Shake Your Green Thing: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 2) (9 page)

"Rarely does, in my experience."

With me collapsed on top of him, Wyatt laid there for a long moment, just focusing on breathing. He probably would've had an easier time of it, too, if I'd been able to roll over. That last bout of victory had done me in, though, and there was nothing left.

"Bennett!"

We flinched at the same time, and then groaned as our injuries caught up to our movements. Above my face, Officer Koser's bloated face came into view. He looked concerned, for which I was oddly touched, but then it became clear he was concerned for Wyatt. It was probably just as well. I don't think I could've handled that complete one eighty in our relationship.

Crouching down, he put a hand on Wyatt's shoulder. "An ambulance is on the way. Did you find an antidote?"

"
I
found an antidote," I said, more than a little miffed at being ignored. The irritation gave me the strength to roll off Wyatt, but my momentum carried me a little far, and my face smacked against the concrete.

Koser raised an eyebrow. "And how would you know what you found was the antidote?"

Before I could inform him that I'd made the potion, thank you very much, Wyatt cut in. His voice was hoarse, and I could tell he was fighting to stay awake with every breath. "Penny Helbrim had already mixed up a batch when we arrived. She confessed to the murders, and when she tried to attack us, I shot her in self-defense."

I wondered briefly why Wyatt didn't want the police to know I used magic to make an antidote, but I was too tired to really care. Likely, he had a reason. Wyatt was rarely without a reason or a justification, and I personally found that annoying.

Like a hero that refuses to be beaten, Wyatt got to his feet with a slowness that looked painful. Incredibly, he bent down to give me a hand. After giving his shaky stance a dubious look, I struggled to my feet on my own. I wasn't in the mood to be crushed by his body—though that did sound appealing for later— just because he was trying to be chivalrous. 

The sirens were blaring now, right on top of us. I marveled at how often I'd been hearing them lately. Maybe it was time to rethink my nosy policy if I wanted to live to see thirty— which was closer than I cared to admit.

Wyatt and I weaved as we walked out of the barn, bumping into each other slightly. After one such painful bump, I told him, "I'm never sleuthing again."

To that, he only laughed— laughed so hard, he almost toppled to the ground. A few of his police buddies had to steady him as tears ran down his face and his body shook. The whole scene was rather indelicate, and I sniffed and put myself in the nearest ambulance.

They took us to the local hospital separately. The long couple of minutes I was apart from Wyatt made me panic as the reality of what had just happened came crashing down on me. My heart sped up, and my head started pounding.

I'd almost died. Again. I'd never considered my life very dangerous, even though I was frequently scantily clad at night and had a penchant for trouble. But this was the second time in a few weeks that I'd confronted a killer. Both times, Wyatt had been there to save me, but what about next time?

I was a good detective, but I wasn't so sure I was as good at keeping myself out of harm's way.

A few minutes after the sassy ER nurse told me she didn't want to see me around again, I was put back in the same room I'd occupied off and on for the past few days. It was good to get back to basics.

I hadn't noticed before, but the room was so clinical and white. There was hardly any color or dirt anywhere— the two items that primarily made up the Funky Wheel. A wave of homesickness surged through me, and I wished more than anything that I was on skates and grooving to the sounds.

It was at that moment, when I needed him most, that Wyatt waddled in. He was in a hospital gown like me, and he was rolling a metal thing that looked like a coat rack that housed his fluids.

I raised an eyebrow at him. "Do they know you've escaped?"

He pressed a finger to his lips, shooting me a cheeky smile that made my heart do funny things. Scooting over with great difficulty, I made space for him. He collapsed onto the vacant side of the bed with a large exhale.

With his lips right next to my ear, it was hard to concentrate on what he was saying. After a few moments, I realized it didn't matter—not as much as sleep did, anyway.

The doctor came in and gave us an exasperated look. “You two—“

I was asleep before he finished the sentence.

The hospital personnel released us on the same day as the closing ceremony, which I felt was awfully inconvenient. As in all small towns, the news of our deeds and release had been spread before we'd even signed the discharge papers. That meant that, as Wyatt and I were walking out of the large, automatic doors, my phone rang.

"No," I answered. "Whatever it is, the answer is no."

Melanie's prim and annoyed voice came through the line. "Again, that is no way to greet someone."

Why did it always have to be her? Couldn't it once be a billionaire, wanting to give me a little of his excess pocket change?

"The answer's still no."

Wyatt took the phone from me then. His eyes were bruised and tired. Looking at him sent a surge of desire and guilt through me. I'd really put him through the wringer this past week, and he was still standing right beside me. The same couldn't be said of really anyone else in my life— not even my mom when she was still alive.

He listened to Melanie for a moment, grunting when appropriate. I couldn't hear anything she was saying, as my phone was old, crappy, and had horrible reception. Luckily, I didn't have to wonder for long, because Wyatt hung up a minute later and handed the phone back to me.

I waved it in his face before pocketing it. "Gee, thanks."

"Melanie wants you to attend the ceremony since she's already down three girls, thanks to you." At my narrow eyes, he added, "Her words, not mine."

"But, being the perfect boyfriend that you are, you talked her out of it, and we can just go home and fall into bed?"

"Nope," he said, popping the "p." "You have to go, or I'll have to arrest you for breaking into her house."

"She's gonna hang that over my head forever, isn't she?"

"Probably." Leaning in closer, he whispered in my ear, "But after, if that falling into bed thing's still on the table..."

More people were there than I could remember ever seeing in my lifetime. Everyone who had left after the murders— likely for their own safety— had returned and multiplied. The crowd was backed up all the way past the Funky Wheel, which was clear down the block. No one could even see the stage from that distance.

Reporters with cameras and notebooks swarmed the edges of the gathering, talking to everyday folks, townspeople, and a very pleased looking Melanie Gross. Several of the vultures were pecking at her, hanging onto her every word as she likely described how she single-handedly took down her assistant for the greater good. I had to look away from that scene to avoid my eyes rolling so hard they never turned right again.

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 guys 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.