Roller Rink Witchcraft (Extended Edition): Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 1)

by Raven Snow

  His lips were softer than I could have imagined, since they were usually drawn thin in a frown. Drinking him in, my fists clenched around the silky fabric of his pressed suit, the taste of peppermint invaded my mouth, and I grinned in spite of myself.

  Drawing back, I said, “Mints, Detective? One would think you were expecting a little action.”

  “Just wishful thinking.” His fingers tangled in my hair at the back of my nape, bringing my lips back to his none too gently.

  A moment later, he retreated to his side of the car, breaths coming in gasps. “You’re drunk.”

  This time, it seemed to be a reminder to both of us, and he opened the car door. Cold air rushed past him, hitting me like a crowbar to the skull and waking me from my lustful daze.

  “Crap,” I said, more to myself as he was outside the car, coming to the passenger side to open my door.

  I made it up the stairs to my loft mostly under my own power, shoving Wyatt away every chance I got. A valiant effort though it was, none of the pushes moved him more than an inch, his hand a steadying force on my lower back the whole time.

  A perfect gentleman, he didn’t even try to cop a feel. And that just pissed me off even further.

  By the time I was unlocking my door with shaky fingers, I’d worked up a good steam, so I flipped Detective Bennett the bird and slammed the door in his face for good measure.

  “Good riddance, Wyatt Bennett,” I said. “Man with too many double letters.”

  I was actually awake before late afternoon the next day, and instead of pulling on my disco garb, I shimmied into an out of character, tasteful black dress. In fact, it was one of the only appropriate outfits I owned, and it chafed— metaphorically and literally.

  Tugging at the collar, I hopped into Oliver’s car, which was waiting on the curb outside the Funky Wheel. Though he hadn’t forgone the cape completely, it was a short, black one that blended in perfectly with his suit.

  “I feel like I’m in disguise,” I said, still pulling at the fabric.

  Oliver shrugged. “No one goes as themselves to funerals, anyway. We all play the mournful, sympathetic acquaintances and loved ones, when everyone really just wants to know what they get out of it.”

  I grabbed onto the handle under the window as he took a sharp turn. “You reaffirm my faith in the human race on a daily basis.”

  “I do what I can, sugar.”

  He slammed the car to a stop in a parking spot just outside the cemetery, and we rushed to a couple of open seats in the back and waited for everything to start. It was a dreadfully boring ceremony— just like my father’s. Leaving out all the sliminess, the priest only highlighted the best parts of Mr. Gibb’s life, so it was also a fairly short ceremony.

  To pass the time, I started making grass people out of blades I’d plucked from the ground. Oliver, being the fun-hater that he is, rolled his eyes at me at first, but after the second mention of Matt’s one-time donation to a local charity, he joined in.

  By the time one of Matt’s friends went up to speak, my grass couple had a grass car, grass house, two-point-five grass children (the third one was malformed, so he only counted as a half), and a grass picket fence. Oliver and I were in the middle of acting out a grass divorce when Matt’s friend stepped aside so the priest could close the ceremony.

  Before I knew it, the townspeople were packing up and moving into the church for a “remembrance”. Most of them were here for the food and the gossip, not to talk about the good old times with a guy they hadn’t known well or hadn’t really liked.

  The church was one of the oldest buildings in town, and it had no air conditioning. One might think this typical of an old building, but it’d been built when AC was common and affordable. Why it didn’t have any cooling was one of Waresville’s great mysteries, which really highlighted how boring the town was. Personally, I figured the parishioners had thought they could pray the heat away.

  The sweat of one hundred townspeople told me they were unsuccessful.

  Toward the front, I saw Melanie Gross through a crowd of people that seemed to be gathering around her. Wearing her best black suit, which had stains and holes in it, she seemed to be in an uncommonly good mood. She was the only one talking, and when I crept forward, I realized why.

  “It was obviously a powerful dark witch or wizard,” she said, an important air wrapped around every word that came from her annoying mouth. “If I were you, I’d be arming myself with magical wares. You never know who could be the next target.”

