Spooky Moves: Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery (Harper “Foxxy” Beck Series Book 8) Read online

  The men’s bathroom smelled heavily of weed—thanks mostly to my other employee, Stoner Stan—but I was more than used to it, so I didn’t hesitate in crouching down to grab the kit from under the sink. The smell was actually better closer to the floor, because Cooper mopped in here so much.

  When I stood back up, the mirror had completely fogged up, though the bathroom was strangely ice cold. I didn’t pay enough in electricity for any part of the Wheel to be this frigid.

  I leaned in to wipe away the moisture, but a rubbing sound stopped me. Before my very eyes, the invisible hands Jeb had been talking about started scrubbing a message into the foggy mirror. The letters quickly formed words, and the message was clear.

  Get out.

  “Kiss my ass,” I said, returning to Jeb with my head held high—even if I was trembling a little.

  After I’d fixed him up, I said, “You should get out of here. And stay away for a couple of days. Just till I figure out what’s going on.”

  He shook his head vigorously, but I wasn’t taking no for an answer. After walking him to the door, I locked it behind us. I’d have to come back tomorrow, but I’d do it in the daylight. Werewolves, witches, and murderers were one thing. Ghosts were another.

  When I went to bed that night, I tossed and turned, thinking of mysterious figures in cemeteries and invisible hands wrapping around my throat.

  Chapter Two

  The doorbell rang during my morning tea, and I yelled at the visitor to go away. There was a pause where I thought whoever was at the door was actually going to do it. Then, almost apologetically, the doorbell rang again, and I gave up on my mug.

  Wrenching the door open, fully aware I was still in my pajamas, I snapped at the woman waiting on my front step. “What?”

  She looked me with wide eyes that only served to annoy me further.

  “Polite doesn’t start till noon,” I said by explanation. “Just spit out what you want.”

  “I want to hire you.”

  Frowning, I said, “I don’t do that.”

  When I would’ve shut the door, she caught it, pleading with her eyes as well as her mouth. “Please, just hear me out.”

  That was how I ended up back at my kitchen table with a now cold cup of tea. After taking a sip and wincing, I set it aside and watched the young woman pace across my linoleum. She wore all black and was decked out in pale makeup. Her face was drawn into lines that made her look older.

  “Maybe you should start with a name,” I said helpfully.

  “Right.” She nodded, pausing in her movement for a moment. “I’m Fate—“

  “And I’m Elvira. If you don’t want to give your birth name, skip that part altogether.”

  Fate seemed a little taken aback, and her hand went to the gaudy cross around her pale neck. “I try not to give out my real name too freely these days.”

  That made my eyebrows shoot up. “Do go on.”

  There was a brief hesitation where I could see she was wondering whether or not she could trust me. I didn’t make it easy for her, giving nothing away in my face. Frankly, I didn’t know why she was here. I didn’t advertise my services, because I didn’t have any. Solving mysteries was a hobby—and not one I wanted to be paid for. That way, I can walk away when it gets scary.

  And with ghosts involved in my life now, things were going to get scary.

  “I’m from Tennessee.”

  I waited for her to go on. “That doesn’t clear as much up for me as you might think.”

  Sitting down across from me at the table, she wrung her hands. “You’re going to think I’m crazy. Everyone I talked to before did.”

  “Well, you are wearing all black in 80 degree weather.”

  “I think I’m being stalked.”

  Resisting the urge to tell her how anti-climactic that was for someone who dealt with homicidal witches on a weekly basis, I nodded at her to go on. I was only half listening, though, because I was already wondering which officer in my life I’d shove her off on. No magic, no case for Harper. And to think I let my tea get cold for this.

  “It started a couple months ago,” she said, tensing up. “I never see him—but I can feel him watching me all the time. Sometimes—when he’s unhappy—he makes stuff happen.”

  “Stuff?”

  Fate swallowed. “Like knocking a picture of my boyfriend off the table or writing on the wall.”

  “If you can’t see him doing it, how do you know it’s a stalker and not somebody messing with you?”

