The Wicked Witch Caper (Jason Star and Mr. Bz Adventure #1)

By Paul L. McMurray

“We’re the best detective team you can rent,” brags Jason Star, age fifteen. But that’s wishful thinking on his part—this cocky kid is usually stuck doing all the maintenance work on the run-down mansion of the eccentric private detective Mr. Bz. But he’s able to put off mowing the lawn and washing the windows when his mother—normally dead-set against Jason helping Mr. Bz out on detective stuff—needs to hire her own son to save a friend from a séance scam involving thousands of dollars. Jason and Mr. Bz crack the case together and laugh off the curse put on them by the phony fortune-teller, but the curse becomes all too real when they are attacked by a fiery flying witch and her army of slithering creatures. This is no ordinary case; this is a life-or-death caper that requires some outside help from the psychic detective Akin Head. He’s a man Mr. Bz hates to call for help, but he’s also the only man with enough special powers to possibly save Jason and Mr. Bz from certain death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul L. McMurray
• Release date: Oct 2, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370431090

Paul L. McMurray

Paul McMurray grew up on the SW side of Chicago (one block from Midway Airport) and then lived in nearby suburbs. He stayed out of serious trouble thanks to his strict-but-kind mom and a top-ranking relative on the CPD. He worked a lot of jobs, including selling insurance in the “inner city”, where he had a loaded gun pointed at his head twice (by undercover cops, not residents) but didn’t get shot, and learned to look out for roving packs of feral dogs. He also remembers gratefully the many good people there who checked the windows first so he didn’t get robbed and/or his butt kicked. He then joined his family in owning and running the 2nd largest private campground in SE Wisconsin (at the time and may still be), and still writes about camping mishaps at scoopjackson.net, where his alter-ego resides. He travels frequently to Chicago for more "research" on Zak and Freddy capers, which usually involves Italian beef sandwiches and beer. And, of course, White Castles.

Book preview

THE

WICKED WITCH CAPER

(Jason Star & Mr. Bz Adventure #1)

By Paul L. McMurray

Copyright 2016 by Paul L. McMurray

All Rights Reserved

Please see full Copyright, Disclaimer,

Credits & Thanks, and more at the end of this book.

Table of Contents

Introduction: WARNING!

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Client

Chapter 2: Mr. Bz

Chapter 3: Madam Zarley

Chapter 4: The Séance

Chapter 5: The Curse

Chapter 6: The Vision

Chapter 7: Trouble

Chapter 8: An Encounter With Evil

Chapter 9: The Wicked Witch

Chapter 10: The Creatures

Chapter 11: A Call For Help

Chapter 12: The Psychic Detective

Chapter 13: The Battle Begins

Chapter 14: Trapped

Chapter 15: The Unseen Enemy

Chapter 16: Showdown At The Hideout

Chapter 17: Evil Confession

Chapter 18: A Final Prediction

Chapter 19: The Monkey Solution

Epilogue

Copyright, Disclaimer and Credits

Author Notes and Contact Info

THE WICKED WITCH CAPER

(Jason Star & Mr. Bz Adventure #1)

Introduction: WARNING!

Even though Mr. Bz and I wrapped up the Wicked Witch Caper more than two weeks ago, I’m still getting nightmares from it. Sometimes it’s the Witch herself I dream about, or the mirror with the blood dripping from it, but usually it’s the Witch’s creatures slithering closer each night.

Maybe you think fifteen is too old to be having nightmares any more, but then, you weren’t the one the Witch tried to burn to a crisp, and I guess you’ve never had one of her ghouls come after you with its slimy tentacles. And just knowing it could happen again at any time is enough, believe me.

So that’s why I decided to put this warning here. At least you can’t blame me if you don’t get any sleep tonight.

Jason Star

Chapter 1: An Unexpected Client

The séance was set for 9 tonight. We were to bring $10,000 in cold cash along. At the séance, we would burn it as a sacrifice. The old gypsy woman said it was the only way to free the greedy soul of Thomas Redley from his spiritual prison.

That was according to Pam Redley, sister of the dead man, and a close friend of my mother. Pam had received a phone call late last night from the gypsy, who had identified herself as Madam Zarley. You must listen! the gypsy woman hissed into the phone. "I have just been contacted by a voice from the netherworld. The voice says he is the soul of Thomas Redley.

The voice filled my brain, said Madam Zarley. "‘Tell Pam to help me,’ the voice said. ‘Tell her I am paying for all the years I was so greedy and cared only about money. Tell her I beg her to save me!’

I then received an image in my mind, said the gypsy woman. The image was a series of numbers floating above a telephone. I summoned all my spiritual strengths, but there was nothing more. The contact with the dead had weakened me. But I remembered the numbers, and the picture of the telephone, and I took that as a sign. I went to my phone and dialed those numbers, and you have answered. So then, tell me: Is your name Pam, and do you know of a person named Thomas Redley?

Pam said she almost dropped the phone when she heard that. There is one more thing, added the gypsy woman. I feel a sense of urgency. A feeling that today is a special day for the soul of Thomas Redley.

