stacy Justice story)
My Guardian Idiot—
fantasy tales to tickle your funny bone
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Text copyright © 2012 Barbra Annino
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer
P.O. Box 400818
Las Vegas, NV 89140
ISBN-13: 9781612186146
ISBN-10: 1612186149
Dedication
Dedicated to four-legged friends everywhere and those who love them. And, as always, for George.
Contents
Prologue
(from the last scene of
BLOODSTONE
)
Chance walked into my office and said, “Hey, gorgeous. You ready?” He came over and brushed his lips across my neck. Then he sat on my desk and pulled me to him.
I stood, draped my arms around his neck, and kissed him thoroughly.
“What do you say we get some takeout and go to my place?”
“Only if it involves chocolate syrup,” I said.
“Oh, that could be arranged.”
I leaned across my desk to grab my bag and the phone rang.
“Don’t answer it,” Chance said.
I smiled. “Two minutes.”
The voice on the other end of the line was gruff. “Stacy Justice?”
“Speaking.”
“Stacy Justice the second, right?”
“Yes.”
Chance tickled me and I laughed.
“I just thought you should know that I have the tapes.”
“What tapes?” I asked, slapping Chance’s hands away.
The man on the phone swore softly. “You haven’t gone through his files yet, have you?”
“Whose files? What you are talking about?”
Chance looked at me, concerned. He raised his hand, questioningly. I shrugged.
“It wasn’t an accident,” the man said.
I sat down in my chair, that creepy-crawly feeling climbing up my spine. “Who is this?”
“Your father was murdered.”
Then he hung up.
Chapter 1
“It’s a dog-eat-dog world and I’m wearing Milkbone underwear.”
—Norm Peterson,
Cheers
If my high school softball coach could see me now, she would probably take a bat to my kneecaps. Not because I was wearing the most hideous pink uniform outside of
Toddlers and Tiaras
, or because I had struck out twice already, but because the opposing team consisted mostly of geriatrics slathered in mentholated ointment. And they were kicking my ass.
“Next up in the batter’s box, head reporter of the
Amethyst Globe
, one-time record holder of most pop-ups in a single game, the master of disaster, the ultimate witchcrafter—”
“Gus,” I hissed, “enough!”
The guy on the bullhorn was Gus Dorsey, a man with all the charm and wit of Mr. Potato Head. He stood a foot away, dressed in striped knee-high socks and shorts last seen
on
Magnum P.I.
Either they were hand-me-downs from his father or Gus was dabbling in the retro look.
“Stacy Justice, folks.” He lowered the horn and looked at me as if I had just spit on his ice cream.
Now I felt bad. Gus had droopy eyes and floppy ears so even in his happiest moments he gave the appearance of a Muppet that didn’t make the cut.
I put my beer down and grabbed the horn. “Thank you, Officer Dorsey. How about a hand for those who protect and serve?” I said to the crowd.
Claps and cheers drifted from the bleachers and I turned to wave until I noticed there was a turtle race going on with money exchanging hands. A quick glance at Gus told me that he would allow such infractions to slide on this, the Founder’s Day of Amethyst, Illinois.
The baseball bats were stacked outside the dugout and I grabbed one that I hadn’t used yet in hopes of improving my average. I took a few swings to get the weight and rhythm of the wood, stepping onto the freshly cut grass. The sun felt like a warm massage on my exposed arms and the air was bursting with the aroma of grilled hamburgers and buttery popcorn. Off in the distance, I heard the squeals of delighted children winning prizes.
In the Midwest, you cling to the days of cookouts, block parties, and county fairs. When light lingers in the sky and the earth is fertile for weeks to come—promising a bounty of vine-ripened tomatoes and bunches of fresh herbs—there is a sense that anything could happen.
Anything at all.
I stepped toward home plate, tipping my head to Shea Parker, my boss, who was standing off the first base line.
He flashed me some hand signals.
I had no idea what he was doing. I flicked my eyes to Derek, my coworker and the paper’s photographer. He rolled his eyes in return and leaned back against the brick wall of the dugout. He pulled his cap over his smooth, dark face and folded his arms.
Parker rushed over to me and signaled to Gus, who was not only the announcer and scorekeeper but also the umpire.
“You calling a time-out?” Gus asked.
“Just give me a minute,” Parker said.
“What?” My beer was getting warm and this game was getting old. Normally, I was all for sports. My body felt better when it was fit, and I enjoyed the friendly camaraderie of a pick-up game. But I had a lot on my mind today thanks to a creepy phone call I’d received at the office the day before. So I just wanted to grab a burger, suck down some beers, relax at a picnic bench, and enjoy the beautiful sunshine. For once, I wanted to do what I wanted and not what everyone else expected of me.
Maybe that was selfish, but we all need
me
time now and then.
“You are not taking this seriously. Don’t you remember the signals?”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
“That’s because you only came to two practices.” Parker held up two fingers as a visual aid.
Only two? I spent five days a week with the man. Since he was my editor, that was a job requirement. Wearing this stupid neon jersey with a matching headband was not. The uniform wasn’t his fault, though. I had Gladys, the research assistant for the
Amethyst Globe
, to thank for that. She’d been tasked with outfitting the team and her favorite color was fuchsia.
I sighed. “Just tell me. What do you want me to do?”
He craned his neck around, nervously eyeing the field behind him.
“What is the big deal? It’s a charity game, for crying out loud,” I said.
Parker shuffled a bit. He leaned in and said softly, “With you and Derek, I might finally win one of these things.”
“Fine. What’s the plan?”
“Bunt.”
I nodded, and looked at my opponents.
The game was an annual Founder’s Day event. The sponsorships and donations supported extracurricular activities for the local schools. Kids counted on that money every year. With the state slashing budgets for sports and the arts, communities like ours were forced to fund those projects via taxpayers and events such as these.
But it wasn’t like you got a bonus for winning.
Most of the players were local business owners and their employees. The teams were usually chosen at random, but this year someone decided that it would be a great idea if tavern, restaurant, and B&B owners went up against bankers, realtors, and newspaper staff.
In other words, nine-to-fivers vs. hospitality folks.
Which pretty much pitted me against my whole family.
I kicked my cleats against the dirt and surveyed the field. Cinnamon, my cousin and the owner of the Black Opal Bar and Grill, crouched at first base like a bear protecting her cub. A local restaurant owner guarded second, and Monique, proprietor of Down and Dirty nightclub, was way out in left field adjusting her right boob.
I stepped into the batter’s box and arched the bat behind me. Lolly, my great-aunt, grinned up at me from her position as catcher. Her face was slashed with black ink that football players used to keep the sun from their eyes. She wore a white tennis skirt, saddle shoes, and a sequined tube top with a red bra fastened over it.
My grandmother, Birdie, was on the mound. I had never seen her in Spandex. Hopefully I never would again.
Birdie lowered her head and hinged forward, eyes glued to her eldest sister. The sun penetrated her coppery waves, lending her hair an iridescent shine. She paused, nodded at Lolly, then wound up, took a step back, and fired the ball through the air.
It was about to enter that sweet spot just above my waist, just where I liked it. Then, as I was poised to crack it over her head (bunting was never going to happen), the ball dove up—as if mocking me—and charged straight into Lolly’s mitt.