  My mind went immediately to Oliver, and the time I’d stolen his favorite comb to make him believe someone was trying to curse him. In my defense, he’d called me at three in the morning to say hello—three nights in a row.

  “I—I can’t see him, but I can see him doing it.”

  Blinking slowly, I said, “That’s almost as helpful as your Tennessee tidbit.”

  “He’s invisible. It’s…I’m being stalked by a ghost.”

  The girl then promptly burst into tears, leaving me with a wailing goth and more ghosts than I knew what to do with. Perfect.

  ______

  I sent Fate back to her hotel room with the promise that I would call her when I’d made my decision. It was about lunch time, so I picked up tacos from a hole in the wall restaurant in town and headed down to the police station.

  I was greeted by the receptionist, a woman who used to sleep with Oliver and who would love to sink her abnormally long nails in me. Side-stepping her, I headed over to Wyatt’s desk where he was bent over some arrest records.

  “After Steve Warner?” I asked, pointing to a mug shot. “Great guy.”

  “He’s a con artist.”

  My lips twitched. “The two don’t have to be mutually exclusive.”

  Except, in Wyatt’s world they did. Sometimes it came as a real wonder to the both of us how we were able to fit together so nicely. Wyatt was black and white, and I was born into the grey.

  “Try his mother’s house. When he’s in trouble, he always goes running home.”

  He grabbed a bag of tacos, pressing his lips to my fingertips as he did. “You’re my favorite snitch.”

  Smiling on the outside only, I noted that there were stressed circles under his eyes, and his mouth was as drawn as Fate’s.

  Speaking of snitches—“We had a visitor at the house today.”

  “Is it still standing?”

  “Minor structural damage,” I said through a bite of spicy peppers. “It was actually a woman looking to hiring me on.”

  “You don’t do that.”

  “That’s what I said.” I paused to swallow, ignoring the napkin Wyatt handed me in favor of my pants. “Still.”

  He looked up from his meal. “Are you thinking of taking it?”

  “Well, some weird stuff has been happening anyway,” I said, gauging his reaction. I wasn’t sure if now was the best time to bring up the figure he’d recognized at the cemetery.

  “What’s supernatural about stalking? Doesn’t seem like your area.”

  I shrugged. “It’s a ghost that’s doing the stalking. Guess that would fall into my area.” If he wanted to play nonchalant, I could too.

  That got his attention.

  Almost coldly, Wyatt said, "That's a police matter. I've been getting calls all day about disturbances. Don't get involved."

  I raised my eyebrows. "Wow. That sounded a lot like an order."

  We sat back and stared at each other for a moment. I almost expected him to take it back immediately and to apologize. Wyatt might not have always liked or agreed with my actions, but he knew better than to forbid me to do anything. At least, I thought he knew better.

  "I have a lot of work to do, Harper," he said, his voice tired as he looked away from me. "I'll see you tonight, okay?"

  Standing, I blinked. I'd been dismissed. Oliver's ex-lover did a little finger wave to me on the way out, and I flipped her the bird. There was only so much crap I'd take from people, and I'd reached my quo
ta for the day.

  Grabbing my phone from my pocket, I dialed Wyatt's partner and my old friend, Vic. She answered almost immediately, though it was her day off, and she was probably spending it with a fellow officer—one I hated even more than the secretary. The thought was a nauseating one.

  "He just ordered me not to get involved," I said, climbing into the spare car the mechanic had loaned me. "Ordered."

  "He's a man, honey," she said, and I could just picture her shaking a thick finger in disapproval. "They're poisoned with ego and testosterone. It's fatal for some."

  "Is it because we're engaged? He never acted this way before." I frowned. "He usually just gives me the silent treatment when I do something he doesn't like."

  Pausing for only a brief second, I told her about the figure in the cemetery and about the disturbance at the Funky Wheel last night. Like a true best friend, she listened, making the appropriate comments, until I was finished.

  "Ghosts give me the heebie-jeebies," she said, summing up my feelings in one, brief sentence.

  I rested my head against the wheel, heaving a sigh. "I think Wyatt knew the guy. I mean in life if he was a ghost."

