5 The Elemental Detective Page 11

  “And Dennis, of course,” Riga said.

  “Of course.” Petra handed Donovan the package.

  “That paddle on the wall…” Riga jerked her chin toward it. “What’s its story?”

  “Oh, just some old paddle,” Petra said. “I found it at a garage sale, but it has great energy, don’t you think?”

  “I do,” Riga said.

  They walked out of the shop, the package under Donovan’s arm. “We’re no closer to a time of death – between midnight and three-ish, assuming that green lightning was magic.”

  “Yes, when ‘alone in bed’ makes a perfectly reasonable alibi. Did you notice how little she actually told us? And Dennis may have been a great guy, but Petra seemed more concerned about the seals than him.”

  “Did you detect any dark magic?”

  “No, but we can’t rule her out as a suspect. We need to learn more about her.”

  “Lunch first. We passed a barbeque place on the way into town that looked interesting.”

  “You’re on.” In spite of her ginormous breakfast, Riga was hungry again.

  Chapter 12

  They sat on the restaurant porch, beneath slowly turning fans, and watched Koloa laze past. Sweating tourists snapping photos. Teenagers in clusters, laughing and gossiping. Chickens scratching in the dirt.

  A breeze stirred the trees and Riga stretched, tried to catch it.

  The waiter brought them pulled pork sandwiches and Riga dug in. She looked up. Donovan watched her with a bemused expression.

  “No, I’m really not pregnant.” She dabbed barbeque sauce from the corner of her mouth. “It just looks like I’m eating for two.”

  He smiled, took a bite and closed his eyes. “Heaven. Why does food taste better on vacation?”

  Raised voices, male and female, caught Riga’s attention. Across the street, a young couple emerged from a shop, arguing. A gust of wind blew the woman’s long, orange dress against her legs, and the man pointed at it, shouted something. An ache crept up the back of Riga’s neck.

  They finished their lunch, and strolled hand-in-hand from the restaurant.

  “Kimo’s place isn’t too far from here,” Donovan said. “How do you want to approach him?”

  A fly buzzed past and she swatted at it. “Directly. The latest seal killing – and Dennis’s murder – was about necromancy, not about irate locals protesting environmental regulations. But if Kimo is involved in the anti-seal movement – or whatever it’s called – he may have heard something about the latest killing.”

  “Maybe,” he said, noncommittal.

  She smiled. “Pull every thread, until we learn the truth.”

  “Is that one of your metaphysical rules?”

  “No, just plain detecting. And Kimo was put in our path. We need to find out why, even if he’s only a dead end. But I agree that we need to take more direct action to find this necromancer, and the best way to do that is with magic. Tonight.” She paused. “I’ve been putting it off, and we can’t afford that anymore.”

  “Putting it off? Why? You’re not still worried about your own magic?”

  “A bit. I’m a beginner again, trying to feel my way through it.”

  He paused. “Oh. You mean you’re going to use necromancy,” he said, his voice flat.

  “I may have to use the in-between energy. Why? Does it bother you?”

  His face cleared. “No. Of course not.”

  “Donovan—”

  The woman in the orange dress stormed out of a shop in front of them, jostling Riga. The man followed close behind.

  He grabbed the woman by the arm, whirled her around. “Listen to me when I’m talking to you!”

  Donovan gave Riga the package, and stepped in front of her.

  The woman in orange shook the man off. “I’m sick of listening. All I do is listen. And all you do is talk, talk, talk, talk, talk.”

  The man punched her.

  Riga gasped.

  In one swift motion, Donovan grabbed the man by the neck and arm and shoved him against the building. “Cool off.”

  The woman shrieked, one hand clapped to her bleeding nose. “Let go of my husband!”

  She flung herself at Donovan, scratching and clawing.

  Riga cursed under her breath, heat flooding her body. Her brain hummed with fury. “Oh, no you don’t.” She dropped the leiomano and came behind the woman, grabbed her forehead and pulled the woman’s head against her chest. She walked backwards, hauling the woman, off-balance, with her.