At that precise moment, Pam said, the clock on the kitchen wall struck midnight. It was now a new day, and an eerie chill swept across her body.

It was one year ago today that her brother Thomas Redley had died.

---

I was in the back yard when Pam had come rushing over. There were only two days of summer vacation left, and I was trying to finish up some special projects. The way I figured it, I wasn’t going to have any free time at all once school started, what with sports and homework and helping Mr. Bz out with the detective business.

Right then I had been adding some extras to my dirt bike, an Enduro III. The extras were flares and rockets set up in the hand grips, smoke canisters under the seat, and some more special fireworks mounted on the frame near the rear tire. The ignition package for all of this was attached to the handlebars, and I could remove it and set off the arsenal from as far away as 50 feet. I put the batteries in and stepped back to admire my work.

I was thinking about taking a ride down the alley, maybe shooting some rockets at a garbage can, when Pam came out the back door crying. Mom followed her out, watched her get in her van and drive away, and then came over to me. She shook her head at my bike.

She thinks fifteen is too young to be hanging around with a private detective and getting involved in cases. I guess the only reason she lets me is because she knows otherwise I’d be snooping around on my own, and she figures that this way Mr. Bz can keep an eye on me and keep me out of trouble. And believe me, she checked him out first, big-time, both on the Internet and with the local police. He’s helped the police out a few times, and they gave him a high recommendation, although a few of them laughed a bit about him. I didn’t mind, because Mom feels OK about me working with Mr. Bz.; it’s all harmless fun.

Or so she thinks. It’s a good thing she didn’t ask too many questions about the last caper Mr. Bz and I got mixed up in. Her hair would’ve turned gray, or fallen out, or something. But now, as she stood there, I got worried. She looked way too serious.

She pretended to be interested in the new additions to the Enduro. I could tell she was building up to something. Then it came out, and it almost shocked the stripes off my Nikes.

Jason, she said nervously, Pam needs help. I want to hire you and Mr. Bz.

And that’s how the caper started. Mom didn’t know who else to turn to. Besides, even though Mr. Bz doesn’t look like much, and certainly isn’t famous, word has quietly gotten around that he is the man you come to when you don’t know what else to do. It also helps that he doesn’t charge money for a case unless you can afford it. In our neighborhood, there aren’t many who pay.

I listened carefully as Mom told me Pam’s story. I stopped her once to run in and get my notebook. I try to keep written or taped records of every aspect of every case, and I could tell this was going to be a good one. As she started up again, I wrote ‘Case 3702’ at the top of the page. The numbers meant nothing, but I figured it would impress her.

I had to scribble to keep up with her. Pam was to bring one or two friends with her to the séance. The more the better, according to Madam Zarley, in order to gather the strength to reach into the spirit world. As for the ten grand, Pam was ready to go to the neighborhood loan shark to get it. That wasn’t wise. I knew about the guy, and he charges an arm and a leg as interest payments. If you’re late the first time, he takes an arm. I mean that just the way it sounds. He’s mean like a snake.

When Mom finished, I snapped the notebook shut. Call Pam, I said. Tell her we’re going to the séance with her. Mr. Bz will have the money. And make sure that Pam doesn’t tell that fake gypsy who Mr. Bz really is. Have her say that he’s from out of town. Pittsburgh, maybe.

Ugh, said Mom. I hate Pittsburgh.

Stop it, Mom, I said. You’re starting to lose it. Just say Pittsburgh, OK?

She laughed. Sure, she said. It’s just that I’m having a hard time accepting the fact that I’ve just hired my son as a detective.

Don’t worry, I said. You can’t get any better. We’re the best detective team you can rent.

At least I think we are. See for yourself…

Chapter 2: Mr. Bz

I felt good. I was coming to Mr. Bz with a case of my own, one that sounded strange enough to maybe turn into a caper. A case is anything routine, like the kidnapped frog deal we handled last week. That only took two hours. The fake French poodle mess lasted two weeks and wore out the soles of my best pair of Nikes tracking that mutt down. It was still just a case. It’s only a caper when things get weird on you, and you wonder if there isn’t a safer way to earn a buck.

So, maybe you’re wondering why I was hoping this would be a caper. The answer is simple: it’s the rush. I get this high-pitched feeling when a caper walks in. Muscles and mind feel ready for action. The training sessions that Mr. Bz and I go through three times a week all seem worthwhile. Sure, I get afraid, but I know I’m fine-tuned and as ready as I can be.

There was one other particular reason. When things are slow, Jason Star the assistant private detective becomes Jason Star, the maintenance kid. Most of the work I don’t mind, but this was the week for washing the twenty-four windows that are all over the beat-up mansion that Mr. Bz calls home and office, and I wasn’t in the mood. A good caper could postpone that job for another week or so.

I parked Enduro III next to the gate that leads to Mr. Bz’s front door. As always, I gave the remote-controlled cameras a glance to make sure they were still working. Once you step foot on Mr. Bz’s property, the cameras zoom in and make you a TV star on the big screen we have in the office. There was a faint whirring sound as the fake birdhouse swiveled to focus in on me.

The front door didn’t open automatically, like it would if Mr. Bz were monitoring the screen