A Murder Most Rosy: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 3)

by Raven Snow

  Before I even registered seeing anything, the audience gasped, and people stood up in their seats to get a better look at the stage. When my mind finally caught up with my eyes, my stomach hit the ground with enough force to bruise.

  Like an elaborate mass grave, the stage had been completely covered in red roses. They rose up like a mountain or like a big wave coming toward shore— roses upon roses piled on top of each other. There had to be enough thorns up there to skin the entire population of Waresville.

  But that wasn't all. Up on the white wall to the back of the stage, crimson letters decorated the huge, blank area. The dripping left little wonder as to what the red liquid was, and I suddenly felt nauseous. That was a lot of blood.

  And it spelled out HARPER.

  Women were screaming now, and everyone was grabbing their kids and high-tailing it out of the building. Janet gave me a satisfied smirk as she went by, bumping into my shoulder.

  "I guess I'll be getting that job soon, after all." Then, she was gone.

  Norbert was trying to calm people down, but this was Waresville. No one took a message in blood lightly. The crowd almost trampled him in their haste to get out, pulling him and me out of the auditorium. It was too much work to struggle against them, so I let them drag me along toward the outside of the school.

  While people ran for their cars, Wyatt made his way to me through the crowd. There was not an inch of give in his body, his expression as stony as the granite countertops in his kitchen. Cooper followed close at his heels, looking nervous and shooting me scared glances.

  "When you called me the other day asking about flowers..." He trailed off, seemingly too angry to continue. "You lied to me."

  I shook my head, words failing me.

  That didn't help. "You didn't tell me the whole truth, that's for sure!"

  "I'm sorry."

  He pinched his nose for a moment, and then looked back at me. A little of the anger had faded from his eyes, but I would've preferred that to what I saw there: disappointment. "You know, Harper, I'm getting a little tired of being the only one in this relationship that cares whether you live or die."

  I didn't allow myself to wince, even though he'd struck a chord.

  "Maybe I just think there are some things that are more important than my life."

  His face closed off, and I knew I'd said the wrong thing. "I don't."

  He then left with Cooper in tow. If I could've cried, I would've at the look of betrayal that little boy sent me. He grabbed his dad's hand, following him to the car even as he kept looking at me. He didn't drop the eye contact until they were driving away.

  "Everything alright?" Norbert asked, coming up behind me. His hair was a mess from the crowd, and his glasses were askew with finger prints on them. Overall, he looked like he'd been in the middle of a mosh pit.

  I resisted the urge to snap at him, because it wasn't his fault I'd messed up. "Not really," I said without heat.

  Casting a nervous look toward the auditorium, he said, "Maybe you shouldn't stay alone tonight. You're welcome to crash at my place." His face colored slightly. "It's just me and my mom there."

  Normally, I would've teased him about living with his mother, but I didn't find anything particularly humorous at that moment—which was a good indicator that things were turning out very badly.

  "I'll be fine at my place," I told him, running a tired hand through my dark pixie cut. "But thanks."

  He nodded, taking his leave a couple minutes later. My car was parked in the same illegal spot, and it started without issues, taking me to the Wheel and to my loft.

  A shudder went through me as I walked through the door, but it had more to do with how cold and dark it was in the room. Without turning on the lights, I collapsed into bed and turned off my phone. I was pretty sure Wyatt wouldn't be calling, and I didn't want to talk to anyone else.

  Without any fanfare, I fell into a fitful sleep filled with roses sharp enough to cut and bloody walls.

  Chapter Six

  When I awoke, it was still darker than a starless night in my bedroom. At first, I couldn't pinpoint what had woken me, but then a wave of wrongness spread throughout me, making me want to puke.

  I lunged to my feet, looking around wildly, but nothing jumped out at me from the shadows. When I turned on my light, my loft was the same dinky, small place it'd always been. Nothing had changed, and nothing was out of place.

  Still...

  I walked out the door and the cool iron of the staircase stung my feet. Frowning, I glanced down to the ground level for a hint at what I was sensing.

