Roller Rink Witchcraft (Extended Edition): Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 1)
Authors: Raven Snow
“Roller Rink Witchcraft”
Extended Edition
Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery
Harper "Foxxy" Beck Series Book 1
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 v1.02 (2016.04.09)
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“Play that funky music, white boy!” I shouted, the front of my skates colliding with a half wall of purple cement.
My bouncer, Jeb, shot me a rare smile from the DJ’s corner just outside the large rink, giving the musical equipment a wide berth. “Wouldn’t know how, Miss Beck.”
Spinning in a tight circle, I gestured to the disco lights, the glowing peach-colored skating rink, and my neon green Afro wig. “I’m only gonna tell you once more. At the Funky Wheel, I’m Foxxy— fly mama with groovy moves who serves booze, good times, and leads the conga line.”
Leaning over the half wall, I stretched away from the tiny, triangular DJ’s corner and over one of the booths that made up the dining platform. “Out in the real world, you can call me Harper.”
“You got it, Miss Foxxy,” the mountain of muscle said, moving back towards the door after completing his scan of the room for trouble-making hooligans. Jeb’s face fell back into a mask of grave intention, giving the patrons the impression he’d feed them their teeth if they gave him a reason.
A particularly popular hit from the 70s came on the loud speakers, and a couple of people squealed and launched from their booths toward the floor. The few dozen that were already out there continued to skate around the circular rink, basking in the disco light and showing off their funky moves.
For the most part, my customers were middle-aged couples reliving the glory days and giving those old bell bottoms a night on the town. Teenagers, too, seemed to really love the Funky Wheel, coming here to skate and get cheap pizza, but rarely did they dress up.
When my late father had owned the place, from the early 90s until about seven years ago, anyone who wanted to walk through those scratched metal doors had better be wearing a costume from the era. There was still a sign by the ticket window just outside the entrance, but only because I couldn’t pry it from the brick.
Money was money after all, and since we were the only place open past midnight that kids under twenty-one could get into, the Funky Wheel did all right fiscally.
Zooming through the door behind the concession stand, I almost tripped over a chair that’d been left in the middle of the office. Instead, I ran into a desk so sturdy, it would’ve survived nuclear warfare. A couple of stacks of paper fell to the floor, but I ignored them, as they were probably bills.
“What’s the good news, Amber?” I asked the short teen standing at the ticket window.
“It’s been a pretty busy— wow, you’re like a skyscraper with those skates, ma’am.” She fixed her glasses, peering up at me.
“Trust me, I’m a skyscraper with or without them.” Checking my watch, I cursed. “Better get home, Amber. It’s almost two.”
Though there were circles under her eyes, she said, “I don’t mind staying.”
“I don’t mind you staying, either,” I said, snorting indelicately. “But your mother would come for my life. We’ll be closing after the next session, anyway. Doubt there’ll be much new foot traffic.”
Nodding, she put our closed sign up in the window. It said, in bright orange letters, “Keep on keepin’ on— just somewhere else”.
Backpedaling, I let her pass me and slip out of the tiny— originally white, but now yellow— office. I waved her out the front door, calling, “Have a groovy night!”
The rest of the night flew by with me taking turns getting the party restarted on the floor, playing part-time DJ, and helping out behind the concession stand. The last dominated a little too much of my time for my taste, and I let Stoner Stan know as couples flooded out for a slow song.
“Stan, it’s a hotdog machine. It rotates the damn wieners for you,” I said, pulling out a few shriveled franks from it. “All I ask is you don’t let them get mummified.”
The forty-year-old man stared at me for a moment with pupils the size of golf balls. His body, apart from the beer belly, was lanky and limp, like overcooked green beans. Stan had been at the Funky Wheel since my father bought it in 1991, and he was the main reason the men’s bathroom smelled like Woodstock.
“Sorry, Foxxy, dude,” he said. “I got all caught up in how the light sparkles on the grease when they go round.”
Lips twitching despite myself, I patted Stan on his greasy shoulder. “Don’t we all, brother.”
