by Raven Snow
Because the crowd was so big, it was probably a Waresville record, the police had come out in droves. At least twenty harangued officers with sweat on their brows and pale, panicked complexions were trying to get the throngs of people to stay orderly. As it was, people were elbowing each other and trying to push to the front of the pack to see the stage better.
Wyatt frowned as he watched his colleagues’ plight, but I was ecstatic to see the cops finally pulling their weight in this town. It wouldn't have broken my heart to see that awful Officer Koser trampled a little bit, either— just a little. I studiously hid this from my face when Wyatt looked my way, but I guessed I wasn't wholly successful when he shot me a dry look.
It was hard weaving my way through the hordes of people, but luckily, I had the only detective worth a damn from the Waresville police force on my side. Wyatt brought out his badge and nightstick, brandishing both at will to get me to the front of the stage unscathed.
Once there, I didn't bother fighting my way to the stairs. Instead, Wyatt, one hand cheekily under my butt, lifted me up onto the platform, where the surviving contestants were standing. The whole lot of them looked like they'd been through a war. Shaking and eyes darting every which way, every witch up there looked ready to bolt at the smallest sign of trouble— or green.
When I approached them, a couple stumbled back before they caught themselves. Smiling to myself, I thought with glee that there probably wouldn't be a Witch Week next year, not if all the contestants were too scared to come back. What a pity. Somehow, though, I'd live with the disappointment.
As soon as the reporters saw me on stage, they dropped Melanie like a hot potato and scrambled over one another to get to me first. The innocent bystanders that got in their way were my first line of defense; Wyatt with his grim expression and nightstick were my second.
The look Melanie shot me after her admirers abandoned her could’ve melted paint off a wall better than the smell in the boys' bathroom at the Funky Wheel. I gave her a tiny finger wave back, figuring that if she was gonna throw me in jail, I could at least go with a little pride and a lot of sass.
Only one reporter got through both of my protective walls. His hair was mussed, suit disheveled, and he had what looked to be the beautiful beginning of a great shiner on his left eye.
The man stuck out his hand to me after wiping it on his ruined suit to get rid of the dirt— and possibly blood. "Charles Munet, Miss Beck. Pleased to meet you."
"I'm sure you are," I said, glancing at the witch beside me for a little help. She just watched the exchange with wide, slightly unfocused eyes.
Sensing that she wasn't going to give me a polite out, I decided to go with a path more natural to me: blunt rudeness.
"I don't want to talk to you, Mr. Munet," I told him honestly.
Charles fumbled for a minute, his pen poised in a way that made me think of a dog with its ears perked up. I watched him with polite disinterest as he tried to find a way to proceed while remaining a southern gentleman. It was entertaining, if nothing else.
In the end, he decided to forgo the notion altogether— I could respect that. "Well, Miss Beck, I don't really care whether you want to talk to me, because I want to talk to you. Better yet, America wants to talk to you."
He'd had me until that last bit. "Well," I said dryly, "America can find me right down the street at the Funky Wheel— though I do have to ask they only come one state at a time. Zoning limits, you understand."
"It'll just take a moment of your time."
My barely-there nod was all the encouragement he needed. Beaming, he asked, "Could you give me a detailed account of how you single-handedly killed a crazy witch and saved the whole town?"
"Oh, so you want me to lie, do you?"
After retelling a far more truthful, if not very detailed, account of the tale, I shooed Mr. Munet off the stage. Melanie had been giving us murderous looks, and while I was pretty sure she wouldn't kill me in front of witnesses, Charles didn't have a personal police escort.
I made eye contact with said escort as Melanie started the ceremony. His icy blue eyes had been joined by an identical, smaller pair. Cooper waved to me from atop Wyatt's shoulders, grinning as he gave me a thumbs up. Just then, I would've given anything to head off with the two of them, leaving this whole dog and pony show behind. Wyatt must have read this in my eyes because he mouthed the word "soon" to me.