  A familiar clang of metal crashing into the ground had me rolling my eyes. I reached inside the door and grabbed the bag of cat food I kept there. Always the sucker for a stray, I'd started feeding the cats in the alley by the Funky Wheel seven years go. And they had never forgotten.

  Standing at the entrance to the dimly lit alley, I shook the food bag. "Here, kitty. Don't think I'm gonna risk tetanus to come to you with bare feet."

  I rolled my eyes, calling myself the biggest sucker in the world, and tiptoed into the alley. If I wasn't such a stray myself, I wouldn't have been suckered in. Still, there were worse flaws to have— not that that was my only one.

  Eying the ground instead of what was in front of me, I kept myself on the lookout for nails or rusty bits of metal. Driving myself to the hospital with a sharp bit of something sticking through my foot would've been the perfect end to this abysmal day. Worse, I'd probably have to call Wyatt— something that pricked at my pride almost as much as a nail would my foot.

  The wind whistled through the alleyway, and though it was a Florida wind, I still shivered slightly. I'd mistakenly come out in only a baggy t-shirt and a pair of cartoon underwear. They'd been on sale, and I'd felt pretty good about the purchase. Now? Not so much.

  Another clang rang out, and my head snapped up so quickly, I bit my lip. I barely registered the sting, because the sound of metal against the ground was far louder here than it'd been at the top of the stairs. The noise was bigger, somehow, and definitely not a cat.

  Squinting into the darkness, I held the cat food against me like a medieval shield, my body trembling slightly. Just when I was about to turn tail and run like a coward, a woman emerged from the middle of the alley. She was wearing a geeky t-shirt— much like myself— with a nice skirt and professional heels. The look was altogether ridiculous and calming.

  When she stumbled against a trashcan, knocking it over and reproducing the noise that had brought me down here, I frowned. "Are you alright, ma'am?" One too many at one of the local bars, I thought.

  She said nothing, but when she looked up, a plain but pretty face made all the warmth flee from my body. Her head wasn't misshapen anymore, but there was still week-old blood covering her face, highlighting where she'd hit the pavement.

  "Ms. Nittleman?" I stumbled back, almost tripping over a trashcan in my haste.

  The cold metal scratched against the back of my calf, and I felt the blood flow freely. That barely registered on my radar, though, with a dead woman creeping toward me. Her gait was all wrong, like a newborn who had no idea how to work their body. But most frightening was her eyes, which were completely lacking in anything sentient. They stared me down without seeing anything.

  "Harper Beck."

  It felt more like she was taking role call than greeting me, and I shuddered, calculating the distance between myself and the back door to my loft. Way too far. While her movements might have been uncoordinated, she wasn't lacking for speed.

  An observation she politely illustrated by lunging at me the next moment.

  I tried to throw myself out of the way, but she got me by the hair, yanking me to the ground near her feet. Struggling against her, I thrashed around like a fish on the deck, my lip still bleeding from biting it earlier.

  She crouched down, and I flailed harder to no avail. Cocking her head slightly to the side, she looked like a dog— or something a bit more pr
edatory. Her fist went up and then soared down, hitting me square in the jaw.

  I was out like a light.

  When I woke up in total darkness, I allowed myself one moment of pure profanity, cursing everything in this life and the next—especially the pain in my jaw. How did boxers do this for a living? Scratch that, how did I do this for a living? If I got out of this, I vowed that I'd sell the Wheel and never leave Wyatt's kitchen— the very cliché of a barefoot, pregnant woman.

  "Kara?"

  When no one answered, I started feeling around. My hand almost immediately hit the confines of what seemed to be a square box. The felt-like material was warm but a little rundown under my fingers. I still couldn't see a thing, though, and for a horrible moment, I wondered if I was in a coffin.

  "The material's too cheap," I told myself aloud, if only to hear someone's voice. "Plus, it's not person-shaped."

