Shake Your Green Thing: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 2)

by Raven Snow

  Oliver almost dropped the book, fumbling to keep it in his grasp. "Those incompetent fools. They're not gonna be happy until a murderer goes free and an innocent bystander is in jail. First Jeb, now you. Maybe I better get out of town before they come after me for strangling someone with my cape."

  "Or for sexing someone to death," I pointed out helpfully.

  "Or that." He shook his head to clear his thoughts. “Any idea who did kill the wicked witch?”

  "Well," I said slowly, debating whether or not it was a good idea to tell Oliver, the town gossip.

  "You do!" Squealing like a little girl, he clapped his hands together. "You've gotta tell me— that's what best friends are for."

  "Fine." I sighed. "The reason I even found her green body is that I saw her drop her phone, and I went to return it to her."

  "Oooh, keeping police evidence again? Naughty girl."

  "Stop interrupting. I tried to keep the phone, but I only managed to go through the call history before Wyatt took it from me."

  Oliver booed, speaking the sentiment I was feeling aloud.

  "There were a lot of calls to and from the same number— though the name wasn't in her contacts."

  "Secret lover," Olive said with confidence.

  He sat back in his chair, looking just as smug as I imagined Sherlock Homes would look at this point. I could've told him that I'd already come to that conclusion on my own, but why spoil it for him?

  "The real question," I said, "is whether or not I should get involved."

  "Get involved."

  "Be serious for once, Oliver. This is kind of a big deal," I said with exasperation.

  Leaning forward, he rested his elbows on his thighs, looking really sober for the first time in the conversation. "I'm dead serious, Harper. Who solved the murder of your accountant and his wife when the police had no clue?" he asked rhetorically. "Now, it's your own butt that's on the line— not Jeb's. You can't just sit back and wait for the police to arrest you! Not when you have a gift for this."

  "I wouldn't call one instance a gift," I said, but the wheels in my head were turning over what he'd said.

  Was Oliver right? Was it dumb of me to not take fate into my own hands? I wasn't so sure. Sure, I solved the case last time, but I'd run into a lot of trouble and danger along the way. What was a lifetime in jail compared to an encounter with a homicidal witch?

  Still mulling it over, I left and rolled over to the Funky Wheel. We'd closed for the night, but I lived in the loft above the place, which had once been a church. The big, stained glass windows were once again painted a dark, starry blue, keeping out all the light that would've messed up the disco vibe.

  Falling into bed, I tossed and turned until dawn before finally falling into a restless sleep. In my dreams, I kept trying to get my dead accountant, Matt, to call me back. When I went over to his office for a meeting over my taxes, I found him sitting at his desk, smiling at me. The man looked exactly as I remembered him— except his skin was now the deepest shade of green.

  I woke up on the wrong side of the bed, and that seemed to be the theme for the rest of the night. My Afro was slightly flattened in one place because I'd accidentally slept on it. My clothes were the same from the previous night and were wrinkled like a cat's behind. My first few seconds of the first skating session started with Penny Helbrim, a weak, local witch, coming up to me and telling me the toilet in the bathroom was overflowing.

  There was never a dull moment at the Funky Wheel.

  "Stan!" I shouted into the men's bathroom, the mellow smoke drifting out towards me. "Get over to the girl's and fix the toilet!"

  I slammed the door shut without waiting for a response. If that old stoner thought to mess with me today, he'd soon be taught the error of his ways.

  "You alright, Miss Foxxy?" Jeb asked from his booth, a pizza slice with a single pepperoni in his hand.

  "Fine," I said, popping one of the spare fatty meats from his plate into my mouth. "Just enjoy your break."

  He gave me a dubious look, but finally went back to reading an ancient teenage magazine from the office. The pages were all ripped and creased, and the thing smelled faintly of rum.

  Amber came racing out of the office, looking at me with wide eyes. "Um, Foxxy, I know you said not to let in Detective Bennett—"

  "You can let him in," I said with a sigh. I'd given her that order weeks ago when his annoying, know-it-all personality had still made me want to throttle him instead of bite him all over.

