Shake Your Green Thing: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 2) (3 page)

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 small, 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.

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.

Steamed beyond belief, I wondered where Wyatt was through all of this. Did he know they suspected me? Or that I was likely— knowing the Waresville police— their only suspect? Couldn't I just have one normal month in this town?

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."

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—"