  That last was especially true, because while I had plenty of space width-wise, I had to keep in my fetal position for lack of length. Coffins had more space than this— even if I was pretty tall.

  The zooming sound of the highway hit me just as the box gave a lurch— pothole. For a second, I impossibly saw red, even though there wasn't enough light to see anything but black.

  "She shoved me in a trunk!" I mashed my lips together but regretted it when they protested. "And after I tried to solve her murder. This is truly a thankless business."

  I let out a deep breath, trying not to harbor any tendrils of hope in my heart. If I was in a trunk, I knew how to get out. But if not...

  Shaking off all my thoughts, I felt around for where the bumper would be. Once located, I shifted my body directly in the middle of the trunk, feeling frantically along the top for the release pull. In the older models, it didn't exist, so I just had to hope I wasn't in a clunker.

  The driver— Kara, likely— went over another pothole, and the momentum slammed my forehead into the top of the trunk. Wetness started to run down my face, and I saw stars amongst the total darkness. Just when I thought I'd pass out again, my hand touched something with a string.

  The possibility of getting out helped me hold onto consciousness. For a moment, all I could do was envision breathing in non-musty air and running straight to Wyatt to tell him I was an idiot. He'd agree, and we'd go back to the way things were. I'd even leave this stupid case behind me— since it seemed Kara didn't even want her murder solved.

  I held onto the pulley with all my might, but I didn't pull. It killed me to wait, my heart beating a million miles an hour. Unfortunately, the car was going too fast. If jumped out now, I'd be mincemeat. Still, the longer I spent in that trunk, the more appealing ground up Harper became.

  Finally, I felt the car slow. It was still going pretty fast, but it would have to be good enough. Pulling on the string, the trunk lid popped up immediately, and I grabbed onto it to keep it from going all the way up. Something like that would alert the driver.

  Breathing through my nose with hard-won patience, I slowly shifted my body out of the car, keeping my hold on the trunk. I watched the road whiz by below me, the concrete looking sharp and unforgiving. It took all of my upper body strength, but I managed to get myself to a position where I could read the license plate.

  Done with my memorization, I launched myself out of the trunk, pulling down the lid with my momentum and hoping that it was enough to close it again. Once I hit the ground, though, I wasn't thinking of any of that.

  My unprotected body rolled and scraped violently against the road. A fire started in my ribs and my left cheek felt like a bear had mauled it. By the time I came to a dizzy stop, my whole body was a canvas of scrapes and bruises. Gasping in breath after breath, I laid there in pain for a few more minutes than I should have.

  When I finally struggled to my feet, a shaking hand pressed against my inflamed side, the car was, thankfully, nowhere in sight. My good mood disappeared when I took stock of my surroundings.

  Fortunately, I recognized where I was immediately. Unfortunately, I was a couple of miles outside of town on a deserted highway. My hand immediately went to where my pants would've been to grab the cell phone— the one I'd left on my bedside table.

  Limping along, I kept to the side of the road as I made my way back into town. The dark, creepy surroundings coupled with my injuries, lack of clothes, and bare feet made a few miles seem like halfway across the country. By the time I spotted the first lights of Waresville, my eyes were drooping and my body dragging.

  The first building I came to was a gas station just outside of town that I'd never used before. The bright lights blasted at my unprotected eyes, and I blinked back tears as I shuffled into the store.

  A young man was playing on his phone behind the cash register and promptly dropped it with a clang when he saw me: half-naked, bleeding, and stumbling like a drunk. His mouth opened and closed like a fish, and his face, which took in my bare legs with embarrassment, blushed into a deep red.

  "Do you think I could use your phone?"

  Not five minutes later, I heard a single, angry siren blasting its way through the night. Wyatt's car screeched to a stop outside of the gas station, and he jumped from the car like it was on fire. A couple of yards back, I saw his backup coming without any of the flare or urgency. I wondered briefly if they were hanging back so I could compose myself, or so Wyatt could.

