by Raven Snow
“Roller Rink Witchcraft”
Extended Edition
Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery
Harper "Foxxy" Beck Series Book 1
Raven Snow
© 2016
Raven Snow
Disclaimer
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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Digital Edition v1.02 (2016.04.09)
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Table of Contents
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Preview of “Shake Your Green Thing”
Authors Note
Books by Raven Snow
Chapter One
“Play that funky music, white boy!” I shouted, the front of my skates colliding with a half wall of purple cement.
My bouncer, Jeb, shot me a rare smile from the DJ’s corner just outside the large rink, giving the musical equipment a wide berth. “Wouldn’t know how, Miss Beck.”
Spinning in a tight circle, I gestured to the disco lights, the glowing peach-colored skating rink, and my neon green Afro wig. “I’m only gonna tell you once more. At the Funky Wheel, I’m Foxxy— fly mama with groovy moves who serves booze, good times, and leads the conga line.”
Leaning over the half wall, I stretched away from the tiny, triangular DJ’s corner and over one of the booths that made up the dining platform. “Out in the real world, you can call me Harper.”
“You got it, Miss Foxxy,” the mountain of muscle said, moving back towards the door after completing his scan of the room for trouble-making hooligans. Jeb’s face fell back into a mask of grave intention, giving the patrons the impression he’d feed them their teeth if they gave him a reason.
A particularly popular hit from the 70s came on the loud speakers, and a couple of people squealed and launched from their booths toward the floor. The few dozen that were already out there continued to skate around the circular rink, basking in the disco light and showing off their funky moves.
For the most part, my customers were middle-aged couples reliving the glory days and giving those old bell bottoms a night on the town. Teenagers, too, seemed to really love the Funky Wheel, coming here to skate and get cheap pizza, but rarely did they dress up.
When my late father had owned the place, from the early 90s until about seven years ago, anyone who wanted to walk through those scratched metal doors had better be wearing a costume from the era. There was still a sign by the ticket window just outside the entrance, but only because I couldn’t pry it from the brick.
Money was money after all, and since we were the only place open past midnight that kids under twenty-one could get into, the Funky Wheel did all right fiscally.
Zooming through the door behind the concession stand, I almost tripped over a chair that’d been left in the middle of the office. Instead, I ran into a desk so sturdy, it would’ve survived nuclear warfare. A couple of stacks of paper fell to the floor, but I ignored them, as they were probably bills.
“What’s the good news, Amber?” I asked the short teen standing at the ticket window.
“It’s been a pretty busy— wow, you’re like a skyscraper with those skates, ma’am.” She fixed her glasses, peering up at me.
“Trust me, I’m a skyscraper with or without them.” Checking my watch, I cursed. “Better get home, Amber. It’s almost two.”
Though there were circles under her eyes, she said, “I don’t mind staying.”
“I don’t mind you staying, either,” I said, snorting indelicately. “But your mother would come for my life. We’ll be closing after the next session, anyway. Doubt there’ll be much new foot traffic.”
Nodding, she put our closed sign up in the window. It said, in bright orange letters, “Keep on keepin’ on— just somewhere else”.
Backpedaling, I let her pass me and slip out of the tiny— originally white, but now yellow— office. I waved her out the front door, calling, “Have a groovy night!”
The rest of the night flew by with me taking turns getting the party restarted on the floor, playing part-time DJ, and helping out behind the concession stand. The last dominated a little too much of my time for my taste, and I let Stoner Stan know as couples flooded out for a slow song.
“Stan, it’s a hotdog machine. It rotates the damn wieners for you,” I said, pulling out a few shriveled franks from it. “All I ask is you don’t let them get mummified.”
The forty-year-old man stared at me for a moment with pupils the size of golf balls. His body, apart from the beer belly, was lanky and limp, like overcooked green beans. Stan had been at the Funky Wheel since my father bought it in 1991, and he was the main reason the men’s bathroom smelled like Woodstock.
“Sorry, Foxxy, dude,” he said. “I got all caught up in how the light sparkles on the grease when they go round.”
Lips twitching despite myself, I patted Stan on his greasy shoulder. “Don’t we all, brother.”
Though he was a horrible worker, I just couldn’t bring myself to fire the guy. We were one and the same, Stan and I: free spirits that the world didn’t quite understand. Unlike the rest of the town, Stoner Stan didn’t care if I wore crazy clothes or acted a little strange. That alone made him an excellent member of the Funky Wheel family.
