Shake Your Green Thing: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 2) by Raven Snow Page B
Authors: Raven Snow
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thing's still on the table..."
More people were there than I could remember ever seeing in my lifetime. Everyone who had left after the murders— likely for their own safety— had returned and multiplied. The crowd was backed up all the way past the Funky Wheel, which was clear down the block. No one could even see the stage from that distance.
Reporters with cameras and notebooks swarmed the edges of the gathering, talking to everyday folks, townspeople, and a very pleased looking Melanie Gross. Several of the vultures were pecking at her, hanging onto her every word as she likely described how she single-handedly took down her assistant for the greater good. I had to look away from that scene to avoid my eyes rolling so hard they never turned right again.
Because the crowd was so big, it was probably a Waresville record, the police had come out in droves. At least twenty harangued officers with sweat on their brows and pale, panicked complexions were trying to get the throngs of people to stay orderly. As it was, people were elbowing each other and trying to push to the front of the pack to see the stage better.
Wyatt frowned as he watched his colleagues’ plight, but I was ecstatic to see the cops finally pulling their weight in this town. It wouldn't have broken my heart to see that awful Officer Koser trampled a little bit, either— just a little. I studiously hid this from my face when Wyatt looked my way, but I guessed I wasn't wholly successful when he shot me a dry look.
It was hard weaving my way through the hordes of people, but luckily, I had the only detective worth a damn from the Waresville police force on my side. Wyatt brought out his badge and nightstick, brandishing both at will to get me to the front of the stage unscathed.
Once there, I didn't bother fighting my way to the stairs. Instead, Wyatt, one hand cheekily under my butt, lifted me up onto the platform, where the surviving contestants were standing. The whole lot of them looked like they'd been through a war. Shaking and eyes darting every which way, every witch up there looked ready to bolt at the smallest sign of trouble— or green.
When I approached them, a couple stumbled back before they caught themselves. Smiling to myself, I thought with glee that there probably wouldn't be a Witch Week next year, not if all the contestants were too scared to come back. What a pity. Somehow, though, I'd live with the disappointment.
As soon as the reporters saw me on stage, they dropped Melanie like a hot potato and scrambled over one another to get to me first. The innocent bystanders that got in their way were my first line of defense; Wyatt with his grim expression and nightstick were my second.
The look Melanie shot me after her admirers abandoned her could’ve melted paint off a wall better than the smell in the boys' bathroom at the Funky Wheel. I gave her a tiny finger wave back, figuring that if she was gonna throw me in jail, I could at least go with a little pride and a lot of sass.
Only one reporter got through both of my protective walls. His hair was mussed, suit disheveled, and he had what looked to be the beautiful beginning of a great shiner on his left eye.
The man stuck out his hand to me after wiping it on his ruined suit to get rid of the dirt— and possibly blood. "Charles Munet, Miss Beck. Pleased to meet you."
"I'm sure you are," I said, glancing at the witch beside me for a little help. She just watched the exchange with wide, slightly unfocused eyes.
Sensing that she wasn't going to give me a polite out, I decided to go with a path more natural to me: blunt rudeness.
"I don't want to talk to you, Mr. Munet," I told him honestly.
Charles fumbled for a minute, his pen poised in a way that made me think of a dog with its ears perked up. I watched him with polite disinterest as he tried to find a way to proceed while remaining a southern gentleman. It was entertaining, if nothing else.
In the end, he decided to
More people were there than I could remember ever seeing in my lifetime. Everyone who had left after the murders— likely for their own safety— had returned and multiplied. The crowd was backed up all the way past the Funky Wheel, which was clear down the block. No one could even see the stage from that distance.
Reporters with cameras and notebooks swarmed the edges of the gathering, talking to everyday folks, townspeople, and a very pleased looking Melanie Gross. Several of the vultures were pecking at her, hanging onto her every word as she likely described how she single-handedly took down her assistant for the greater good. I had to look away from that scene to avoid my eyes rolling so hard they never turned right again.
Because the crowd was so big, it was probably a Waresville record, the police had come out in droves. At least twenty harangued officers with sweat on their brows and pale, panicked complexions were trying to get the throngs of people to stay orderly. As it was, people were elbowing each other and trying to push to the front of the pack to see the stage better.
Wyatt frowned as he watched his colleagues’ plight, but I was ecstatic to see the cops finally pulling their weight in this town. It wouldn't have broken my heart to see that awful Officer Koser trampled a little bit, either— just a little. I studiously hid this from my face when Wyatt looked my way, but I guessed I wasn't wholly successful when he shot me a dry look.
It was hard weaving my way through the hordes of people, but luckily, I had the only detective worth a damn from the Waresville police force on my side. Wyatt brought out his badge and nightstick, brandishing both at will to get me to the front of the stage unscathed.
Once there, I didn't bother fighting my way to the stairs. Instead, Wyatt, one hand cheekily under my butt, lifted me up onto the platform, where the surviving contestants were standing. The whole lot of them looked like they'd been through a war. Shaking and eyes darting every which way, every witch up there looked ready to bolt at the smallest sign of trouble— or green.
When I approached them, a couple stumbled back before they caught themselves. Smiling to myself, I thought with glee that there probably wouldn't be a Witch Week next year, not if all the contestants were too scared to come back. What a pity. Somehow, though, I'd live with the disappointment.
As soon as the reporters saw me on stage, they dropped Melanie like a hot potato and scrambled over one another to get to me first. The innocent bystanders that got in their way were my first line of defense; Wyatt with his grim expression and nightstick were my second.
The look Melanie shot me after her admirers abandoned her could’ve melted paint off a wall better than the smell in the boys' bathroom at the Funky Wheel. I gave her a tiny finger wave back, figuring that if she was gonna throw me in jail, I could at least go with a little pride and a lot of sass.
Only one reporter got through both of my protective walls. His hair was mussed, suit disheveled, and he had what looked to be the beautiful beginning of a great shiner on his left eye.
The man stuck out his hand to me after wiping it on his ruined suit to get rid of the dirt— and possibly blood. "Charles Munet, Miss Beck. Pleased to meet you."
"I'm sure you are," I said, glancing at the witch beside me for a little help. She just watched the exchange with wide, slightly unfocused eyes.
Sensing that she wasn't going to give me a polite out, I decided to go with a path more natural to me: blunt rudeness.
"I don't want to talk to you, Mr. Munet," I told him honestly.
Charles fumbled for a minute, his pen poised in a way that made me think of a dog with its ears perked up. I watched him with polite disinterest as he tried to find a way to proceed while remaining a southern gentleman. It was entertaining, if nothing else.
In the end, he decided to
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