  Snickering, I moved away before someone noticed me eavesdropping. For sure, Melanie seemed to be benefitting from the murder. It was all publicity for her shop and herself.

  Also, Melanie would’ve been able to set up the satanic ritual that I’d witnessed without issue. She had motive, opportunity (as far as I knew), and means.

  Still, I couldn’t see it, eyeing her from across the room. She was happy about Matt’s death, sure, but to actually kill him? That seemed a little extreme, no matter how much I wished she had, and that the police would lock her up for a century or two.

  On the opposite end of the mourning spectrum was Mrs. Thelma Gibb, Matt’s mother. She sat amongst a group of people in the pews, kneeling, praying, and crying at the same time. Her sobs made me wince in sympathy.

  I was so deep in thought that I wasn’t watching where I was going, and collided into a woman with red hair. Stumbling back a step, she sloshed wine down the front of her black dress, and an annoyed expression took over her attractive features.

  “Watch where you are going, yes?”

  I recognized Matt Gibb’s Russian widow, Irina Gibb, almost immediately. “Sorry.”

  Straightening her clothes, she shot me one last angry glance and then stalked off. I turned and watched her as she went to sit in the pews. Her eyes were dry and not puffy in the slightest. A moment after sitting, she began picking at her nails and glancing up at the clock.

  “She seems all broken up about her dead husband, doesn’t she?” Oliver said, handing me a glass of wine.

  “People grieve differently,” I said dully, just arguing for argument’s sake. It was clear to anyone with eyes that Irina wasn’t mourning the loss of her husband.

  “Yeah,” he said, taking a long sip. “I bet an inheritance of a couple million dollars in life insurance speeds up the five stages.”

  I almost choked on my drink, spending the next minute or two hacking like a seal. “A couple million? Maybe I should’ve gone on more than a few dates with him.”

  “You and me both.”

  My temper flared. “And they don’t think that’s a good enough motive to kill for? Yet, Jeb, the one with no motive, is in jail.”

  Oliver looked at me silently for a moment, and then said, “You didn’t hear?”

  “Hear what?” I asked, a pit in my stomach.

  He leaned in. “They found out Jeb was having an affair with Irina. That, coupled with the rope and cloves—“

  “An affair?” It was a little too loud and a couple of people looked over at us, frowning. I turned away from them and whispered to Oliver, “But Matt and Irina had only been married a couple months.”

  He shrugged. “Guess it wasn’t a good match. The police figure Jeb killed Matt so he and Irina could run away together with his money.”

  I made an indignant noise in the back of my throat, setting aside my wine glass before I shattered it with the force of my fury. “That’s ridiculous. Jeb would never do something like that.”

  Oliver’s eyes held pity, which was almost worse than a slap. “Listen, I know it’s hard for you to accept you might have been wrong about someone, but—“

  “I’m not wrong about Jeb,” I said through my teeth. “And I’m going to prove it.”

  Stalking across the church, I walked straight up to where Detective Bennett was talking to a couple of Waresville lifers like himself. “May I have a word, Detective?”

  He looked down at me. A wary expression crossed hi
s face, but he nodded and followed me out of the church.

  As soon as we were out of earshot, I rounded on him, poking him in the chest with my index finger. “You’re going to take me on a date.”

  A glint appeared in his eyes. “I am?”

  “You are. Tonight.”

  “Seven?”

  “My place,” I said, and went to wait for Oliver at the car.

  Chapter Five

  After Oliver dropped me off, I hurried into my hideous, little bug and chugged over to the pharmacy. There was a huge line, and most of the people there were still in black from the funeral.

  “Had to pick the one time this place isn’t quieter than the cemetery,” I mumbled to myself, securing a place in line. I hadn’t been there five minutes when Irina Gibb walked in. She went to stand in line right behind me, and I found myself wondering if there was some kind of protocol for giving up your spot in line to people who have recently lost a husband.