He was also good for weed any time you fancied some.
I took the hop off the couple-inch-high platform of the dining section at full speed and spun around the corner towards the door.
“Any trouble?” I asked Jeb.
He didn’t lose his stony composure
. “None. Been pretty quiet.”
Using his arm to support myself, I yanked off my four-wheel skates. “Think you could close for me? Promised the old hag I’d have her prescription in her medicine cabinet before she comes out of her coffin at the ass-crack of dawn.”
“Sure thing, Miss Foxxy, but that ain’t no way to be talking about your grandmother.”
Ignoring the fact that my pink disco shorts were riding up, I ran across the dark parking lot barefoot, hopping into my bug and sending up a silent prayer before turning the key. The car had once been orange, but now most of the original paint was gone, leaving only the rusty center. Old though she was, the engine still turned over, and I gave a little whistle of thanks.
Waresville— often called “Wheresville,” because it’s so easy to miss the little town on a map— was mostly deserted as I chugged past the downtown area and up into the residential one. Grandma’s house was one of the oldest in town, our ancestors one of the founding families of this tourist trap.
I tiptoed around the ancient plantation-style house, wincing at the groan of every floorboard. As soon as I slipped the medicine into the witch’s cabinet, she appeared. Her usual grimace was in place, but my grandmother was wearing a red robe instead of the usual apron.
The apron was more to fool the townspeople into thinking she was a sweet, old lady like her neighbor Thelma Gibb, mother of my accountant. In my memory, my grandmother had never cooked anything that hadn’t been meant to poison one of her enemies.
She took one look at my disco shorts, tie-dye tank, and green Afro, and turned away with a sniff. “Disgraceful. Just like your father, bringing shame to this noble family.”
Though my grandmother was already gone, disappearing into the house to study her spell books or something, I muttered, “A family full of witches and warlocks. Real noble.”
After the whole Salem incident, my father’s side of the family had come down here to settle Waresville in the hope of escaping persecution. Their hopes weren’t in vain, either, because now witches, magic, and all manner of gimmicky things were what this town was known for. Without the magic shops and spooky tour buses, Waresville would’ve been wiped off the map decades ago. One such magic shop was across from the Funky Wheel and owned by my grandma.
Without another word, I left the house and headed for my car, but before I could get there, Thelma Gibb waved me down from next door.
“Harper, dear, were you just visiting your grandmother?”
Unlike my grandmother, Thelma wore an apron because she was actually a sweet, old lady that baked. Her smiles were always genuine, and she never hexed the neighborhood kids. Often, I’d find myself fantasizing about being her granddaughter.
Moving up towards the porch, I answered, “Sure was, Miss Thelma. Not that she appreciates it.”
Mrs. Gibb grinned and beckoned me inside. “Oh, Julia’s always been a moody thing, ever since I’ve known her. And I’ve known her for at least sixty years!” She turned thoughtful. “Though, I do find the age making me a little testy some days— that and the fibromyalgia.”
I followed her inside and was assaulted by the mouthwatering smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies. “She’s a little more than moody these days.”
“Oh, forget about her,” Thelma said with a smile. “Come have a cookie— or four.”
Only someone truly inhuman would have been able to turn that offer down, so I sat down in Thelma’s lovely, bright kitchen and ate as many cookies as my stomach could hold. Despite the laughs and the present company, a black cloud formed above me, leaching some of the joy out of the morning. I couldn’t shake the feeling something bad was coming.
Great, now you’re becoming just as paranoid as your grandma.
Leaving Thelma with a bunch of thank yous and a promise to visit again soon, I headed to my loft above the disco skate, hoping to get a couple hours of sleep before I had to reopen. Unfortunately, every time my eyes closed, visions of witches and voodoo dolls danced behind my lids.
Chapter Two
“Late! I’m so late!” I stumbled around my apartment, which consisted of a bed/kitchen area and a bathroom. Looking for my disco outfit amongst the pile of clothes fresh from the dryer, I stubbed my toe against a stool.
The rush of little kids with their parents would come at five, and it was almost four-thirty. It was the most lucrative hour, besides when the middle-aged couples arrived and bought alcohol. The kids would beg for lots of pizza, but end up filling up on candy.
That meant leftovers for the crew and me. We ate like kings on Saturday nights.
Racing down the outside, iron stairwell, I made yipping noises when my bare feet hit the heated metal. Though it was late fall, the sun was still a force to be reckoned with in northern Florida.