Melanie swept to the front of the stage, beaming down at the unprecedented crowd. They quieted down after a moment of her staring at them, more from being uncomfortable, it seemed, than any desire to hear what she had to say. I snorted, and the woman next to me shifted away.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she said, lifting her arms like a priest trying to get an amen. "On behalf of the witches you see here today, the town of Waresville, and everyone who worked behind the scenes on this project, we thank you for coming to our humble festival."
Oh god, it was going to be one of those speeches. With witches on my left and my right, there was no way to escape. Wyatt pinned me to the spot— with his eyes, anyway, reminding me without words that I had to sit through this.
"We've lost a few who were dear to us this week, and I'd like to have a moment of silence for them."
Everyone had already been silent, but we kept at it for a few more seconds at her suggestion. Though I'd been so gung ho to solve the mysteries, I didn't feel any particular tragedy at the loss of Belinda, and maybe just a little for Cherry. Still, I bowed my head appropriately.
Melanie went on to announce each of our names, talents, and standings. To me, it seemed like she droned on and on about our personal qualities. The crowd became restless because the majority of them had come for the possibility of danger and a good look at the witches on the stage.
Finally, she ended by reading the name of the Witch of the Year. It wasn't me, but I couldn't have cared less at that point. Wyatt was making his way to me through the crowd, Cooper still on his shoulders. I took his hand, and we fought our way towards the Funky Wheel.
We weren't the only ones who'd had the idea of skating to celebrate— or to keep the party going. By the time we got there, Jeb was fumbling with the lock as a huge crowd waited impatiently behind him.
Running up to my clunky bouncer, I threw my arms around his neck. He blanched before hugging me back, but I chalked that up to a usual lack of intimacy in our friendship.
"Sure am glad you got that antidote, Miss Harper," he drawled. "Wouldn't be the same in this town without you."
I unlocked the door with ease. "Oh, you charmer, you. But you're entirely correct."
Customers flooded in while Wyatt, Jeb, Cooper, and I held the door open. As everyone got their skates on, I rolled around, turning on all the machines. I found Stoner Stan sleeping on top of one of the tables in the dining section. A good smack to the back of the head woke him up— as it usually did.
Pointing to the concession stand, I said, "Hot dogs and pizza, Stan."
"Man," he said, stumbling off the table and onto his feet rather precariously. "You're all legs and no heart."
"I wouldn't say that." Wyatt came up behind me, resting an arm on my waist. "She lets you stay, bum."
Stan, who had an understandable wariness about the police, shuffled away after mumbling an apology. Hiding my smile, I turned around and rested my head against Wyatt's chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, and I contented myself to listen to it for a moment, more thankful than words could say that it was still there.
"You shouldn't be so mean to Stan," I told him. "He's family."
Cooper chose that moment to roll awkwardly over to us. "My dad says he's on drugs, and that you shouldn't employ him."
I raised an eyebrow at Wyatt. "That's what your dad says, huh?"
The kid opened his mouth, preparing to affirm that statement, but his father clapped a hand over his big mouth. "Let's not get me in trouble, Coop."
Instead of arguing— which I do extremely well— I pulled my g
uys out onto the dance floor. I was pleasantly surprised when I realized that Wyatt could skate. He left the flashy moves to me, but he kept up with me as we went around the rink, nonetheless. It was kind of symbolic of our relationship, come to think of it.
I was rarely out on the floor myself, and the change was enlightening. Frowning at the myriad of spots on the peach floor that were duct taped, I realized the whole thing would need replacing soon.
Also, the purple half wall that separated the dining section from the rink was chipped and need new paint. In fact, everywhere I looked something needed to be fixed or replaced. I'd known the Funky Wheel was old, but I guess I hadn't really seen the years adding up. I'd been too close.
While Cooper twirled around in the middle of the oval dance floor, Wyatt skated a little closer to me, grabbing my hand. "What's got your face all screwed up?"
I shook my head. "The Funky Wheel. It's kind of beaten up."
Wyatt guffawed for a moment before he saw that I was serious. Sobering up, he said, "All fixable. But that's part of its charm."
Taking both of his hands, I skated in front of him, going backwards as we went around. "You think it has charm?"
"I think you have charm."
