Roller Rink Witchcraft: Paranormal Cozy Mystery

By Raven Snow

In the small town of Waresville, witches, goblins, and ghouls are money in the townspeople’s pockets. Without the magic stores on every corner and spooky tour bus ride, how would a place nicknamed “Wheresville” survive? But when Harper “Foxxy” Beck, owner of the Funky Wheel and all-around groovy witch, finds her murdered accountant plastered to her floor, the citizens are taught a valuable lesson about creatures that go bump in the night: They kill. Turning Harper’s world on its head, the police arrest someone close to her, and she’s forced to investigate to clear her friend’s name. But as this foxy lady gets closer to the true identity of the killer and the alluring Detective Bennett, the man actually assigned to the case, the quiet town of Waresville turns into a dangerous place for a meddling witch. 

Suddenly, her long-standing roller rink is a battleground for a satanic witch, and suspects are popping up everywhere she looks. When a second body appears, shattering everything she thought she knew about the murders, Harper needs to decide who she can trust. With the help of her cape-wearing best friend, her hunky detective, and her terrifying witch of a grandmother, Harper must use the clues before her to solve the case— but in a town with hundreds of years of feuds and spooky happenings, will she be able to dig up the truth before hers is the next head on the chopping block?

The theme of this book is a Supernatural/Paranormal Witch Themed Cozy Mystery. It is a "novella", approx. 20,000 words in length which will typically take the average reader about one hour to read. It is the first volume of the Harper "Foxxy" Beck Mystery Series. This book is a standalone, reading further volumes is not required to resolve or enjoy the book. Romance is clean.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Raven Snow
• Release date: Feb 12, 2016
• ISBN: 9781519926487

Book preview

Roller Rink Witchcraft

Supernatural Witch Cozy Mystery

Harper Foxxy Beck Series Book 1

––––––––

Raven Snow

© 2016

Raven Snow

Disclaimer

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner & are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

Cover images are licensed stock photos, images shown for illustrative purposes only. Any person(s) that may be depicted on the cover are models.

Edition v1.1 (2017.02.13)

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Table of Contents

Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Authors Note

Chapter One

Play that funky music, white boy! I shouted, the front of my skates colliding with a half wall of purple cement.

My bouncer, Jeb, shot me a rare smile from the DJ’s corner just outside the large rink, giving the musical equipment a wide berth. Wouldn’t know how, Miss Beck.

Spinning in a tight circle, I gestured to the disco lights, the glowing peach-colored skating rink, and my neon green Afro wig. I’m only gonna tell you once more. At the Funky Wheel, I’m Foxxy— fly mama with groovy moves who serves booze, good times, and leads the conga line.

Leaning over the half wall, I stretched away from the tiny, triangular DJ’s corner and over one of the booths that made up the dining platform. Out in the real world, you can call me Harper.

You got it, Miss Foxxy, the mountain of muscle said, moving back towards the door after completing his scan of the room for trouble-making hooligans. Jeb’s face fell back into a mask of grave intention, giving the patrons the impression he’d feed them their teeth if they gave him a reason.

A particularly popular hit from the 70s came on the loud speakers, and a couple of people squealed and launched from their booths toward the floor. The few dozen that were already out there continued to skate around the circular rink, basking in the disco light and showing off their funky moves.

For the most part, my customers were middle-aged couples reliving the glory days and giving those old bell bottoms a night on the town. Teenagers, too, seemed to really love the Funky Wheel, coming here to skate and get cheap pizza, but rarely did they dress up.

When my late father had owned the place, from the early 90s until about seven years ago, anyone who wanted to walk through those scratched metal doors had better be wearing a costume from the era. There was still a sign by the ticket window just outside the entrance, but only because I couldn’t pry it from the brick.

Money was money after all, and since we were the only place open past midnight that kids under twenty-one could get into, the Funky Wheel did all right fiscally.

Zooming through the door behind the concession stand, I almost tripped over a chair that’d been left in the middle of the office. Instead, I ran into a desk so sturdy, it would’ve survived nuclear warfare. A couple of stacks of paper fell to the floor, but I ignored them, as they were probably bills.

What’s the good news, Amber? I asked the short teen standing at the ticket window.

It’s been a pretty busy— wow, you’re like a skyscraper with those skates, ma’am. She fixed her glasses, peering up at me.

Trust me, I’m a skyscraper with or without them. Checking my watch, I cursed. Better get home, Amber. It’s almost two.

Though there were circles under her eyes, she said, I don’t mind staying.

I don’t mind you staying, either, I said, snorting indelicately. But your mother would come for my life. We’ll be closing after the next session, anyway. Doubt there’ll be much new foot traffic.

Nodding, she put our closed sign up in the window. It said, in bright orange letters, Keep on keepin’ on— just somewhere else.

Backpedaling, I let her pass me and slip out of the tiny— originally white, but now yellow— office. I waved her out the front door, calling, Have a groovy night!

The rest of the night flew by with me taking turns getting the party restarted on the floor, playing part-time DJ, and helping out behind the concession stand. The last dominated a little too much of my time for my taste, and I let Stoner Stan know as couples flooded out for a slow song.

Stan, it’s a hotdog machine. It rotates the damn wieners for you, I said, pulling out a few shriveled franks from it. All I ask is you don’t let them get mummified. 

The forty-year-old 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