  "It's not Mr. Bennett," she said. "There's three officers outside. One of them— Officer Koser— says they've got a warrant to search the place."

  Gritting my teeth, I sped over to the front door, opening it and giving Officer Koser my best “drop dead" glare. He tipped an imaginary hat to me, looking more cheerful than anyone investigating a murder had the right to. The three of them slid past me, and I had to stop myself from tripping them.

  Fishing around in his pocket, he handed me a beat-up piece of paper. "The warrant."

  I held it out away from my body with only two fingers, afraid of some of the unknown stains on it— and that was saying something for me. "Lovely. Knock yourself out, I have nothing to hide here." Except some pizza that was a little old to be up to health department code, but it wasn't for the customers, anyway. People who worked at a disco for a living couldn’t be so choosy.

  They spread out, combing through the place. People stopped dancing and skating to watch as the officers tore through the lockers, the office, and the concession stand. I had the overwhelming urge to make them leave, to protect the Funky Wheel, my home. That, unfortunately, would only make things worse, so I stayed where I was, kicking against the purple-carpeted floor.

  At his booth, Jeb stood up, a fierce expression on his face. I had to shake my head vigorously at him to keep him from interfering and ending up in jail again. For no reason whatsoever, my heart was pounding, a sheen of sweat covering my body.

  Officer Koser emerged from the girl's bathroom with a look of triumph on his face. In his pudgy hands, he held a glass with a noxious liquid that was green and smoking. The glass cup was not one you'd find at the Funky Wheel— we were more of the red solo cup variety. I doubted that would matter to the esteemed officer, though.

  "Bag this," Koser told a younger officer, handing over the glass with great care. He strode up to me, almost skipping. "That sure doesn't look good, Miss Beck. Sure you don't want to tell me your side of the story?"

  "Hundreds of people have access to that bathroom; it's hardly a smoking gun," I said scathingly, but inside I was shaking. "Not that it matters to the thorough Waresville police department. Are you going to shackle me up in front of all these people or wait until you can get in a few cheap shots away from prying eyes?"

  Koser suddenly lost all his friendliness. "I won't be arresting you today, Miss Beck. I'm going to give you just enough rope to hang yourself with. Sit back and enjoy the show."

  I shoved him out the door after his fellow cops, looking a look more put together than I felt. "Goodnight, officer. Don't darken my doorstep again."

  I showed up at Wyatt’s the next afternoon after I woke up, still a little in shock from last night. Even though he hadn’t been there, I knew he would’ve heard all about it two seconds after it happened. One could rely on Wyatt for that.

  I was also hoping I could rely on him to provide a shoulder to cry on— or a punching bag to work out my frustration.

  Laughter penetrated through the thick wooden door, and I frowned. Cooper would be at school at this time of day. The idea of Wyatt with loud visitors was a little strange, as I’d assumed the man spent all his time in trees and bushes, spying on the townspeople and writing interesting tidbits in his journal.

  Still, maybe a little laughter and fun could go a long way in curing my bad mood. I knocked on the door and waited impatiently for Wyatt to answer.

  When the door swung open, I was surprised to see what looked like the entire force sit
ting in Wyatt’s small living room. They’d ordered pizza from the only place— other than the Funky Wheel— that sold it. Beers graced their hands, and they were still guffawing about something or other.

  Wyatt’s icy blue eyes crinkled at the sight of me, making my stomach flip-flop. His smile was bright, but there was reserve in his expression, like he was holding something back.

  He didn’t invite me in or open the door an inch more than it already was. “Do you need something, Miss Beck?”

  Blinking, I stepped back in surprise. His voice was so cool and professional. You would think he was talking to a neighbor or a door-to-door salesman instead of the woman he’d been hot and heavy with for weeks.

  The noise inside died down slightly, waiting for my response.

  And, for once in my life, I didn’t have one. Stunned into silence, I stood there a moment more, foolishly looking for the happy crease around his eyes that had been there before.

