Hex Appeal by Linda Wisdom Page A

ate him.”
    Knowing she wouldn’t get anywhere here, Jazz exhaled her exasperation and moved on to the next ride. But everywhere she went she was greeted with the same open hostility. As far as the Werecarnies were concerned, Fluff and Puff ate their friend and they deserved to be judged, convicted, and executed for it. She was grateful she didn’t run into Rex, although she was sure the boardwalk manager would hear about her visit. Thanks to a Were that actually liked her, Jazz could still indulge in her funnel cake addiction without any problem.
    â€œI never liked that Willie,” Magda, a Werecat who ran the snack stand, confided as she handed over a large Diet Coke and a paper plate filled with a warm funnel cake dusted with powdered sugar. “That weasel clan doesn’t have one good member.”
    â€œIs the clan large?” Jazz asked, nipping off a bite with her fingers and popping it into her mouth. She nearly moaned with joy as the flavorful treat gave her taste buds powdered sugar joy.
    â€œAnything over two is too big for me. I’d say there’s about fifty in the clan. There’d be a lot less if we could hunt them.”
    â€œI am so glad you’re on my side.” Jazz grinned before moving off. She knew the woman shifted into an Angora cat with beautiful silver fur echoed by the waist-length braid hanging down her back, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t afraid to get her claws dirty. Magda was known for her bloodthirsty nature. Thanks to her and her two daughters there wasn’t one actual rat along the boardwalk except for two with Were-blood. Even they stayed out of Magda’s way.
    As she walked back to the parking lot, she decided to take a detour by the two-story building that sat at the end of the boardwalk. Since taking the stairs and carrying her booty wasn’t going to work, she chose the old-fashioned cage elevator that creaked and groaned every inch of the trip.
    â€œSome WD-40 would help,” she muttered, struggling with the heavy grille door and squeezing her way into the cage.
    When she reached Nick’s office, she found the door ajar and the sound of a woman weeping inside almost hurt her heart. She set her food down by the door and slipped inside.
    â€œThere has to be a way you can help me!” The woman’s voice was cracked and sounded tired.
    â€œIt’s not that I can’t help you, Mrs. Archer. It’s that I feel some things are best left alone,” Nick said, his tone soothing.
    Jazz silently crossed the reception area and stood in the doorway. The woman seated in the guest chair was tiny with salt-and-pepper hair cut short. The hand lifted toward her heavily lined face was pink with visible veins and spots denoting her age.
    Nick looked up, nodding his head. “It’s all right, Jazz. Come in.” He pushed a handkerchief into the woman’s hand before leaning back against his desk. “Mrs. Archer, this is Jazz Tremaine. She’s helped me in the past.”
    â€œI’m sorry if I’m interrupting something,” Jazz apologized, walking inside.
    â€œPerhaps you can help me persuade Mr. Gregory,” the woman said, dabbing her eyes with the handkerchief.
    â€œMrs. Archer wants me to find her son,” he said quietly.
    Jazz immediately sensed the woman wasn’t asking Nick to find a missing little boy.
    â€œHe was turned twenty-three years ago,” he went on.
    â€œI don’t care that he’s a vampire,” the woman went on, clutching the damp handkerchief in one hand and a crumpled photograph in the other. Jazz could see the smiling face of a young man wearing a bright blue polyester shirt and brown polyester pants. She mentally cringed at the fashion disasters of the 1980s even as she remembered a few of her own hair tragedies back then. “I just want to know Ronnie is all right.”
    Jazz didn’t miss the silent look of entreaty Nick shot her. He