  I expected him to fly across the floor like he had the parking lot, but when the door closed behind him, his footsteps were heavy and hesitant. Still, he didn't waste any time crouching down in front of the chair the cashier had graciously vacated for me. His icy eyes took in everything: the injuries, the haunted look, and lastly, the state of dress.

  He took the blanket the young man held out to him, wrapping it around my shoulders and making sure it covered my mile-long legs. I watched him, studying his face from under my eyelashes, but I couldn't read him. He had his cop expression on.

  "The underwear was on sale," I blurted out.

  "I know. I've seen the rest of the pack."

  His words were too forced to be as light as I knew he’d wanted them to come out, but I appreciated the effort. Straightening out my fingers and attempting to get them to stop shaking, I focused on what needed to be done.

  “Take me to the station.”

  He became weary. “Tell me what happened first.”

  Shaking my head mutely, I silently pleaded with him to just take me to the station. I wasn’t operating on all levels, and it was hard enough trying to make sense of the jumbled mess in my head without arguing with him.

  Helping me up, Wyatt was very careful of my sore spots. “On the way, then.”

  The officer gave us a questioning glance as Wyatt half carried me to the car. Unfortunately for him, his eyes lingered a little too long on the smooth expanse of skin the blanket kept revealing. And Wyatt noticed.

  “Take a statement from the attendant and back track the road she took to get here— on foot,” he said lowly. Whatever was in his eyes was enough to make the officer flinch and scurry away with his tail between his legs.

  When we were both in the car together, he turned the heat up to full blast— something that never happened, even in North Florida. I shuddered at the burst of warmth on my skin, realizing just then how cold I'd been.

  Though he'd said we'd talk about what happened to me in the car. He didn't push or prompt me to say anything I didn't want to. Without a doubt, his unflinching ability to put everyone else's needs first was my favorite part about Wyatt.

  I tucked my head against the seat, saving myself the trouble of holding it up. "I'm sorry I didn't tell you Kara's killer had been threatening me."

  "We'll talk about it later," he said gently, turning down the street that headed to the station.

  "You always say that."

  He shot me a look. "That's because you have a bad habit of making yelling at you inconvenient."

  "It's a gift."

  Parking the car, Wyatt hopped out and rumma
ged in the back. Though I was in a hurry to get into the station, I didn't want to leave the warmth of the car behind, so I waited for him to finish and open my door. In the meantime, I watched him through the rearview mirror with interest.

  A minute or so later, he emerged from the trunk with an old, ratty pair of gray sweatpants. He handed them to me and stood in front of the door, blocking me from the view of the empty parking lot while I pulled them on. Really, you would've thought I was completely naked from his reaction.

  Next, his suit jacket went over my shoulders, making my look that much more fashionable. I thought he was done, so I started toward the entrance, but he stopped me with an unassuming hand on my arm.

  "Let me pull off my socks, so you have something to put on your feet," he said.

  This time, it was I who shot him a look. "You can do that inside, Sir Gallant, while I use your computer."

  Since I was practically running, he had to rush to keep up with me, his tie flying back behind him. "You realize that's for police business only. If you wanted to update your social media status, you could've done that at home."

  "My followers shouldn't have to wait another second for every detail of my night spent in a trunk."

  He stiffened at that, eyes flashing, but he still said nothing. I sat down in the chair at his desk, his presence right behind me. My shoulders were held tight enough to snap, and his fingers dug into them a second later, calming me without words.

  In between him giving me a short explanation of how to sign into the computer and find what I needed, I told him about my entire night. For the first time in a long time, I left nothing out and spared no details. He didn't comment, probably realizing how hard it was to relive all of it, but his fingers did dig into my shoulders at parts, particularly the jumping out of a moving car bit.

  When I'd finally logged in, I typed in the license plate I'd risked my life to look at, waiting patiently while the backwater internet loaded.

  "How did someone bring Ms. Nittleman back to life?" he asked quietly after a moment. I could tell it wasn't chief on his mind, but it was probably the safest topic— which was saying a lot about the conversation.