  Then again, I was pretty sure at that point that she’d killed said husband, so there was no way she was getting my place.

  Still, an opportunity to snoop was an opportunity to snoop.

  “Harper Beck,” I said, sticking out my hand for her to shake. “Owner of the Funky Wheel.”

  She turned up her nose at my hand. “The wine spiller.”

  “That’s another one of my titles.”

  Pursing her lips, she seemed to want to move. As she was trapped, she asked, “What is a Funky Wheel?”

  “It’s a local 70s themed roller rink,” I said, unable to keep the pride out of my voice or to keep my chest from swelling.

  “Ah, yes, I believe Jeb mentioned it.”

  Now we were getting somewhere.

  “You know he’s in jail, right?” I gritted my teeth. “For killing your husband.”

  A smile crossed her face that I didn’t like one bit. It was predatory. “Poor Jeb. He was taken with me, but I can’t be held responsible for an unstable man’s actions.”

  I stepped back, matching her smile as closely as I could, but inside, I was screaming. She couldn’t be held responsible for Jeb’s supposed actions— and I was betting that was what she was counting on.

  I finally got to the front of the line and got to stop making unpleasant small talk with Irina. Sure, I’d wanted to pump her for information, but god, at what cost? The woman’s personality was like a punch to the skull.

  “Hey, Phil.”

  “Hello, Miss Harper. Need something filled?”

  “No,” I said, trying to keep the smile on my face. “I was just wondering if you’d identified the pill I gave you the other day.”

  He shook his head, and my stomach dropped. “Sorry. I haven’t gotten the chance. I’ll give you a call as soon as I do, though.”

  “That’d be great,” I said with false enthusiasm, trying to keep my face from falling.

  I kicked around town for a while, but it was just a stalling tactic. I wanted to go somewhere and wanted to stay as far away as possible at the same time. It was hell trying to unravel that rat’s nest of desire.

  Finally, I hopped in the car and drove back towards the place that I’d just left: the cemetery. Most of the mourners and well-wishers had piled out of the church and gone home, so the place was mostly deserted. While it was kind of nice not to do this with an audience, it was also creepy to be by myself in a cemetery, even in broad daylight.

  I walked up over the hill towards the plots reserved for my family. Passing about twenty long-lost uncles, aunts, and cousins, I made a game of memorizing their names as I walked higher and higher.

  Just when I was about to get a nosebleed, I almost tripped over a large marble gravestone. It had the name “Jacob Hanes, beloved father and son” on it. I found it a little strange that my grandmother had put father on the stone when I’d never even met the guy.

  I guessed graves were really more for the living, though.

  Sitting with my legs crossed under me, I looked at the stone head-on. For a while, I just stared at my father’s grave, not really sure what to do. I’d wanted to come here, but now I felt silly. Was my dead dad supposed to send some kind of sign from beyond the grave to help me catch a killer and free Jeb? That seemed a little much to ask of a guy who’d been dead seven years.

  “So… hey, dad,” I said, taking a shot. “Sucks you’re dead, because I could really use your help right now.”

  I went on to thank him for the Funky Wheel, told him how I’d found a home there, and that it was the best place on earth. After that, the words just started to come. I asked him why he never came to see me and where he’d been when I was growing up.

  The tears came with that subject, and I just let them fall, figuring no one was around to see it. I said all the things I wanted to—some of them not very nice.

  When I was ready to stand again, I felt lighter than the time I’d had my stomach pumped. And even though my situation hadn’t changed, I drove away with a smile.

  Chapter Six

  A few hours later, I found myself thinking about how I hadn’t been on a date in ages. Since few eligible, young men move to Waresville, and I’d exhausted all the reserves the town had to offer, I usually spent most of my nights as Foxxy. It was a fun time to be sure, but my sex life severely suffered because of it.

  You’re not having sex with him, I reminded myself. This is just for information. I was going to use him and then lose him, and there would be no funny business in between.

  Looking in the mirror, I took in the short, sparkly dress and well-applied make-up. I’d even shaved my legs and put on heels.