  "He was so a ghost."

  "Then why wouldn't he tell me about it? He tells me everything."

  I could tell she was raising her eyebrows in disbelief. "Everything? Sweetie, I don't even tell you everything."

  Vic was right—in that annoying way she has. Wyatt was pretty much an open book about his past, present, and future except for one notable chapter. It was mentioned in the table of contents, but I could never get him to turn the page to it.

  "Thanks, Vic. That helped."

  I started the car and headed towards the suburbs of Waresville with more than a little reluctance. Apart from work, home, and his family—who I wouldn't ask the time of day willingly—there was only one person in town Wyatt spent his time with. They'd been friends in high school and still met every week for a basketball game though I'd never attended.

  Keith Stellerman's house was the most hideous thing I'd ever seen. By all accounts, it was decked out with the latest and most expensive fashion. Everything matching with the impeccable taste only a top notch designer had. It was only one of the man's homes, since he traveled the world in lavish style most of the year. But he'd grown up here, with Wyatt. Much to my annoyance.

  Stellerman greeted me at the front door in a silk robe that cost more than most people make in a month. He was holding an illegal cigar in one hand, an aged scotch in the other. His smile made my brow furrow with anger. It practically screamed that he could have whatever and whoever he wanted, anytime he desired.

  Wyatt frequently defended his relationship by saying that Keith wasn't a bad guy, he'd just let the wealth he'd gotten in the stock market go to his head. And Wyatt wasn't the type to abandon a friend.

  "If it isn't the future Mrs. Bennett. Can I offer you a mimosa?"

  "No," I said shortly, crossing the threshold without an invitation. "This isn't a social call."

  He led me into a hideous over the top living room and instructed me to take a seat in one of the arm chairs. It was ridiculously comfortable, and I hated myself a little for thinking that.

  "Cigar?"

  "I prefer dirt cheap marijuana, thank you," I said, stiffly.

  He laughed. "You're no fun."

  The ironic thing about the whole situation was that I'm a lot of fun. People remark on it all the time. Unfortunately, Keith Stellerman brings out the worst in me—the little girl that's still pissed off at the world. The one that went hungry while the Keith Stellermans of the world imported cigars.

  "I want to talk to you about Wyatt. About his past."

  He raised an eyebrow. "I'd figure you could get anything you wanted out of Wyatt. Just ask him to whisper it sweetly across your pillow tonight."

  There was another reason I didn't like Stellerman. Unfortunately for me but fortunately for Keith's face, he never let Wyatt hear him talking like this to me. And he knew I wouldn't tell. I didn't go running to my fiancé over the Stellermans of the world.

  He seemed to sense I wasn't in a trifling mood. "What do you want to know, sweetheart?"

  I liked that term of endearment a whole lot better when Vic said it.

  "Does he ever talk about the war with you? Or his time in the army?"

  Keith was instantly serious—a look I'd never seen on him. It almost made me see why Wyatt kept the guy around.

  "Wyatt doesn't like to talk about that. Have you been pestering him?"

  It was my turn to be amused. Was I about to be threatened by Keith Stellerman? How many surprises could come in one day?

  "He's never said anything about Afghanistan? About someone he lost maybe?"

  Face closing off altogether, Keith sprung from him chair. I rose with him, not wanting to be left in the submissive position.

  "I think you'd better go," Stellerman said, not even a hint of flirting left in his tone.

  For the second time that day, I’d been dismissed.

  Chapter Three

  After I left Stellerman’s house, I decided to do a little recon on this whole ghost situation. If one mystery—the Wyatt one—doesn’t pan out immediately, it was nice to have a backup. I wasn’t completely giving up—just calling a time out.

  And there’s nothing like the undead to get your fiancé’s past off your mind.

  The horn from one of the haunted tour buses blared, getting me to turn around on the street. I’d been annoyed at the time, but if I hadn’t turned, I never would have seen Mrs. Cleary and her husband walking hand in hand down the sidewalk.

  The problem? Mr. Cleary had been dead for over ten years.

