Free Bloodstone by Barbra Annino Page B

of greeting. It had been a gift to me from Birdie years ago that I never packed up when I moved out. It read: My grandma can put a spell on your grandma .
    “Sure.”
    She nodded, then turned to the apothecary table to relieve herself of her load. She glanced over at Mr. Sayer and grunted. “For Pete’s sake, is he still at his silly game?” She picked up the not quite empty mug next to Mr. Sayer, placed it in the sink, and crossed to the cast iron stove where she turned the dial to 350 degrees.
    “Guess he really wants to win that prize,” I said, sipping my coffee. “What is it by the way?”
    Birdie waved her hand. “Who knows. There’s some dinner down at the Riverview Hotel and that’s where the festivities will take place this evening.” She pulled out a pan from the refrigerator. Stuffed baked French toast, from the looks of it, with blueberry filling. Then she said, “I don’t know why I let the chamber members talk me into such nonsense. It only serves to attract the lonely and the unbalanced.”
    The Geraghty Girls House attracted that clientele every weekend, but I didn’t say that. Instead, I reached for a warm up and wondered where Ivy had gotten off to and how exactly I might introduce my grandmother to her new granddaughter—or if she would even believe Ivy’s story.
    I ran a few introductions over in my mind as I watched Fiona dice fresh fruit compote to accompany the French toast. “So Birdie, guess who has a sister?” Or perhaps, “It’s a girl!” might be the way to go.
    “Stacy, be a dear and please wake him. He must have fallen asleep or passed out. I have no time for shenanigans during the breakfast hour.” Birdie put the French toast pan on the counter to let it reach room temperature. Then she climbed back down the steps to the fruit cellar.
    I set my coffee down and said, “Mr. Sayer? Rise and shine. It’s almost breakfast time.”
    He still lay there, like a growth that had sprouted from the wood. I stepped forward and said louder, “Come on, I’ll help you back to your room and you can practice being the murder victim later.”
    He didn’t stir. In fact, he was silent.
    Really silent.
    My stomach did that flippy floppy thing it did right before I heard Mrs. Honeycut’s scream. The vision flashed again, piercing my head with nothing but red. Blood red. The chair caught my sway and I stilled myself.
    Fiona was humming as she chopped the fruit. A Billie Holiday tune. “You say tomato, I say tomato...”
    I looked closer at Mr. Sayer, or more accurately, the knife standing on his back that seemed uncomfortably familiar.
    “Fiona, does that, er, blade handle look like anything you’ve seen before?” I asked.
    She turned around, looked at Mr. Sayer, and frowned. “I suppose it might be a plastic imitation of the ritual athame your grandmother uses.”
    I stepped closer to Mr. Sayer. Maybe he was just a really good actor with the air capacity of a zeppelin. I saw no movement coming from any part of his body. Statue stiff.
    My voice cracked as I called, “Birdie...did you see Mr. Sayer earlier this morning?”
    “I did. Did you get rid of him yet? Can’t have any stray bodies lying around.” She sounded irritated, still banging around down the cellar steps, mumbling about purple potatoes.
    I had to be mistaken. Had to be. A corpse in the kitchen would be really bad for business. “What, um, exactly did he say?”
    Fiona looked up from her chopping. Arched her swan-like neck.
    “Honestly, Anastasia, I don’t have time for this,” Birdie called.
    After a moment of shuffling noises, she still hadn’t come back up the stairs so I ducked my head down.
    “Humor me, Birdie,” I said.
    One exasperated sigh later, I heard her say, “If you must know, he didn’t say much of anything. He came home smelling like a brewery last night and asked me to pour ketchup on his back. Said he was really enjoying the game. I must have forgotten to latch the door after I went back into