Roller Rink Witchcraft (Extended Edition): Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 1) by Raven Snow Page A
Authors: Raven Snow
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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
“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
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