I threw open the metal doors, and immediately, my nose was assaulted with a heavy mix of spicy cloves and copper. Gagging, I whipped my hand back and forth in front of my face, trying to dissipate the metallic burning smell.
Leaving my skates by the open front door, I ventured into my roller rink, heart pounding. Burning plants was never innocent in this town, and while I was sure Jeb wouldn’t have forgotten to lock the door, it was unlocked when I’d come in.
“The police are on their way,” I said, bluffing.
My cell was up in my bedroom. Even if I’d had it, I wasn’t sure I would’ve called them. I was still hoping it was a bunch of teenagers.
A few steps closer to the rink brought me right next to the half wall enclosing it. Peering over, my hopes of rowdy teenagers that would run at the sound of my approach were dashed.
There was a body in the middle of the dance floor.
The forty-year-old man with slicked-back hair was tied spread-eagle, with a rope knot on each limb that was secured to the ground by a copious amount of duct tape. Little sacks of smoking cloves were littered around him, and a bloody satanic symbol— one I was unfamiliar with— had been painted on his chest. A single bullet hole graced the center of his forehead, the only non-magical part of the whole scene.
A speck of white glowed blue in the lighting and caught my attention. I picked it up, realizing it was a pill. Tucking it away, I figured I’d keep it safe until the police got here.
Turning on my heel, I walked into the office with deceptively calm, even steps. The old rotary phone in there was still connected only because I was lazy, but it worked well enough to call the police.
After hanging up, I collapsed into the nearest chair, my head falling onto my chest. My mind raced around in circles between wondering how long it would take the police to get here and the realization that I’d just found the body of my accountant, Matt Gibb, tied to my funky floor.
The sirens sounded not long after that, saving me from my thoughts. Pulling myself together, I put on my wig and prepared to shoo away business for the next couple of hours.
Jeb and the police pulled up at the exact same time, almost competing for parking. While I walked over to Jeb’s old truck to fill him in— a tall man with a military cut, icy blue eyes, and a frown to rival Jeb’s— stepped out of the cruiser, wearing a well-pressed suit.
Mr. Gibb’s suits were always rumpled, I thought.
Snapping back to the matter at hand, I said, “So, Jeb, there’s no reason for you to stick around. We won’t be opening tonight, for sure.”
The large man shook his head vehemently. “No can do, Miss Harper. I’m not leaving you here alone.”
Barely able to hold back an eye roll, I was interrupted before I could assure Jeb I could take care of myself.
“If you two are done gossiping, I have a few questions for the both of you.” The detective’s eyes were hard, and his jaw said he meant business.
“You’re already done with the body?” I asked incredulously.
A single eyebrow leapt up. “No. Officer Randolph is photographing the scene before we go in.”
“Oh,” I said, noticing how Jeb was studiously silent beside me, his eyes on the ground.
Whipping out a notepad, Detective Bennett, born and raised golden boy of Waresville, said, “Harper Beck. Moved here about seven years ago after your father passed away and left you the Funky Wheel.” There was a sneer at the name of my establishment.
None of that was a question, but I said, “That’s right. But how—“
“I know everyone in town,” he said shortly, turning to my bouncer. “You work here and down the street at the Hardie’s Hardware, Jeb— I’m afraid I don’t know your last name. Or anything else about you.”
“A last name doesn’t tell you much about a person,” Jeb mumbled, backing away towards his truck.
“It does if you have access to a background check,” Detective Bennett. “You can’t leave. I’m not done with the interrogation.”
“You go ahead, Jeb,” I said loudly, deciding in that moment that I didn’t like the detective. “You weren’t here when I discovered the body, and you have the day off, so there’s no reason for you to be here.”
He pursed his lips while Jeb drove away, and then turned his full, suspicious attention to me. “Do you make a habit of employing felons, Miss Beck?”
“Call me Foxxy,” I said. “And I only stoop to hiring honest folk when the criminal population of Waresville runs dry.”
“Charming. How about Harper instead?”
“No.”
Pulling out a pen, he asked, “So, Harper, what time did you close last night?”
I didn’t want to put Jeb in the hot seat, so I fudged the facts a little. “About four.”
“Who was there with you?”
“Jeb, Stoner Stan, and a handful of stragglers.”
“Do any of these stragglers have names?” he asked with false sweetness. “And maybe a couple last names for your employees?”
“I think Stan’s starts with an A or N.”
“Stan Joane, actually.”