  Turning on my heel, I rushed down the steps and across the yard towards my car. Once I hit the grass, I forced myself to slow down because I was still in view of the living room through the window for another few feet. Those bastards might arrest me, and Wyatt might have turned his back on me, but I wasn’t going to run from anyone.

  At least not where they could see me.

  The door slammed shut, and I heard his feet pounding down the stairs after me. Moving out of view, I quickened my pace so I could get to my car. A calloused hand landed on the car door, preventing me from opening it.

  “Harper, wait—“

  “What?” I snapped. “What could you possibly say here that you were afraid to say in there?” Yanking, I almost got past his hold on the door. “Trust me, Detective Bennett, I get it.”

  He shook his head soberly. “No, you don’t.”

  Releasing the door, I instead put my energy into a very hard shove that rammed Wyatt into the hard metal side of my bug. “You’re ashamed of me! What’s not to get? You don’t want your police buddies knowing you shacked up with me.”

  The color blanched from his face, making him look stricken. “No, it’s—“

  But I was a little too furious to listen to what he had to say. I was used to people judging me— hell, I could admit I was eccentric and a hard pill for a lot of people to swallow. I was even used to rejection from guys in this town, especially when it came time to meeting their friends or parents.

  Those rejections had never felt like this, though.

  “What bothers you more, hmm?” I asked, seething. “The fact that I roll around in a green wig? Or maybe it’s that I’m nothing but a mutt from Miami.”

  “Neither of those things bother me,” he said, but he’d wavered for a moment too long and allowed me access to my front seat.

  “Go back to your cop buddies.” I started the car; it roared to life with comforting familiarity. “Maybe later, you can come arrest me for a murder I didn’t commit. You’re good at that, right?”

  For no reason whatsoever, besides keeping the weak tears at bay, I stopped by the stage on my way back to the Funky Wheel. No one was setting up, and the area around it was deserted. Cursing myself, I wondered if anyone would even be around to answer my questions.

  I slipped into the office building after jiggling the lock a bit. It’d been broken for years, but that didn’t stop me from feeling like a badass. I puffed out my chest and strolled through the building like I owned it. I suddenly wished there were a hundred more locks I could jiggle, if only to take away the feeling of being kicked in the stomach.

  I expected to find Belinda's nauseatingly pink dressing room empty, but as I crept down the hall, I could see the light was on. A slight sniffing sound came from inside. Pausing politely, I knocked on the open door.

  A woman with blindingly red hair met me, her eyes puffy and a crumpled, used tissue in her hand. "Yes?" Her voice was thick.

  "Harper Beck," I said, stretching out my hand without thinking. She shook it, and I tried not to wince, realizing there was likely snot on it.

  "Cherry."

  "Are you cleaning up Miss Clearwater's office?"

  My tone was casual, but her eyes narrowed. "Did you know Belinda?"

  Answering a question with a question. Damn, if she wasn't using my own tricks against me.

  "I found her body, actually."

  The suspicion flooded from her eyes in the form of big, fat tears, leaving her free of any bad feeling towards me but still filled with a lot of grief in general. Trying to pull herself together, she answered my earlier question. "I was trying to, anyway. She didn't have any family but John— her boyfriend. He's in California, though."

  Shifting myself into the room, I picked up one of the half-filled boxes and started to help her. The brown container seemed to be filled exclusively with makeup and almost weighed as much as me. I struggled under the girth, panting slightly.

  "California's pretty far," I said, not looking at her and sounding decidedly disinterested.

  Like planned, everything came rushing out of her month. "Things haven't been right between them for months. I told her to break things off, but does she listen to me?"

  "No?" I guessed.

  The moisture that had temporarily left her eyes, and her distaste for John and their relationship, returned tenfold. "And now she never will!"

  I patted her awkwardly on the back, making soft cooing sounds like you'd make to an injured animal. I couldn't really fathom why Belinda— someone I'd personally disliked— would elicit this much grief in anyone. But perhaps I'd only known one side of her— the grumpy one, that is.