  “Let me go! Let me go, you bitch!” The woman’s arms flailed.

  “Since you’ve asked so nicely…” Riga jammed her foot into the rear of the woman’s knee and took another step. The woman folded, sat down, and Riga laid her full weight against the woman’s back, Riga’s toes pressing into the hot cement, her arms wrapping the struggling woman in a headlock.

  She looked up. Donovan still had the man jammed against the wall, and a crowd was gathering.

  “Don’t. Hit. Women.” Donovan ground out. “It’s not polite.”

  A woman in the crowd applauded.

  “Now,” Donovan said, “do you think you can calm down?”

  Purple-faced, the man nodded. Donovan released him, and he sagged to the ground.

  Riga let go of the woman, levering herself upright and taking a quick step back, her hands shaking. She didn’t regret her actions, but the rage that had exploded inside her had left her shaken. The woman might have attacked Donovan, but she was also a victim.

  The woman clambered to her feet and turned on Riga. “Mind your own business!”

  Donovan took Riga’s arm. “Let’s go.”

  She bent to pick up the dropped package, and they walked back to the Ferarri. Donovan’s muscles were loose, his smile easy, but she knew he was hyper-aware, half-expecting the couple to return, to attack.

  They didn’t.

  “Unbelievable,” Riga said once they were in the car. The man who’d elbowed her into the river. The brawl outside the cave. The argument in the restaurant. The domestic dispute. The angry drivers… What was going on?

  “Sorry,” he said briefly. “I know better than to get into the middle of a domestic dispute.”

  “Oh, Donovan. It wasn’t a criticism of you.” Of course he’d stepped in. That was who he was, and damn the consequences.

  “Oh. Well, don’t be so hard on the woman,” Donovan said. “First her partner knocks her around, then you did. All in all, she’s had a rough day.”

  “No, I meant, it really is unbelievable. Donovan, think of all the fights we’ve witnessed in the last few days. It’s not normal. It’s not natural.”

  His lips pursed. “You think it’s supernatural? Part of a spell?”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. But I’ve felt this odd buzzing in my head whenever we’ve been around it. I thought it was just a headache – the sun frying my brain, but...” But she’d been angry too. Irrational, short-tempered. “Have you sensed anything?”

  “No.”

  “No unusual feelings of annoyance or irritation?”

  “No. Why? Have you?”

  Her cheeks burned. “Yeah. When that guy knocked me into the river. I wanted to kill him.”

  “Well, that’s perfectly natural. I wanted to have words with him.”

  “Donovan, you wanted to have words with him.” She hunched her shoulders, ashamed. “I wanted to kill him. I had the spell in my head. I was ready to use it.”

  “But you didn’t.”

  “But I wanted to.”

  He drummed his fingers on the wheel. “Okay, that’s not normal. But why haven’t I been affected? We’ve been in the same places, experienced the same things. Do you think you’re more sensitive to it?”

  “No more sensitive than those two we just left in Koloa. And I’ve been warding myself.” She set up magical protection as a matter of course. So why hadn’t Donovan been affected? Was it something to do with the strange magic he carried?

 
They drove to the rocky shore, and Donovan pulled into a dirt driveway to a blue-painted restaurant beside a pier. The restaurant stood on stilts, the sun lighting its wide veranda and glaring off the corrugated roof. A faded wood sign above it: Kimo’s. The scent of cooking fish drifted to them, along with laughter, and the sizzle of oil. Against the dock knocked a battered fishing boat.

  A Hawaiian nearly as wide as he was tall clambered from it onto the pier. He put down a cooler, and squinted at them. Bare-armed, he adjusted the straps on his overalls. “Hey, Magnum,” he shouted to Donovan. “You’re on the wrong island!”

  Donovan chuckled, gave him a casual wave.

  Paul Glasgow, in his denim hotel shirt and khakis, emerged from the boat. He turned to shake hands with a figure hidden behind the pilothouse. Pulling his sunglasses off the top of his head, Paul ruffled his sable-colored hair, and slid the glasses into place atop his nose. He leapt off the boat to the dock, and strode to a black BMW parked on the side of the lot.