His lips were on mine then, our mouths moving to the beat of the rockin' music. My body melted into his, and it was a miracle we didn't fall or crash into each other. I found myself thinking that I loved the look of Wyatt with disco lights on his skin.
"Can you guys stop being gross?" Cooper asked, suddenly right beside us. "There are people around."
There were, in fact, a lot of people around. With heated cheeks, I realized some of them were cops— one of them was even that awful Koser. I stole a self-conscious glance at Wyatt, who just nodded at his co-workers and continued to skate while holding my hands firmly.
Something inside of me that I didn't even know was riled up settled down, spreading peace throughout my body. Sticking my tongue out at Koser, I plastered myself to Wyatt again.
He laughed, seeing where I was looking, and spun us in a slow circle. "Peter isn't that bad, Harper."
Instead of replying, I released my hold on Wyatt and grabbed Cooper's hand. His hand was much smaller than mine, but fit perfectly in mine. Wyatt took his other hand, taking my nonverbal hint, and we raced around the rink like a pair of rockets were attached to our feet.
Cooper laughed so hard, it was a good thing we had a steady hold on him. He looked between his dad and me, the greedy, desperate glint fading almost completely. That need was replaced by a contentment that prompted the same feeling in me. Whether I liked it or not, I was a part of a family now.
But I kind of liked it.
I almost stopped dead in the middle of the rink— which would have been inadvisable— as my eyes fell upon a short, menacing figure in the dining area. Biting my tongue to keep from yelling, I stomped over there, leaving Wyatt and Cooper staring in my wake.
"Grandma," I said, towering over the old lady who had my eyes, "you had better have a good explanation for disappearing these last couple of days."
She looked up from her untouched piece of pizza, her red apron just as firmly in place as her sense of superiority. "Not really."
I huffed out an indignant breath. "I almost died! I needed you."
Her eyes looked me up and down scathingly. "As there are no major pieces missing, I'm going to wager you didn't need me as badly as you thought you did."
I slid into the both next to her, refusing to let her lack of concern derail my well-justified irritation. "You were supposed to find the potion for me. I had to rifle through your library for hours before I found that talking book of yours."
I decided in that split second not to tell her about Wyatt being there as well. As a maybe immortal witch and a cranky old lady, my grandma was frequently unpredictable with her temper. If she turned him into a frog— an occurrence that was not unheard of— I'd have to find a new boyfriend. Not to mention, have an awkward talk with Cooper about why is dad was coming home in a glass case.
"Talking book?" She sat back in the cracked leather booth, looking interested for the first time since I started talking. I tried not to take that to heart. "Hmm."
"Yes, hmm. It fell off the shelf and hit me on the head."
She scratched her chin, totally unconcerned with my head injury. "But it told you what poison was being used and how to make an antidote?"
"In other words, did your job for you? Yes, it did."
Talking back to Gran was like poking a bear. Sometimes, it decided you were beneath its notice and went back to sleep. Other times, you got eaten. When her eyes didn't flash dangerously, I figured I wasn't on the menu tonight.
She didn't bother to explain how or why the book could talk, nodding to where I'd been skating with Wyatt and Cooper a few minutes ago. "You look good with the Bennett boy."
Since she'd been the first one to say we'd make a good couple, I let her have her smug little comment and grined. Still, caution on this subject was called for.
"I do," I said slowly.
"Do you remember what I said about great grandchildren?"
Wincing, I didn't figure it was possible I could have forgotten. A couple of weeks ago, right when she'd given her approval of Wyatt as my future husband (before I'd even gone on a first date with him), she'd expressed that she'd like some great grandchildren. Then, as I did now, I shuddered a little inside, thinking that what Gran wanted, she usually got.
"I remember, Grandma."
"Good." Suddenly, her gaze sharpened. "I remember him being such a good boy— but a good boy would've asked my permission by now."
Apparently, that last part had been for Wyatt's benefit, because he showed up at my side a moment later, looking uncharacteristically subdued. "Harper's a grown woman, Mrs. Hanes. She wouldn't take kindly to you giving me permission."
Gran raised an eyebrow— which was never a good sign. "Oh?"
