by Raven Snow
Frowning, I walked up to her, thinking she didn’t seem like the type of woman to have bad posture. “Belinda?”
I touched her shoulder, and she flopped down onto the floor like there wasn’t a bone in her entire body. Sprawled out, her eyes looked up at me, blank and seeing nothing. No breath escaped her lips; her body was completely motionless.
Realizing she was dead, I emitted a little squeak. “Crap. I need to stop finding dead bodies.”
Then, as I watched, dumbstruck, her skin began to change colors. Her ashy tan turned to a Granny Smith apple and then to a grassy shade right before my eyes. Still just as dead, the fallen witch was now greener around the gills than anyone had a right to be.
“Double crap.”
While the police closed off the scene and took pictures, I sat next to Cooper, our legs swinging off the stage. Our eyes went left to right, left to right, tracing the invisible line in front of the stage that Wyatt was pacing.
“Why does it always have to be you?” he asked.
Though it was probably meant to be rhetorical, I said, “Just lucky, I guess.”
The second phone in my back pocket, Belinda’s, seemed to weigh a metric ton. Like usual, I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t given it to the police, yet. They hadn’t asked for it because they hadn’t taken my statement, but still. I was like a raccoon with a shiny object; I just had to hang onto it.
As the crime scene officer exited the building, Wyatt practically ran over to him, pumping him for information. No matter how mad he was at me for inadvertently getting involved, he couldn’t resist the lure of a good mystery.
Neither could I.
“Do me a solid and don’t tell your dad about this,” I told Cooper, pulling out the dead witch’s phone and scrolling through it.
The pictures were mostly of cats and Belinda herself, but the log of calls proved interesting. Though the history only went back a month, I saw an inordinate amount of calls from the same number, but it wasn’t listed in her contacts.
I knew from the bio she gave that she hadn’t been married, so it had to be a boyfriend. Whoever he was, he’d be the police’s first suspect, and mine. Making a mental note of Belinda’s number and her lover’s, I pushed the phone back into my pocket.
Cooper said nothing, though he looked at me with disapproving eyes, just like his father would have. Unlike his father, he didn’t yell at me to stay out of it and confiscate the phone.
Some days, he was my favorite Bennett.
The other Bennett waved me over, and I hopped off the stage. Realizing what he wanted a moment too late, I stopped a few yards from where he was, leaving him to cross the rest of the distance.
“Hand over the phone, Harper,” Wyatt said, stopping in front of me with his hand outstretched.
“Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Though I’d been planning to hand it over, now that the moment had come, I didn’t want to part ways with my only evidence.
Quicker and more slippery than an eel, his arm flashed around my side, fishing the phone out of my back pocket. His fingers lingered for a fruitful millisecond.
Squealing, I punched him in the shoulder, ignoring the way his smug grin made my stomach flip-flop.
Waving the cell phone in front of my nose, he said, “Thank you, Miss Beck.”
While he walked off to register the phone into evidence, I resumed my perch next to Cooper. “Your dad’s a real piece of work.”
His head snapped over to look at me. “Why are you mad at him?”
Blowing the hair out of my eyes, I said, “I’m not mad, but if I was, it’d be because he snatched the evidence before I could properly look at it.”
Fishing in my bag for the keys to my newly-repaired bug, I bade Cooper goodbye. He seemed a little stressed that I was leaving, which was odd, but he was an odd kid— something I could still relate to all these years later. I didn’t give it much thought.
The rusty, orange bug roared to life under me, and I chugged away. The streets were full of people going into color magic shops with cauldrons in the windows and boarding trollies with fake cobwebs and conductors that spoke in spooky voices.
One of the stops on their route would, no doubt, be where I was going: my grandma’s house. The oldest home in Waresville, it was also rumored to have once been the home of an evil witch and a plethora of ghosts. Both were true, only that evil witch hadn’t gone anywhere. She stilled lived in the house, telling me I was a disgrace to witches everywhere and trying to get me to give her grandchildren.
The light-colored plantation style house loomed on a large hill. The lawn was in disarray, and moss grew up and down the siding. It almost surprised me, as if I was seeing it as an old, shabby house for the first time. I’d never really realized how much work the building needed.
“Grandma?” I called out when I stepped through the front door.
More announcing my presence than trying to bring her out of hiding, I called again. Grandma had a nasty habit of taking offense when people stopped by announced— especially me.
I found her in the kitchen she never used, wearing a bright red robe and a grimace. The robe confused me, though she usually wore it around the house.
“Didn’t you go to the opening ceremony?”
“Why?” she asked, like she hadn’t attended it every year since the beginning of time. “There’s no magic till later.”
“Because you’re paranoid,” I said slowly, as if speaking to a dim child. Walking over to the cupboards, I grabbed a glass to fill with water. “And man, did you pick the wrong one to miss, Gran.”
Her eyes narrowed in on the glass. Clearly, I was sullying it by putting my lips on it. “What happened?”
“Last year’s winner was found dead.”
Grandma made an unflattering noise. “More boobs than magic.”
“That’s what I said!”
Taking a sip from her tea, she asked, “Who found her?”
