A Twisted Tune, Pixie Twist #2 ebook

“Amanda!” 

Hippie, the musician who shouted and waved, wore his dark hair long over his tanned skin. His face covered with a scraggly, yet short beard. Long linen tunic, rope belt, linen shorts—all were hand tie-dyed, including the cloth headband he wore to keep his hair out of his face. His sandals were fairly good quality. He’d be standing on the pier and playing his guitar for the next four hours. Good footwear was a must for the serious buskers, even ones that looked like a tie-dyed Jesus.

Just don’t call him Jesus. He was Hippie. If one wanted to know his real name, one had to get real close to the busker permit, the license from the town of St. Maurice that gave him permission to perform on the pier. It read Stephen R. Flotsam. I only knew because I helped him purchase a small home down on the south side of St. Maurice. 

None of the locals bothered looking at the license. He was Hippie and always would be. A fixture here on the pier. You could find him and many other buskers and performers here dancing, singing, or whatever their act was, all for tips from the generous tourists.

“Hey, Hippie! You here today?” Amanda called, leaning out of the serving window at the coffee bar.

“Of course I am here. Where else would I be?” Hippie shouted back. “I’m always here. Wherever I go is here.”

“Knock ’em dead!” Amanda flashed him the surfer shaka sign, thumb and pinkie raised with other fingers curled in. 

“Peace. Finny daughter!” He flashed the shaka back at her, then started unloading his cart. Amplifier, battery pack, a wicker basket disguising a five-gallon bucket. He popped the top off the bucket and pulled the coiled cables he needed to set up his portable musician rig. The lid of the bucket had a crudely cut slit. That was where tourists dropped their cash tips for Hippie.

I sat at a table near the window. “I’m glad it’s Hippie and not Tommie Neptune.” 

Amanda rolled her eyes at the mention of Tommie. “Hippie at least keeps his volume at a comfortable level. People like to sit at our tables and listen.”

“You both win, right? They stop and get lattes, and Hippie gets tips.” I crumpled the paper wrapper from my burger and tossed it into the paper bag. 

“Exactly. Tommie just doesn’t understand that keeping the volume reasonable gets more people engaged. He and Neville and Dancing Donald all crank it until one of the cops make them turn it down.”

“Buskers!” I rolled my eyes, then laughed. That was Amanda’s normal exclamation whenever she got pulled in to work an evening shift like tonight.

She laughed. “Don’t get me started! Oh! I think I already did.”

“Well, you won’t hear the Neptune on Saturdays.” Neville Vaudeville parked his red wagon of sound gear in front of Beanzies. He laid a couple of dollars on the window ledge. “Coffee, with honey, my dear Amanda.”

Amanda filled a paper cup for the tall black man. He wore a silver-sequined top hat with a purple-sequined band around it. His jacket was purple sequins over a white tuxedo shirt and black slacks. His shoes matched his top hat.

“Oh, that’s right. Tommie Neptune is lead singer in the new show.” Amanda passed the coffee in a paper cup out to Neville.

“There are far better performers here on the pier than that Tommie Neptune.” Neville raised his cup in thanks. “Appreciate your kindness, my dear.”

I raised an eyebrow and tilted my head toward the departing busker. 

Amanda shrugged. “As long as the buskers are polite, I give them a large and charge for a small coffee. Neville leaves the change. It’s not much of a tip, but he’s always pleasant. Unlike the transient buskers.”

“It is the start of tourist season. We’re already seeing some new faces.” I waved toward the Hippodrome, the carousel building that anchored the shore end of St. Maurice’s amusement pier. “Did you see the new belly dancer?”

“The Southern woman? Char-Char?” Amanda rolled her eyes. “Can’t tell from her accent if she’s Texas South or Louisiana South. I’m surprised she can afford a bodyguard working for tips.”

“Maybe it’s a boyfriend or husband. Oh, there she is now.” I kept an eye on the woman and her dark-haired, muscular shadow. The man walking behind her gave me the creeps. He was the type I expected to find stalking women in a dark alley, not protecting one on our pier. “She’s living in the campground out of a large van. Romani like.”

Amanda shifted her gaze to me. “When’s Mr. Tall, Dark, and Undead meeting you?”

“I see his car heading down the ramp.” I nodded to the shore end of the pier, then glanced west. The sun was a red disc touching the ocean. “He’ll park, then wait for his legs to work again. Maybe ten minutes.”

More tourists stepped up to the coffee-shop window, so I turned to watch the pier activity. We had quite a lot of tourists, and even townsfolk out already. Southern California didn’t get nasty weather but two months out of the year. 

Hippie continued setting up his rig. About ten paces to either side, artists were setting up their carts. One Asian girl had her sign up advertising your name written on a grain of rice. Another artist, on the other side of Hippie, was setting up chairs and a battery-operated ring light. He was one of the better artists and could draw a caricature of a tourist in about ten minutes. 

Unlike the other California towns, our artists on the pier, mostly of Asian descent, were fae, and long-time residents of SoCal. A few had been here for generations. 

I felt a hand on my shoulder, so I looked up. My boyfriend leaned down for kiss.

“Hey.” Hoppy waved from the back corner of the coffee shop. “We will be late for the show. Come along.” 

Hoppy almost skipped down the ramp that took us to beach level under the pier.

I chuckled and pointed with my cane hand. “What’s got him all excited?” My right arm was curled through my boyfriend’s left elbow.

“Fireworks,” Hoppy called back. “Mary Pat asked me to make the effects for the show.”

“Don’t get Uncle started on his love of pyrotechnics.” Chaz chuckled. 

I shook my head. “No open flames on the pier! Or under it!” 

