Roller Rink Witchcraft (Extended Edition): Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 1) (4 page)

A few hours later, I found myself thinking about how I hadn’t been on a date in ages. Since few eligible, young men move to Waresville, and I’d exhausted all the reserves the town had to offer, I usually spent most of my nights as Foxxy. It was a fun time to be sure, but my sex life severely suffered because of it.

              You’re not having sex with him,
I reminded myself.
This is just for information.
I was going to use him and then lose him, and there would be no funny business in between.

              Looking in the mirror, I took in the short, sparkly dress and well-applied make-up. I’d even shaved my legs and put on heels.

             
There’s gonna be funny business.

There was a knock at my door, and I frowned, checking the clock on the door to confirm he was early. Swinging the door open, I got the shock of my life and couldn’t keep the grimace off my face.

“Don’t make that face at me, girlie,” my grandmother said, shouldering past me and into my loft.

“Make yourself at home,” I said under my breath.

“I will, since I paid for it.”

Grabbing a glass of water for her, I sighed. “Actually, your son bought it, and I inherited it. Then, you made a generous donation to help me get started— which I appreciate.”

I handed her the glass, and she didn’t even make a comment about water spots. This was progress.

“I’d rather you work the magic shop like an honest witch.”

I nodded, not saying anything, because I knew she hadn’t come over just to say that. Horror that she was, my grandmother wasn’t one to waste time on things that had already been hashed and rehashed. She’d been having the same fight with me that she’d had with my father for years.

Sometimes, I wondered if that ever made her sad. I usually came up with the answer that she didn’t feel human emotion, so no, it didn’t. Other times, I’d catch her looking at me with a faraway look, and I knew she was thinking about the father I’d never known.

“I made you this,” she said, shoving a cloth pouch into my hand. “Put it under your pillow, and it’ll keep away evil while you sleep.”

I walked over to my bed and did just that. “Thanks, Grandma,” I said, surprise flowing through my body. Was the old hag worried about me?

She sniffed. “Well, I need you alive for when you come to your senses and agree to run the shop.”

“Of course.” I smiled.

Looking at my clothes for the first time— another marked improvement— she raised an eyebrow. “Have you taken to prostitution?”

“I like to keep my options open, but no, I’ve got a date.”

That piqued her interest, and she went to sit in one of my dining room chairs, smoothing out her apron over her legs. “A date, huh? With who?”

I pursed my lips, and through them, said, “Wyatt Bennett.”

Now the slight curving of her lips was a full-blown smile. “He’s a good boy.” My grandmother nodded, a judge giving her verdict. “He’ll make a good husband.”

I choked on my tongue, almost ruining my lipstick. “It’s a first date, Gran; it’s not going anywhere serious.”

She was already getting up to leave, though, having decided I would marry Detective Bennett. “No, it’s a good match…. I think I’d like grandchildren.”

I almost laughed, because she said it like someone would declare they wanted gloves for Christmas. Almost.

Unfortunately, the woman was gone before I could tell her that neither marriage nor grandchildren were in the cards. I stared at the door for the next five minutes until I heard Wyatt coming up the stairs. Surprising him, I left the apartment before he even knocked, practically racing him to the car.

He started the car, glancing over at me, and said, “You’ve got a funny look on your face.”

Looking spectacular in a dark, expertly fitted suit, he fuddled with my mind, and I shouted, “No funny business!” His laugh sealed the no marriage or grandchildren thing. “My grandma came over just before you.”

“Ah,” he said, directing the car towards the southern part of down town. “She’s a scary lady.”

I blinked, certain I heard wrong. “You don’t think she’s sweet? Everyone thinks she’s made of licorice or some shit.”

“When I was ten, I accidently hit a baseball through one of her windows,” he said soberly.

I laughed. “And you’re still here to tell the tale?”

“Barely.”

He pulled up to a small restaurant I’d never seen before. It was settled between a grocery and a music store, the two neighbors pushing in on the tiny, yellow building like some kind of brick sandwich. There appeared to be only a couple of tables and a bar.

“Charlotte’s,” I said slowly. “Can’t believe I’ve been here seven years and never seen this place.”

“It’s my mother’s,” he said, taking my hand and helping me out of the car. “More of a hobby than anything for years, but now that we’re all out of the house…”

“You’re taking me to meet your parents?” I teased, though my heart was seizing. I didn’t do well with parents. “Wow, you move quick.”

“I doubt she’ll be here,” he said smoothly.

The hostess showed us to our bright, wooden seats with a cheerful smile.  Feeling like I had stepped into the opposite of the Funky Wheel, I sat with a bemused smile. Then, something about Wyatt’s earlier statement hit me.

“Wait, just how many siblings do you have?”

“Two older brothers and one younger. I was the best behaved, of course.”

That meant there were three other men out there with his good looks, charm, and stubborn jaw. “Your poor mother.”

“What about you?”

“Don’t you know my whole story?” I asked dryly.

He gently pushed the menus back to our waitress before she could set them on the table, ordering two of the house specials for the both of us. “Nah, I just like people to think I know everything.”

Even though this was supposed to be an interrogation— with no funny business— I told him. He listened without comment through the death of my mother at eighteen, leaving me to fend for myself in a wild Miami. How a year later, I’d been in a little trouble with the law—this earned me a chuckle— and I’d gotten the news of the inheritance like a life raft for a drowning person.

“So, I came to Waresville, and the rest you know.”

“What kind of trouble were you in?” he asked in a forced casual voice.

“The kind of trouble I wouldn’t tell a cop about,” I replied without missing a beat. “Nothing like finding a mutilated body on my funky floor, that’s for sure.”