“Uh— that would be me,” I admitted.
An eyebrow shot up in the air, which was surprising, considering how much condemnation was on her face. “That’s turning into a bad habit of yours.”
“Maybe I’ll take up smoking instead,” I said. “But get this, Gran, she turned green.”
That got her attention. “Green?”
“Green.” I nodded. “That, coupled with the fact that she was a witch and there were no visible wounds, I’m thinking it was magic.”
“So, you came to me, an expert on killing useless young witches.” Her brows were furrowed, and I got the distinct feeling she was offended.
“Well, that,” I said slowly, trying to digest the thought of Grandma caring what I thought, “and you’re the most experienced witch I know. So, know any spells or concoctions that’d kill a witch and turn her green?”
“Thousands, though none come to mind at the moment,” she said. “I’ll consult the books.”
I knew a dismissal when I heard one, and this one, for my grandma, was pretty common. Often, she talked about reading her spell books like they were people whispering the answers in her ears. Preposterous, but it wouldn’t do any good to push the old bat; she’d only turn me into something unpleasant.
Around nightfall, I climbed back into my car and headed over to Wyatt’s house for dinner. I was practically trembling with excited and impatient feelings, needing to know more about the case.
This, unfortunately, made seeing Wyatt all the harder, because I knew he wasn’t going to want to even mention it. But since all I could do was wait for word from grandma or hope something would slip from Wyatt’s reluctant mouth, I could at least try to enjoy the evening with my frustrating boyfriend.
As per the usual, the Bennett family was starting out with an appetizer of chocolate cereal. I’d pointed out to them that this was hardly nutrition, but I, myself, lived on a diet of leftover pizza, so I couldn’t throw stones.
Cooper was excited to see me, running to meet me at the entrance to the s
mall, but modern kitchen. “You came back!”
“Never have to worry about that,” I said. “When there’s food involved, I come running.”
Wyatt smiled and opened his mouth to say something, but his phone rang at the same moment. It was a boring ring, one that probably came with the device. My own changed from one 70s jam to the next daily. It was strange that I was dating one of the grown up ringtone types.
I took Wyatt’s seat at the table next to Cooper, happily scooping up what was left of the cereal into my mouth. The boy next to me had chocolate on his face and milk dribbled down his blue sweater.
Swallowing, Cooper said, “I have something to tell you.”
“Shoot.”
“Dad got a call earlier from the E.M.—“
“M.E.?”
“Yeah, that.” He nodded. “He said when they opened her, green gas came out, and they think it was a magic poison or something.”
My suspicions confirmed, I grinned loftily. “Cooper, you’re the best. You’re not gonna get in trouble with your dad for telling me, are you?”
“I was gonna lie and say I didn’t.”
“Excellent idea. Remember, answering a question with a question is a great defense technique— and really annoying.”
After the words were out of my mouth, I paused in a rare moment of reflection. Was it smart to encourage lying in children and give them tips on how to lie better? I had no idea, so it was probably a blessing that I wasn’t someone’s mommy.
Chapter Three
The funky music was playing, and I— or my alter ego Foxxy— was grooving to it. Using the big guns, I did the cabbage patch for everyone to see. Impressed and horrified faces passed me as I rolled around the rink. Everyone's a critic.
Stoner Stan was actually at his post behind the tiki-style concession stand. His eyes were kind of glazed over from his bathroom break, and he was leaning over the counter, staring at the disco lights. A customer came up to him, asking where the manager was.
"Where's anyone, man?" he asked, not taking his eyes off the swirling colors. "Where we are doesn't tell us where we're going."
"You said it, brother." I rolled up, putting my glittered fingers out to shake the hand of the forty-something man with bad side burns.
"Are you in charge?" he asked, eyeing the sparkles that were permanently imbedded in my skin from the project for Cooper's art class he, Wyatt, and I had worked on last night.
"Till the government takes away my right to party," I said gravely. Stan nodded his head in agreement, like I had said something sage.
"Then, you're Harper Beck."
"Foxxy."
He didn't smile. "Well, Foxxy, I'm Officer Koser, and I need to take you down to the police station for some questioning."
Rocking back on my skates, I was pleased when my wig didn't slide, the Afro firmly secured to my head. "So, would you say you're threatening to take me downtown?"
"I don't have time for games, Miss Beck."
What a sad existence he led.
Speeding towards the door with the cop in my wake, I stopped right in front of Jeb. His eyes lingered angrily on Officer Koser, who was bringing up the rear, the waistline of his corduroys almost touching the ground with the effort. Though Jeb had no love for cops, he especially didn't like the Waresville police department. I could almost see the gears turning in his head and could actually hear him grinding his teeth.
"Down, boy," I said, handing over my keys. "Try not to lose this pair, alright? I'll try to be back by closing."
"You won't be," Officer Koser said, finally catching up with me. "We have a lot of questions."
"So do I," I said, being completely truthful. "First one: Since when do the boys in blue come calling for an interview at two in the morning?"
"This is a murder investigation." He eyed me like I was stupid. "It couldn't wait."
"Yet, it could wait the forty-eight hours it's been since I found the body?"