Hoppy waved away my objection. “They are not real fireworks. Just spells. Look like sparks, but not burn. Come. Mortimer of Tijuana is holding our table.”

The Double Clam sat on a couple of old barges permanently anchored under the pier. They floated, rising with the tide. Tonight’s show was to be at low tide, so the stage under the far-west end of the pier had maximum headroom. Probably a good idea, if Mary Pat let our ancient Chinese wizard craft the spells for fireworks.

Mort, in his gray tabby-cat form, already had a plate of nachos drenched in liquified cheese product, sprinkled with all manner of peppers, tomatoes, and meat. 

“No cigars, Mort.” I pointed at the cat-sized stogie next to the plate.

“I am well aware of pier regulations, Twizzle.” He used a dragon claw that jutted from his furry cat paw to tap the cigar. “I acquired these from a London distributor. Specially enchanted to provide the flavor and texture of the smoke—without actually producing any.”

“Leave it to a fire-breathing fuzzy lizard to need smoke.” Chaz scratched Mort behind the ears, then held a chair for me. 

“Mortimer of Tijuana is all mist, no fire,” Hop grinned and swiped one of Mort’s chips. “He is a blue mini dragon. They breathe sparks and smoke, not fire. Only red dragons breathe fire.”

“He’s handy to have around for that wall of mist.” I remembered the wall he made in the tunnels a month before.

Everyone who was anyone in town had turned out for tonight’s premiere. Leader of the Sea Green Coven, Mayor Beatrix Bottlegreen, sat with her husband, and with Lucy and Larry Lloyd. Across the lagoon sat the other coven leader, Star Sinclair, and three of her Stellar Blues Coven members.

Chaz leaned past me to stare at the table of Blues. “Did Star finally get her first cauldron slots filled?” 

“Verna Maythorn and Penny Parler advanced to first cauldron.” I flicked a finger to indicate the two women.

“Penny Parler,” Mort scoffed. “I’m surprised she advanced that high.”

“Not talented enough?” I glanced at Hop. He seemed to know more about magic skill than just about anyone other than the two coven leaders.

“She uses enhancements. Lots of crystals and potions. Give her a month to store a spell on a crystal, and she can do a lot. But she is not a fast thinker. She’s as high as she will go in the Blues. May even get knocked down a level or two if the others on second cauldron figure her out and demand no enhancement crystals in spell duels.”

“Shhh!” Mort pointed to where Mary Pat stood on the floating stage between the pier’s pilings. “Show’s about to begin.”

And begin it did. We had an hour-long spectacle of song, dance, choreographed swimming, and aerial acrobatics with both swinging bar and silks. Mary Pat managed to combine most of the talented performers in St. Maurice. But the real show stealer was Tommie Neptune. 

The young busker turned out to have amazing talent. Several numbers in the show featured him playing his sea-blue electric guitar and singing. He appeared in the grand finale dressed in a white Elvis-style jumpsuit with a golden metallic scarf. His voice captured the entire audience with his vocals, while Hop’s fireless fireworks filled the air all around us. As Tommie sang, I felt the urge to stand and dance, something I never did due to my gimpy leg.

I and every other patron in the house jumped to our feet for a standing ovation as Tommie’s last notes died out. The pixie servers resumed their flights around the restaurant once the curtain call bows had finished. 

“Wow!” Billie Quinn said as she strolled past our table. Cinder Sinclair was a step behind the reporter. “I’ve got one heck of a review to write. Mary Pat outdid herself pulling that show together. And that Tommie Neptune. If she can pull that off every Saturday through the next six months, we’ll have a ton of fae tourists coming into St. Mo.”

Hop looked at me. “Dinner?” 

“Second dinner? It’s after nine o’clock.”

He shrugged. “I skipped supper. We can start with dessert. What does number one friend want? I will buy.”

“Oh, well, in that case.” I grinned at Hoppy. “Blueberry cheesecake sounds yummy.”

“Hmmm. Blueberry…” Chaz winked at me. “That taste lingers.”

“You two and your kissy-face details.” Mort rolled his eyes and stuffed his cigar back in his mouth. A thin cloud of smoke barely escaped, then got sucked back into the magical cigar. 

An hour later, my belly full, my boyfriend unkissed during all that time, Chaz suggested we take a walk. We headed off on the paved path along the back edge of the shore. It was late enough that once we got a few hundred feet away from the pier, foot traffic on the path died off. He had his arm around my waist, and I enjoyed the feel of his body next to mine. 

Out on the bay, a few boats drifted, their running lights on to avoid collision. One was making a beeline straight out and would run a good several miles to get into international waters. There it would find the Tiger, a converted merchant ship. The little shuttle was taking more fae tourists out to indulge in gambling, drinking, and all sorts of activities the state of California frowned on. 

Chaz and I ignored them and enjoyed our stroll. We walked for about a mile that way.

The playground to our right told me we were in a residential area, and fairly far from the pier. A statue of the sea god Poseidon stood to my left, on the beach side of the path. This section was almost deserted. Only a few couples sat a hundred yards or more behind us, well out on the beach. I slowed and let Chaz turn into me. My boyfriend didn’t need prompting. Our lips met under the stars. A few seconds later, I sighed and leaned against his chest, looking out over the bay.

Chaz stiffened and patted my arm. 

“This way…” He pulled my hand, urging me to limp along faster than I normally walked. I followed him right up to the merry-go-round. That spinning metal platform with steel railings. Too many times I had come close to losing my lunch at school as the boys tried to spin me hard enough that I popped into my tiny pixie form to escape.

I sucked in a breath as we got close. This time, I swallowed to keep my supper down.

Tommie Neptune wasn’t flying off the ride. He wasn’t doing much of anything. He was dead.