Read A Murder Most Rosy: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 3) Online
Authors: Raven Snow
A Murder Most Rosy: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 3)
“A Murder Most Rosy”
Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery
Harper "Foxxy" Beck Series Book 3
Raven Snow
© 2016
Raven Snow
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law. If you have not purchased this book from Amazon or received it directly from the author you are reading a pirated copy. If you have downloaded an illegal copy of this book & enjoyed it, please consider purchasing a legal copy. Your respect & support encourages me to continue writing & producing high quality books for you.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Cover images are licensed through DollarPhotoClub.com, Freepik.com, and Stockphotosecrets.com, images shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are models.
Digital Edition v1.01 (2016.03.30)
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"Let's groove tonight," I told my bouncer, Jeb, as the crowd of people rushed past us to get their skates on.
About half of them were in the second half of their lives— if just barely— and had donned their seventies attire for the evening. Bell-bottoms, tie-dyes, and platform shoes surrounded me. It was my kind of party, and rightly so, since it was my job.
The other half of my customers who were frequenting the Funky Wheel that night were in t-shirts and jeans, mostly sporting ironic catchphrases. As the only place besides bars open past midnight in the small town of Waresville, I got a lot of business from the under twenty-one crowd. They rarely dressed up to come to my disco skate, but their money was just as green as the old timers.
"Don't we do that every night, Miss Foxxy?" Jeb asked, his face not breaking from his serious "bodyguard" expression.
If I'd told him once, I'd told him a million times that he didn't need to look like a stiff to keep his job— or to keep the riff-raff out. Still, he'd remembered to call me by my "stage name," Foxxy, while we were at work, so I didn't waste my breath.
"True," I told him. "But since Amber's not manning the desk tonight, all of our employees are of age. We could be really crazy. Maybe even cabbage patch under the influence."
Jeb gave me a doubtful look. "Don't you have a play to go to in the morning?"
I wagged my finger at him, skating off after fixing the green Afro that was attached to my head. As a matter of fact, I did have an engagement in the morning: Cooper's play practice that he'd asked me to attend.
The actual play wasn't for a little more than a week, but he said he couldn't wait that long for me to see it. I'd tried explaining to him that I was familiar with Romeo and Juliet and could probably wait—despite the anticipation that haunted me day in and day out. He was having none of it, though, and insisted I come. Since he was my boyfriend's son, and one of my most favorite people in town— ten-year-old or not— and an all-around groovy dude, I'd agreed to wake up at an ungodly hour to watch him and his friends butcher Shakespeare.
A few sips of tequila and a couple hours later, I was sorely regretting that decision. It was already three in the morning, and the boogie wouldn't stop for at least another hour. I could've left Jeb in charge, but I'd spent too much time away from the Wheel as it was.
A couple of months ago, in the dead of a nasty winter, I'd been in the center of four murders— committed by two different psycho witches. As a (reluctant) witch and a Nosey Nelly, I'd inserted myself into the investigations at great personal cost. The injuries I'd racked up had kept me away from the Funky Wheel— which was like losing a limb.
Still, it'd been months since anyone had poisoned me, tried to suck out my soul, or tampered with my car. I had to admit that I was getting a little antsy, and I wasn't sure what that said about me as a person.
At closer to five in the morning than I would've liked, the last skater peeled out of the parking lot, and I locked up after giving Jeb leave to go to his second job at the hardware store. I watched him head down the street, then hurried up the iron stairs to the second floor.
The quiet loft above the Funky Wheel served as an apartment for me and should've felt like home. I'd lived there for seven years, after all— ever since I'd gotten word of my dad's death (a man I'd never known) and the contents of his will, which had left me the Funky Wheel.
The cluttered space felt empty to me, though, and I found myself missing the small, two-story Victorian home Wyatt Bennett and his son lived in. With the recent poisoning, and the fact that I was seeing him romantically, I'd been spending alot of time over there.
A surge of panic flowed through me, as I realized that their house felt more like a home to me than my actual home. With that terrifying and trapping thought, I went to bed thoroughly pissed off at my boyfriend.
______
I woke up the next morning forcefully when I inhaled part of my green wig. Choking and thrashing to get away from the funky-smelling Afro, I almost rolled off the bed. Instead, my hand fell out and knocked my seldom used alarm clock from the crate that served as a bedside table. It crashed to the ground with a sound louder than it'd make if it was time to get up.
Speaking of time to get up, my eyes bulged from my head when I read the red, flashing numbers on the clock. Springing into action, I ripped off my revealing, seventies inspired clothing and tried to find something that smelled clean and didn't have tie-dye on it. It was embarrassingly hard, and I had to wonder if I was qualified to take care of a kid— the role I was being thrust into with Cooper.
If Wyatt's son thought anything about my lack of maturity or organization, though, he'd never let on. In fact, he acted like the sun shined all around me, and I could do no wrong. Not to the degree he thought of his father, of course— that was closer to hero worship.
My phone rang from under the bed, and I whacked my head on the metal frame trying to answer it.
"Ow," I said in greeting.
"Ow to you, too." Hearing Wyatt's voice, even through the phone, did funny things to my heart— especially when I could tell he was smiling. "You're gonna be late."
Wyatt had no way of knowing that since he was at the police station for his morning shift. I'd begged him to go with me to this, to help me brave the hordes of demon children, but he'd only laughed and kissed my forehead, saying I'd be fine. As if he could possibly know that, either.