  “What is he doing here?” Riga asked.

  “Good question. Let’s see if he wants to sell the hotel badly enough to answer it.” Donovan hopped out of the car and walked to the BMW. “Paul!”

  The Hawaiian approached the Ferrari and leaned over the driver’s side. “Tell me the truth. This has got to be a rental.”

  Riga slid out of the car. “Nice detective work. I heard there’s only one Ferrari on the entire island.”

  He grinned, exposing a chipped tooth. “You’re a hard lady to impress. Is your man going to let you drive it?”

  “He’d better.”

  “Is he going to let me drive it?”

  “Doubtful. And I’ll be back.” She walked over to Donovan and Paul.

  “Then what are you doing here?” Donovan was asking.

  Paul folded his arms across his chest. The birthmark on his face darkened. “That’s really none of your business.”

  “No,” Donovan said, “but Kimo came up as a suspect in the seal deaths, and—”

  “And I’m suspected in my brother’s death?”

  Donovan shook his head. “I didn’t say that.”

  “How do you know Kimo?” Riga asked.

  “It’s a small island,” the hotel owner said. “Everyone knows everyone.”

  Riga lifted an eyebrow.

  “Look, I don’t know who told you Kimo was involved in the seal killings,” Paul said, “but they’re wrong. We’ve known his family for years, and he supplies fish to the restaurant.” He yanked the door open and got inside. “Leave him alone.”

  The BMW roared off, kicking up clouds of dust.

  Riga waved it away from her face. “I don’t care if this is a small island. This is too big a coincidence.”

  “Agreed.”

  “Let’s see what Kimo has to say.” She turned on her heel and walked to the car.

  The large man leaned against the Ferrari, looking less friendly. “Doesn’t look like Mr. Glasgow wanted to talk to you.”

  “I seem to be having that effect on a lot of people,” Riga said. “Is Kimo around?”

  He straightened off the car, and it rocked. Silent, he walked to the boat.

  Donovan and Riga looked at each other. Waited. Riga extended her senses. Not a whiff of magic.

  A man appeared on the boat’s deck and clambered down the short ladder to the pier. He ambled toward them, his feet ringing hollowly on the dock, his white chef’s jacket sagging on his thin frame.

  He slowed to a halt, and looked Donovan up and down. “You looking for me?”

  “If you’re Kimo. My name is Donovan Mosse. This is my wife, Riga Hayworth.”

  He scratched his moustache. “What do you want?”

  “I’m a private investigator,” Riga said. “We’re looking into the murder of Dennis Glasgow.”

  “What do you want?”

  “Information. I understand you’re a friend of the family’s,” Riga said. “Any idea who might have wanted to kill him?”

  The back of her neck prickled. Casually, she glanced over her shoulder. Young men dressed in cutoffs and torn t-shirts emerged from the restaurant and leaned against the porch railing, watching them.

  “No.”

  The big man stepped off the boat, a gaff in his hand. Slowly, he walked toward them, swinging the wicked-looking hook.

  “What about the seal?” Riga asked. “Who do you think might have killed it?”

  “Did Townsend over at the Protection Society tell you I did?”

  “No,” Riga said. “He told us you had strong feelings about the seals. Which seems rather strange, you being friends with Dennis.”

  “Why is it strange I’m friends with Dennis? Because I’m just a fisherman?”

  “No, because he was president of the Aquatic Protection Society. It’s no secret you wanted them to stop roping off the beaches for the seals.”

  “I don’t care about the beaches! Every time a seal steals food off my hook I’m supposed to report it now. If a seal shows up where I’m fishing, I’m supposed to leave. I got nothing against the seals and they got nothing against me. It’s the people who are driving me crazy. So Glasgow and I agreed to disagree.”

  The big man came to a halt behind Kimo. He clenched the gaff, and stared hard at Donovan.