  He looked just as he had in the pictures I’d seen—overweight and hairy. Only now, instead of a very solid man walking by me, Mr. Cleary was almost transparent. His expression was very vacant, though I couldn’t say whether that was normal or not.

  Mrs. Cleary, a woman on seventy now, noticed my stare and beamed at me. “It’s a miracle, isn’t it, Harper?” Her smile grew brighter. “My Abraham came back to me!

  She walked away with her husband while my jaw was still on the ground. The more looking I did into the state of the town, the more I realized that Mrs. Cleary was nothing special. All over town, ghosts were popping up as if they’d always been there.

  Some people, like Mr. Cleary, had had family members come back happy and docile and visible. Others hadn’t been so lucky. I found this out as I passed town hall.

  The sound of glass breaking had me stopping in my tracks, and it was a good thing I did, because a split second later, a computer smashed into the pavement two feet in front of me. Glass went flying, scratching my face and other exposed skin.

  I looked up to a gaping window that belonged to the mayor’s office just a couple stories above my head. A high cackle rang out down the street, and I heard the mayor yelling angrily. For a man with all smiles, he certainly knew a few choice words.

  “I’ll get you for that, Mother!”

  “How?” the voice I’d heard cackling a second ago screeched. “You can’t even see me, you worthless piece of—“

  “Wow,” I said, cocking my head to the side. “I bet he wishes he’d gotten Mr. Cleary instead.”

  I walked on for about an hour more, losing count of how many ghosts I encountered. Overall, the town seemed to be rejoicing about all the supernatural activity. Apart from the fact that it would line their pockets, they got to see their loved ones again. The only people not happy were the ones visited by unhappy spirits. And boy, were there a lot of them.

  My phone rang just as I started watching a ghost chase a couple kids around with a broom. I answered without looking at the caller ID, and Wyatt’s deep, calm voice was on the other end. I let it wash over me for a moment, loving the uncomplicated feeling of loving him.

  “The mayor wants me personally on this case,” he said. “And three eyewitnesses put you at the scene when the ghost of his mother threw his
computer out the window. Turn around.”

  Wyatt was standing across the street, leaning against the outside window of the deli like some kind of hooligan. It made my heart speed up a little bit, and I grinned at him.

  “I don’t care what they’re telling you; I was not the ring leader.”

  “Don’t make me use the handcuffs.”

  I ran across the street to him, forgetting that I was miffed and confused. His arms wrapped around me, and for the moment, everything was all right.

  “Honestly, all I saw was the computer falling from the sky. Almost hit me too.”

  His arms tightened around me to an almost painful degree and then went slack. “You have a real knack for getting into trouble.”

  "That she does, child," a voice said behind us.

  Wyatt turned around with lightning fast reflexes, reaching for his gun. He got halfway there before he froze, seeming to remember where he was. Even so, his hand stayed near his gun for a while longer, almost confused. It was painful to watch.

  The woman who'd spoken was dressed in large swooping red robes that concealed her entire body and face. The only part of her left bare in this heat was a pair of knobby hands that stuck out like tree stumps out of the ground. She was pushing a wooden cart that leaned slightly sideways. On the side it read "Madam Mystic."

  I glanced over at Wyatt, more bemused than anything. "It's been a strange day. Maybe we should just go home and wait the rest of it out."

  "You'll be leaving without a reading, then?" the old woman asked, chicken bones appearing on the top of the cart atop a painted symbol that looked very familiar to me. I was certain I'd seen it in one of Gran's books—probably one about fortune telling.

  "We will," I said firmly. "Not that I'm not fascinated to see what cock-a-doodle-doo has to say."

  She seemingly ignored me to look at Wyatt instead. I shrugged on the inside. As long as she didn't have her hand outstretched for money, what did I care if she gave Wyatt a little reading? I was willing to bet fifty bucks she'd see wonderful things in his future—but only if he came back for another paid reading.

  She threw the bones, the odds and ends clicking against the wood before rolling to a stop. Curious, I peered at where they had fallen, but since I'd never pretended to read the future, it was a useless exercise.