I stumbled around, trying to get my shoe on. "I'll have you know that I'm pulling up to the school right now."
"Really?" There was the sound of a wheeled chair rolling, likely from him leaning back at his desk. "You're parking in the parent section, of course."
"Of course."
"It's labeled to the left of the main entrance."
"I know. I practically paved it myself." When he laughed at that, my expression soured. "There's no parent section, is there?"
Instead of confirming that, he said, "Cooper will be mad if you're late."
Running out the door, I took the stairs two at a time. Despite my rush, my words were calm. "He will forgive me."
"I think Cooper would forgive you anything."
And there it was: the reason for my panic. He was right in saying that Cooper would forgive me, but I didn't want him to have to. I'd never been a parent— and I didn't have any good examples from my childhood to follow. Now that I'd paved myself a place in Wyatt's and Cooper's lives, I was more than a little terrified I'd screw it up.
Wyatt and I hung up after a little light flirting while I broke traffic regulations on the way to the elementary school. If he knew I was speeding, he'd have been less fun and more condescending. Apart from the fact that Wyatt's a cop, he loves the law— a trait that he annoyingly passed onto his son, who was waiting for me outside the school.
"You were going fast," he said. "My dad says that speeding is a crime."
Cooper had brown hair just like his dad, though it was longer and messier. His icy blue eyes were unnerving— not because they were cold beyond the color, but because they also were exact copies of Wyatt's. He was wearing the shirt I'd gotten him that had the Funky Wheel logo on it (a giant skate with noxious fumes coming from the opening).
"Your dad can scold me himself if he is brave enough," I told Cooper, grabbing his hand and towing him inside.
The outside of the school was deserted, leaving me to conclude the bell had rung. With a grimace, I realized I'd made both of us late to class. While I was used to the feeling, even if it'd been a decade or so, I was pretty sure Cooper, like his father, had never been tardy to a thing in his life.
"Why aren't you in class?" I asked, pulling him through the empty hallways. "I told you I was coming. You didn't have to wait."
"My dad says a gentleman walks ladies to and from their cars."
"Your dad is a relic from the 1950s."
He wrinkled his nose at me. Cooper and I were tight, but I didn’t believe for one second I could get away with putting down his hero. The way he talked about his dad with awed respect was cute at times. Other times, it made me want to shove a sock in the squirt’s mouth.
Instead of defending his dad, to my surprise, he answered my earlier question. “I’m supposed to be in theater practice right now, but Ms. Nittlemen isn’t here yet to take attendance.”
That sounded suspiciously like my logic, not Wyatt’s. Grinning to myself, I let Cooper lead me to the auditorium via the scenic route so he could take me through a day in the life. There were only so many watercolor paintings and mediocre drawings made by other kids I could be interested in, but when he showed me his own work on the wall, I was always impressed.
He was talented, no doubt about it. But I worried that his inclination toward sitting alone and drawing was chasing away potential friends. Then again, I’d been a loner as a child and turned out fine.
Well, I’d been almost arrested twice and almost killed more times than I cared to count. On second thought, maybe I should devote myself to getting the kid some friends.
The theater was a stereotypical red with children in old-timey costumes running up and down the aisles. As far as I could tell, there was no adult supervision here, and the kids were clearly taking advantage of that. One group was trying to climb up a display on the side so they could get onto the walkway near the ceiling that had all the lights.
"There should really be an adult here," I told Cooper, taking in the chaos with a wince.
He gave me a very Wyatt look. "You're here, aren't you?"
Right.
"I think I'll just go find Ms. Nittlemen," I said, backing away like a convict confronted with the electric chair. I'd signed on for Cooper, but no way was I playing den mother to all these brats.
Cooper didn't argue with me. His eyes were glued on a girl on center stage. She looked to be about his age with blonde hair and freckles. Giggling at something her friend said, she held up one of the costume dresses and pranced around with it flush to her body.
Maybe I didn't have to find Cooper friends. Maybe just one well-placed one of his choosing would do.
With that thought, I backtracked out of the auditorium. The signs said that the theater offices were upstairs, so I braved a tiny, closed-in stairwell that made me feel like a servant in the 1800s.
There was only one office, in actuality, and it was filled with costumes and props. Stepping over a fake boulder and almost crushing a collection of foam swords, I tried to see if there was anyone behind the obscured desk.
"Ms. Nittlemen?"
There was, strangely enough, a balcony, and I walked over to it, throwing open the glass and metal doors. Though it was almost summer, the sweltering heat didn't hit me as hard— a cool breeze was keeping sweat from breaking out all over my body.
I leaned against the railing, enjoying the view of Waresville. When you were in it, it was hard to appreciate the ambiance— mostly because of all those nosey tour buses talking about the different creepy sightings and the horrible deaths of historical townsfolk. But it really was quite beautiful and very unique. The uniqueness was mostly why I’d stayed all these years.
I don't know what made me look away from the back of the buildings or the pretty, blue sky on the horizon, but when I looked down from my perch, I almost toppled over the railing in surprise.
Ms. Nittlemen was lying on the ground a story below me. A terrified expression graced her mangled face and blood pooled around her skull— which was frighteningly misshapen. Her clothes looked haphazard, like they'd been thrown on hastily like my own, and she looked so much paler than I remembered her from the last time I'd visited the school.
But you could probably attribute that to the blood loss and the fact that she was dead.