I expected him to lose all his good charm at the mention of the case, but he just said, “I can’t talk about that with you.” The smile never left his face.

“You realize, of course, that I only came here to grill you.”

Still no frown. “As long as you’re here.”

Two chicken dishes were set in front of us. I shoved a forkful in my mouth, not bothering to be lady-like as I watched him eat with perfect manners through narrowed eyes. The chicken was good— really good, in fact, but I barely noticed.

“You eat like someone’s trying to take your food,” he said conversationally.

“With the leftover pizza at the Funky Wheel, it’s a free-for-all between the staff. You learn to eat before Stoner Stan comes back from his smoke-break-slash-bathroom-trip.”

“He takes both breaks consecutively?”

I took another bite, trying to slow down and enjoy it this time. “Don’t be ridiculous; he smokes in the bathroom.”

After a moment where we shared a giggle, I continued, “You know, it’s really pointless to try and keep anything from me. I have sources.”

“Is that so?”

“That’s so. No one whose name I could divulge, of course.”

The corner of his lip twitched. “Of course.”

“But he— or she— told me that you matched the rope to Hardie’s, but more importantly, you found Irina all over Matt.”

Leaning back in his chair, Wyatt sighed and adjusted his tie. “The hair and nail are circumstantial at best, because they’re married. You’d expect to find bits of her on the victim.”

“Nail?”

“You only knew about the hair, right?” He looked like he wanted to kick himself, but after a moment, he said, “Well, we also found a broken, synthetic nail on his body that matches Irina.” 

My voice rose of its own accord. “You have all that on her, yet Jeb is the one in jail? That’s criminal!” I knew people behind us were turning around to stare.

To his credit, he didn’t tell me to calm down or lower my voice. “Look at the facts, Harper,” he said in a no-nonsense fashion. “He was sleeping with her— he admitted it. They couldn’t be together until Matt was out of the picture, and Irina’s not the kind of person to run away with someone who has nothing.”

The waitress silently took his credit card, her eyes downcast. Wyatt didn’t pay her or any of them any mind. “We found the same rope used to tie up the victim and the same cloves in Jeb’s locker—“

“Anyone can get into those!” My fist slammed into the tables. “The whole lot of them has faulty locks. By that logic,
I’m
a suspect.”

“I just don’t think she did it, Harper, and I’ve been doing this a long time,” he said softly. “I’m sorry.”

We drove back to my place in silence, the heater on full blast. Thankfully, that filled in some of the quiet, making it seem a little less hollow and awkward.

Despite my other intentions, I hadn’t meant to yell at him in the middle of a packed, little restaurant. He wasn’t a bad guy, all things said and done. In fact, he was kind of great— even if admitting that felt like a betrayal to myself, the Funky Wheel, and to Jeb.

Some friend I was.

The breath rushed from my lungs when we pulled into the parking lot and I looked up at my home. I was out of the car the next second, before it had even stopped. Ignoring Wyatt calling my name, I sprinted up towards the Funky Wheel, a profound numbness spreading through me.

Like I’d told Wyatt, the roller rink was originally a church, big windows and all. That’s a problem for a 70s skating place, because sunlight and disco don’t mix. So, my dad had painted each one of the windows a starry night blue, the richest color in the whole wide world.

Now, shards of those colored windows littered the ground like leaves in fall, making everything sparkle sharply. It made the parking lot ten times as beautiful, but at the Funky Wheel’s expense.

Where the windows used to be, there were now gaping holes, like wounds in the Funky Wheel. Shards stuck inward at odd angles and made each window look like a screaming mouth.

On the large, metal front door, a message had been written. The letters were crimson and dripped down towards the ground with the pull of gravity. It took me a full minute of staring to realize it was written in blood.

Stay out of it bitch

A warm hand closed over my shoulder, squeezing lightly. He was little more than a stranger, but I turned around, resting my head on his chest and trying not to see those broken windows my dad had painted.

“Dispatch, I need backup at the Funky Wheel. There’s been a break in.”

I shook a little at that. It was just so surreal. Someone had invaded my groovy sanctuary— had
violated
it.

Wyatt pulled me gently back toward the car, sitting me down on the passenger seat with my legs facing out on the ground. He crouched down so he was below my eye level.

I avoided looking at him for a moment, because I knew if I saw pity in his eyes, I’d just lose it. But when I did meet his gaze, his face was completely closed off and professional.

He pointed to the blood writing. “Do you know anyone who would write that?”

“No.” I tried for a weak smile. “Surely they meant ‘witch,’ right?”

It wasn’t really funny, but it did make me feel a margin better to crack a joke.

“We’re gonna find who did this, Harper,” he said.

“Right.” I busied myself with the lock on the car door. “Because the police are always so gung-ho on victimless crimes.”

Instead of replying, Wyatt got in the driver’s seat and started the car. Watching the Funky Wheel fade into the sunset was almost the hardest part of the night. It felt like I’d never be coming back, as silly as that was.

By the time we arrived at the police station, I’d gained a little composure. “Why are we here?”

The cool night air whipped at me, frizzing up my short, dark hair. As the moon was the only light in the parking lot, I almost missed Wyatt shoving his hands into his pockets in frustration.

“I need a statement and an official assessment of the damages,” he said, pulling me towards the station.

I dug my heels in, firming my resolve. “You can do that at the Funky Wheel; I want to go
home.”

To my embarrassment, a bit of my heartache leaked in that last word. The Funky Wheel was my home, and not just because I slept above it. Though it was absurd, it felt like the place had been specially made for me by my father. It was my place, and I wasn’t going to let anyone scare me away.