He slid in next to me, forcing me to scoot over or be pushed aside. I shot him an annoyed glance, but his attention was solely on my grandmother. They stared each other down, neither one blinking. My own eyes went back and forth between the two, wondering when fists would start flying.
"What are your intentions toward my granddaughter?" she asked at last.
Making an indelicate and frustrated noise, I said, "Grandma!"
Wyatt put a hand up to shush me. I didn't take too kindly to that, but I figured I should shut up and let Gran take care of him. If I could rely on her to do anything, it was put someone in their place.
"I plan to marry her," he said simply, completely unaware of my jaw hitting the ground with a clang.
He was planning on marrying me? Did I have a say in it? I glared at him, picking at my nail like I sometimes do when I'm stressed. First, he made me care about his kid, then he offered me my own closet at his place, now marriage? It was probably too soon, as far as normal people were concerned. But then, if I was going to go through with it, my sleuthing did shorten my life expectancy. Now or never and all that jazz.
But I wasn't going to marry him. I wasn't.
"Since her approval means so much more to you than mine, I assume you've asked her." I'd never heard Gran use this tone of voice, and I thought I was the only one she yelled at. Wyatt was welcome to it, though, as far as I was concerned. It sent icy shivers down my spine.
Wyatt laughed, but he kept up the staring contest with Gran while he did it. I would've been impressed if I wasn't so miffed with him. "She'd run for the hills if I asked her to marry me right now." His fingers tapped a staccato beat against the tan table. "No, I think I'll sneak up on her with the proposal." He shot me a rueful glance. "Though, you've made that a little harder, now."
She considered him for a long moment, and I started to sweat. If Gran said it was over, it was over. While I had no problem disobeying her, she was the all-powerful being in this town, and what she wanted done, got done. Wyatt would probably have to run with his tail between his legs and C
ooper in tow by morning. Late afternoon at the latest.
"The grass in my yard is too long," she said finally, surprising the hell of out me. "It needs to be cut."
Wyatt nodded like this made perfect sense to him, like she hadn't just done a one eighty. I looked between them, wondering for the first time in my life if I was actually the sane one in the room. It was a novel experience that I don't wish to repeat.
"The house needs painting, too," he added.
She pursed her lips, inclining her head. "So it does."
Like a thunder cloud passing onto the next county, my grandmother's face cleared of all suspicion and coolness. She smiled—actually smiled— at Wyatt. Her face wasn't stuck in a permanent scowl, it seemed, though I'd assumed it had been for the seven years I'd known her.
Grandma rose from her seat, and Wyatt followed suit. They shook hands like businessmen after a big deal. Not used to feeling dumbfounded, I just sat there, wondering if I was still asleep in the hospital and this was all just a strange, nonsensical dream.
"It's decided, then," Gran said, and then left without another word to me or Wyatt.
“What’s decided?” I asked Wyatt warily.
He grinned and took me into his arms, only laughing when I tried to bite him on the shoulder to show my annoyance. His arms were too warm and comforting to shake off. Instead, I rested my head on his shoulder and leaned in.
“I’m not marrying you,” I told him, no longer sure it was true.
“How about a dance, then?” he asked, unperturbed. “I hear you’ve got some funky moves.”
Preview of “A Murder Most Rosy”
A Murder Most Rosy (Harper "Foxxy" Beck Series Book 3)
In the hard-to-find tourist trap, Waresville, supernatural occurrences— especially witches— are money in the town’s pockets. The town’s strange and bloody history coupled with magic shops and spooky tours that are statistically likely to leave you dead or missing are the only elements keeping Waresville afloat. So, when one of the local grade school teachers takes a fatal nosedive on school premises, no one cares beyond the usual cleaning expenses. No one, that is, except Harper "Foxxy" Beck, witch, not-so-amateur sleuth, and an altogether groovy gal. Harper’s yet to meet a case she doesn’t like, but this one is a far cry from her usual gig. For one, the police have labeled the teacher’s death a suicide. For another, it seems as though Kara Nittleman also died of natural causes. But that, in Waresville, is enough cause for concern and curiosity.