  There’s gonna be funny business.

  There was a knock at my door, and I frowned, checking the clock on the door to confirm he was early. Swinging the door open, I got the shock of my life and couldn’t keep the grimace off my face.

  “Don’t make that face at me, girlie,” my grandmother said, shouldering past me and into my loft.

  “Make yourself at home,” I said under my breath.

  “I will, since I paid for it.”

  Grabbing a glass of water for her, I sighed. “Actually, your son bought it, and I inherited it. Then, you made a generous donation to help me get started— which I appreciate.”

  I handed her the glass, and she didn’t even make a comment about water spots. This was progress.

  “I’d rather you work the magic shop like an honest witch.”

  I nodded, not saying anything, because I knew she hadn’t come over just to say that. Horror that she was, my grandmother wasn’t one to waste time on things that had already been hashed and rehashed. She’d been having the same fight with me that she’d had with my father for years.

  Sometimes, I wondered if that ever made her sad. I usually came up with the answer that she didn’t feel human emotion, so no, it didn’t. Other times, I’d catch her looking at me with a faraway look, and I knew she was thinking about the father I’d never known.

  “I made you this,” she said, shoving a cloth pouch into my hand. “Put it under your pillow, and it’ll keep away evil while you sleep.”

  I walked over to my bed and did just that. “Thanks, Grandma,” I said, surprise flowing through my body. Was the old hag worried about me?

  She sniffed. “Well, I need you alive for when you come to your senses and agree to run the shop.”

  “Of course.” I smiled.

  Looking at my clothes for the first time— another marked improvement— she raised an eyebrow. “Have you taken to prostitution?”

  “I like to keep my options open, but no, I’ve got a date.”

  That piqued her interest, and she went to sit in one of my dining room chairs, smoothing out her apron over her legs. “A date, huh? With who?”

  I pursed my lips, and through them, said, “Wyatt Bennett.”

  Now the slight curving of her lips was a full-blown smile. “He’s a good boy.” My grandmother nodded, a judge giving her verdict. “He’ll make a good husband.”

 
; I choked on my tongue, almost ruining my lipstick. “It’s a first date, Gran; it’s not going anywhere serious.”

  She was already getting up to leave, though, having decided I would marry Detective Bennett. “No, it’s a good match…. I think I’d like grandchildren.”

  I almost laughed, because she said it like someone would declare they wanted gloves for Christmas. Almost.

  Unfortunately, the woman was gone before I could tell her that neither marriage nor grandchildren were in the cards. I stared at the door for the next five minutes until I heard Wyatt coming up the stairs. Surprising him, I left the apartment before he even knocked, practically racing him to the car.

  He started the car, glancing over at me, and said, “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”

  Looking spectacular in a dark, expertly fitted suit, he fuddled with my mind, and I shouted, “No funny business!” His laugh sealed the no marriage or grandchildren thing. “My grandma came over just before you.”

  “Ah,” he said, directing the car towards the southern part of down town. “She’s a scary lady.”

  I blinked, certain I heard wrong. “You don’t think she’s sweet? Everyone thinks she’s made of licorice or some shit.”

  “When I was ten, I accidently hit a baseball through one of her windows,” he said soberly.

  I laughed. “And you’re still here to tell the tale?”

  “Barely.”

  He pulled up to a small restaurant I’d never seen before. It was settled between a grocery and a music store, the two neighbors pushing in on the tiny, yellow building like some kind of brick sandwich. There appeared to be only a couple of tables and a bar.

  “Charlotte’s,” I said slowly. “Can’t believe I’ve been here seven years and never seen this place.”

  “It’s my mother’s,” he said, taking my hand and helping me out of the car. “More of a hobby than anything for years, but now that we’re all out of the house…”

  “You’re taking me to meet your parents?” I teased, though my heart was seizing. I didn’t do well with parents. “Wow, you move quick.”

  “I doubt she’ll be here,” he said smoothly.