Though he was a horrible worker, I just couldn’t bring myself to fire the guy. We were one and the same, Stan and I: free spirits that the world didn’t quite understand. Unlike the rest of the town, Stoner Stan didn’t care if I wore crazy clothes or acted a little strange. That alone made him an excellent member of the Funky Wheel family.
He was also good for weed any time you fancied some.
I took the hop off the couple-inch-high platform of the dining section at full speed and spun around the corner towards the door.
“Any trouble?” I asked Jeb.
He didn’t lose his stony composure. “None. Been pretty quiet.”
Using his arm to support myself, I yanked off my four-wheel skates. “Think you could close for me? Promised the old hag I’d have her prescription in her medicine cabinet before she comes out of her coffin at the ass-crack of dawn.”
“Sure thing, Miss Foxxy, but that ain’t no way to be talking about your grandmother.”
Ignoring the fact that my pink disco shorts were riding up, I ran across the dark parking lot barefoot, hopping into my bug and sending up a silent prayer before turning the key. The car had once been orange, but now most of the original paint was gone, leaving only the rusty center. Old though she was, the engine still turned over, and I gave a little whistle of thanks.
Waresville— often called “Wheresville,” because it’s so easy to miss the little town on a map— was mostly deserted as I chugged past the downtown area and up into the residential one. Grandma’s house was one of the oldest in town, our ancestors one of the founding families of this tourist trap.
I tiptoed around the ancient plantation-style house, wincing at the groan of every floorboard. As soon as I slipped the medicine into the witch’s cabinet, she appeared. Her usual grimace was in place, but my grandmother was wearing a red robe instead of the usual apron.
The apron was more to fool the townspeople into thinking she was a sweet, old lady like her neighbor Thelma Gibb, mother of my accountant. In my memory, my grandmother had never cooked anything that hadn’t been meant to poison one of her enemies.
She took one look at my disco shorts, tie-dye tank, and green Afro, and turned away with a sniff. “Disgraceful. Just like your father, bringing shame to this noble family.”
Though my grandmother was already gone, disappearing into the house to study her spell books or something, I muttered, “A family full of witches and warlocks. Real noble.”
After the whole Salem incident, my father’s side of the family had come down here to settle Waresville in the hope of escaping persecution. Their hopes weren’t in vain, either, because now witches, magic, and all manner of gimmicky things were what this town was known for. Without the magic shops and spooky tour buses, Waresville would’ve been wiped off the map decades ago. One such magic shop was across from the Funky Wheel and owned by my grandma.
Without another word, I left the house and headed for my car, but before I could get there, Thelma Gibb waved me down from next door.
“Harper, dear, were you just visiting your grandmother?”
Unlike my grandmother, Thelma wore an apron because she
was
actually a sweet, old lady that baked. Her smiles were always genuine, and she never hexed the neighborhood kids. Often, I’d find myself fantasizing about being her granddaughter.
Moving up towards the porch, I answered, “Sure was, Miss Thelma. Not that she appreciates it.”
Mrs. Gibb grinned and beckoned me inside. “Oh, Julia’s always been a moody thing, ever since I’ve known her. And I’ve known her for at least sixty years!” She turned thoughtful. “Though, I do find the age making me a little testy some days— that and the fibromyalgia.”
I followed her inside and was assaulted by the mouthwatering smell of fresh chocolate chip cookies. “She’s a little more than moody these days.”
“Oh, forget about her,” Thelma said with a smile. “Come have a cookie— or four.”
Only someone truly inhuman would have been able to turn that offer down, so I sat down in Thelma’s lovely, bright kitchen and ate as many cookies as my stomach could hold. Despite the laughs and the present company, a black cloud formed above me, leaching some of the joy out of the morning. I couldn’t shake the feeling something bad was coming.
Great, now you’re becoming just as paranoid as your grandma.
Leaving Thelma with a bunch of thank yous and a promise to visit again soon, I headed to my loft above the disco skate, hoping to get a couple hours of sleep before I had to reopen. Unfortunately, every time my eyes closed, visions of witches and voodoo dolls danced behind my lids.