  "Did you know Belinda well?" I asked, still shamelessly trying to weasel more information out of her. There was no chance I could ask her if she knew anyone that would have wanted to hurt the dead contestant. That would've been a step too far, even for someone encased in grief like Cherry.

  She nodded shakily. "I'm a contestant too. We've been competing together for years."

  This just brought on a fresh wave of hysterics, but thankfully, I was rescued by someone arriving at our door with a small, but pointed, cough. I looked up to see my savior and wished immediately that I hadn't just been thankful for the appearance of Melanie Gross.

  The name was very fitting for the blonde leader of the local witch scene. She looked down her large nose at me like usual. We'd never gotten along on account of the fact that I didn't like that she'd do anything for publicity for her shop. She didn't like that I was a stronger witch than her without even trying.

  "Harper," she said. "Just the lady I wanted to talk to."

  Well, this was clearly a new dynamic in our relationship.

  Grabbing me by the wrist, she towed me away from the still-sobbing Cherry, saying, "You don't mind if I borrow Miss Beck for a moment, do you, dear? Of course not."

  Once the door was shut between us and the distressed contestant, I realized that Melanie wasn't alone. Penny Helbrim, the woman who'd been kind enough to tell me about the broken toilet the other day, stood in her usual spot in Melanie's shadow. She was an unremarkable woman with a plain face and a heavy-set body. Her messy brown hair fell in front of her face, hiding most of her expressions, though I'd always assumed they perfectly matched her master's.

  "We're down a contestant for the competition," Melanie told me, like I hadn't been the one to find the body.

  "Really?" I blinked for effect. "I hadn't heard that."

  Her lips thinned, and I was sure she was going to snap at me—that was how our conversations usually went. When she held her tongue, I became very interested in what she had to say. The woman must have wanted something from me badly to exercise that kind of restraint.

  "We need a replacement," she said, "especially if Cherry is too distraught tomorrow to put on a good show."

  I searched my brain but came up empty— an occurrence that wasn’t uncommon. "And tomorrow would be...?"

  "The talent portion of the contest," she said with exasperation. "I'm sure you could come up with so
me magic babble you could impress the crowd with."

  "You want me in the contest?" My laughter stopped the moment I realized she was serious. Shaking my head vigorously, I said, "I don't practice."

  "I'm aware. But the audience wouldn't have to know that."

  Obviously, she wasn't aware of anything if she thought I was going to go up on that stage and shoot flames from my fingers. For one thing, I'd never hear the end of it from Grandma. For another, I'd never hear the end of it from anyone.

  "Listen, Melanie—"

  A sour expression twisted up her whole face. "I would consider it... a personal favor."

  Wasn't there a rule that you had to accept when someone said that? I wasn't big on rules, but I could live with the thought of Melanie owing me something. Maybe I could trade the favor for her shutting up for a whole year— no, a decade! The possibilities were endless.

  Melanie sensed my weakness like a true predator, and a smug look came over her face. "Tomorrow night. Don't be late."

  With that, the head witch and her lackey disappeared, leaving me wondering what I'd gotten myself into.

  Chapter Four

  The next night came faster than I would've believed because I spent most of it working and trying not to think about Wyatt. He'd undoubtedly be at the talent show tonight, and I didn't want to face him. That alone told me that I needed to go. Harper Beck didn't back down from anyone— much less a stupid guy who couldn't see how good he had it.

  The whole thing had me wishing I could leave Waresville. I wasn't the kind of person to stay in one place for a long time, yet I'd been in that town since I was nineteen. That was practically my whole adulthood. My thoughts wandered to visions of far off places, but I knew in my heart that I wasn't going anywhere.

  My place was with the Funky Wheel, and until I figured out a way to travel with her, I was stuck in Waresville.

  They'd given me my own dressing room, which I felt was unnecessary because I was just going to wear my work uniform. I'd be nervous enough in front of all those people. I wasn't even going to entertain the thought of taking off my disco garb— it was like protective armor.