Bloodstone by Barbra Annino Page B

the bad news?”
    We all stared at her for a moment and John said, “Not sure he died of natural causes.”
    I shook my head. “No, no. That can’t be.”
    John rose to his full height. “Stacy, there is some blood on his shirt. That may not be a prop knife, but I’m not going to touch it to find out.” Then he frowned. “Although there isn’t as much blood as there should be if he were stabbed.” He looked at Birdie. “Mostly it’s ketchup.”
    Suddenly, Ivy was very noticeably absent. Panic bubbled in my stomach. What was taking her so long at the door? The thought of a knife-wielding maniac prowling the house jump-started my legs into action.
    “Okay, everyone take a deep breath. I’ll be right back.”
    I ran down the hallway before anyone could protest, ducking my head in different rooms, thinking maybe Ivy had gone exploring.
    I found her in the parlor seated across from a young couple dressed in their Sunday best. The woman wore a modest floral number buttoned up to her eyeballs and the man was in a green sports coat, tan slacks and a wide-brimmed hat.
    Ivy was chatting away cheerily and I sighed in relief. Such a good helper. This must be the last reservation and she was making them comfortable.
    “Hello there. Sorry to keep you waiting. Are you checking in today?” At this point, I wasn’t sure what the plan was so I decided to just stick to the usual routine. There was nothing in Bed and Breakfasts for Dummies that explained dead guy protocol.
    I hadn’t really noticed the expression on either of their faces up until that point. The woman stood, hurried to me, and the man stayed in his seat, staring at Ivy with worry. And fear.
    The woman pasted on a bubbly smile and glanced back, nervously. “Hello. My name is Edna and this is my husband Richard. This, er,” she stammered, swept her arm toward Ivy, searching for a proper adjective, “lovely young lady was kind enough to invite us into your home. We were wondering if you might have a few minutes to chat with us.”
    I heard the man say to Ivy, “Crystals, dear, are not what saves us.”
    Uh-oh. I did a quick inventory of the situation. Ivy was wearing that pentagram hat which the uninformed often viewed as a symbol for dark arts. It can be, if the top point of the star faces downward, but her hat was embroidered with a typical pagan pentagram. Used in many rituals and ceremonies, the pentagram represents the elements of Earth, Air, Fire, Water and finally, the point at the top of the star stands for the sacred Spirit.
    Even if she had explained this to our guests, I doubt these two would have heard.
    “You have a lovely home,” the woman was saying. “Perhaps we might have a cup of tea and we can show you all the literature we brought? This child seems eager to learn about Jehovah.”
    Ivy had a wicked grin on her face. “I thought maybe we could share our literature with them too, Stacy.” She was flipping through a magazine titled, The Watchtower: Questions for Young People.
    I used to send Birdie to the door to handle these situations. But after the last time when two Mormon missionaries left the church, rented an apartment in town and started a hip-hop band, Birdie wasn’t allowed to speak to anyone spreading the word of Jesus. Or Jehovah. Or even Hare Krishna.
    Ivy said, “I was telling them that we believe in Watchtowers too and—”
    “Okay, kiddo. I got it,” I said to her. To the woman standing next to me I said, “I’m terribly sorry, but you see we are very busy at the moment. As you may know, this is a bed and breakfast and we are right in the middle of preparing the morning meal. So if you’ll excuse us...” I looked at her hopefully.
    “Oh, well, perhaps your guests would welcome the opportunity to discuss a chance at true happiness,” she said.
    “True Dat!” Ivy clapped.
    I glared at her and through gritted teeth said, “I don’t think that is appropriate.”
    The man stood and took a step toward me then and