He didn't answer that— a total cop thing to do. Escorting me to the car, I got the distinct feeling that he didn't like me. Though a little hurtful, it was unsurprising. I didn't fit into the witch crowd or the white picket crowd, so most of Waresville didn't think I belonged, period. Shrugging to myself, I figured they could think that all they wanted so long as they kept lining my pockets with mellow cash.
Driving to the police station in silence, I noted that we were actually headed north, not down as he'd said. The stage and backstage area of the festivities was still set up, but the band, a local group of married men past their half-century mark, was packing up. It looked like a good crowd, which would explain why business hadn't been booming at the Funky Wheel. It seemed not even the murder of a contestant could stop this year's Witch Week.
They patted me down before putting me in the interrogation room, taking all my loose personal belongings— including my Afro.
When the desk guy asked for it with his hand outstretched, I immediately hugged it closer to my scalp.
"You can't take the ‘fro, man." I balked.
But they did. The man took my neon green Afro. Sitting in mutinous silence at the metal table under the single, blearing light, I thought I'd have to tell Stan about this. Maybe we could have organized a Stoner's United and march on the Waresville police for the release of my hair.
The look on Wyatt's face would've been priceless.
My mind firmly on Wyatt now, I wondered idly if he would be questioning me. The thought was not a bad one— even, dare I say, a sexy one— he could be the bad cop, and I could be the criminal just trying to get off on a light sentence.
A few minutes later, however, my hopes were dashed when Officer Koser walked in, holding two cups of coffee.
"We drove here together, and that's instant," I pointed out. "Why'd you make me wait?"
He set the cup of sludge down in front of me, studiously avoiding my question by asking, "Would you like some coffee, Miss Beck?"
"Would you like my DNA, Officer Koser?" I asked, taking a sip despite myself. It was bad— real bad. "Because all you had to do was ask."
Smiling politely, Officer Koser asked, "Can you give me a recount of the events of Tuesday the twenty-fifth?"
"Gee, let me check my calendar." Despite the teasing, I didn't really want Belinda's killer to go free— even if Belinda had been a jerk. And if it couldn't be me doing the sleuthing for the moment, I was willing to help out the police.
I started at the moment that Belinda left the stage, and I noticed her phone fall to the ground. I ran through the whole event, leaving out some conversations with Wyatt and Cooper. That was none of his business.
He listened to me with an impassive expression and then asked, "We believe that Belinda was poisoned when she arrived for a practice speech that morning at eight. Can you account for your whereabouts before, during, and after that time?"
Since Wyatt had dropped me off at a little after six, and I hadn't met him again at the ceremony until about eleven, I couldn't. What stunned me into silence was the careful, nonchalant way he asked me. Why would he need to know that, anyway? It was way before I found the body.
"You suspect me, don't you?" I asked, more than a little dumbstruck.
He said nothing for a moment, likely trying to remember his training. If I'd been dealing with Wyatt, this wouldn't have been amateur hour.
"We're just trying to gather all the facts, Miss Beck."
"Forgive me, Officer," I said coldly, "But the police in this town aren't very good at that, are they?"
I stood as the pleasant expression was wiped from my face. "Now, if you want to arrest me without a scrap of evidence, do it— boy doesn't that sound familiar? Remember a guy named Jeb? But if you're just trying to get me to incriminate myself, I'm gone."
I walked through the door, out into the lobby, and grabbed my stuff back from the guy manning the desk. No one tried to stop me or bring me back for more questioning, strengthening my belief that this was just a fishing expedition.
It was thoroughly depressing.
The officer had driven me here, but the Funky Wheel wasn't far— and by extension, grandma's magic shop. I rolled all the way there, my skates digging into me because they were made for dancing, not cross country movements. If my grandma had still been working there, Hanes' Magic Shoppe wouldn't have looked like a life raft in a storm, more like an anchor strapped to my foot.
"Oliver?" I called into the empty store.
It wasn't supposed to open for hours and hours, but I knew my friend often liked to do late night inventory, especially when he was already awake from a big party.
From under the Victorian desk, a young, thin man with dark skin stood up, swaying a little on his feet. As per the usual, he was wearing a cape. This one had red trim and a dark center, making him look like a bad version of Dracula.
"What's wrong, sweetie?" he asked in his soothing New Orleans accent.
Skating over, I sunk into one of the mismatched chairs behind the checkout counter, and he joined me, somewhat unsteady on his feet.
"Are you drunk?" I asked, drawing my feet up under me.
"And about to head over to my girlfriend's house for some sweet love-making," he said, "but don't let that deter you."
"The girl who works at the police station?"
"No, this one's a hair stylist."
My eyebrow popped up of its own accord. Feeling frighteningly like my grandma, I asked, "What happened to police station girl?"
He shot me a toothy grin. "Nothing. I'm seeing her tomorrow night."
Shaking my head, I decided to get into that another time. "I just got back from the station," I said gloomily.
He marked down something in the inventory log after counting the candies at the front desk. "That's what you get for finding another one: a whole lot of trouble."
"More than you think." I took a deep breath, knowing I'd feel better after I spit it out. "I'm a suspect."