  Donovan didn’t blink. “Whoever met up with him on the beach that night wasn’t as accommodating. Where were you the night he was killed?”

  “Home in bed. Look, all I know is I didn’t do it. And you can tell that freak at the Protection Society that I’ll sue him for slander if he keeps dissing me.”

  “I believe you,” Riga said. “Evidence suggests that whoever did this killed the seal – and Dennis – for his own reasons. We need to find him before he hurts anyone else.”

  “Good luck with that.” Kimo turned and stalked into the restaurant. His friend shot them one last suspicious look, and followed.

  “Interesting that he knew Townsend Murray was the person who’d sent us to him,” Riga said.

  He slung an arm over her shoulder, and they walked back to the car. “Is that meaningful?”

  “Maybe not. And I didn’t sense any magic on Kimo or in the boat or restaurant. Did you feel anything?”

  He opened the door for her. “Me? Why would I sense anything?”

  “It just seems like you’ve got more of a connection here. To the island, to the magic.” She slid onto the seat.

  He grinned. “You sound jealous.”

  “A little.” Hawaiian magic sounded so… nice. Why did she have to inherit necromancy? “Are you sure you don’t have a dash of Polynesian in your blood?”

  He shrugged. “Unlikely, but who can tell? In any case, our problem is the necromancer, and we don’t seem any closer to finding him.”

  Riga tipped her head back on the seat. Clouds scudded across the sky. She exhaled slowly. “Tonight. I’ll scry for the magician at midnight.”

  He grasped her hand, and said nothing.

  Chapter 13

  Riga stretched out on an Adirondack chair on their private beach, her toes digging into the sand, her mind racing. In the not-too-distant past, her magic had broken, pushed just out of reach, out of phase. She could manage the basics, and in unexpected moments, her old magic surged through. But she couldn’t count on it.

  An ocean breeze toyed with her hair. She rolled her head, enjoying the play of tropical air across her skin.

  She tapped her pen on the open notebook in her lap. Her last attempt to use locational magic, to scry for a necromancer had worked. Sort of. The connection had been rocky, dangerous, and the return trip painful. Her heart beat faster at the memory, and something unpleasant clutched beneath her throat. She’d been using the wrong kind of magic that night – the wrong kind for her. Riga’s magic was necromancy now, and she needed to get comfortable with this inheritance. But she hadn’t missed the look on Donovan’s face when she’d mentioned it earlier.

  Necromancers traditionally used blood in their spells, a
nd it was the blood that had odd effects on her. But she didn’t need to use it. There was another way, a way she’d only just begun to figure out. Blood was a conduit to death, death a conduit to the in-between, that zero point of non-existence. And that was where the power existed. She could access that in-between energy directly. Sometimes.

  Her grip on the pen tightened. She’d spent a lifetime detesting necromancy, and a part of her still did. But the blood worked. It was quick. It was dirty. And she might need it soon. And Donovan… She shifted in her chair. Donovan was right. For her, using blood was dangerous.

  Dripping, he emerged from the ocean, his black swim trunks clinging to his muscular thighs. He rubbed the water from his face with both hands, walked up the beach, and collapsed into the chair beside her. “What are you working on?”

  “A spell. My best chance to find whoever’s doing this is by using necromancy to find our necromancer. Like calling to like.”

  He stared out at the bay. It glittered in the sun. “Ah.”

  She frowned, looking down at her notebook. Its pages were wrinkled from its submersion at the Kalalau trail. “It’s just scrying, a basic spell, and I’ll use the in-between energy to power it. I doubt I’ll need blood.”

  “Ah.” His voice was carefully neutral.

  She put the notepad down and looked at him. His chiseled face was a polite blank. “That’s the second time you’ve said that. You’re not comfortable with this.”

  “Riga, the last time someone used necromancy around me, it killed me.”

  She winced at the memory. Just before their wedding, Riga’s aunts had attempted a simple spell manipulating the spirits – a wedding gift. Due to the interference of an outsider, it had gone horribly wrong. Donovan seemed to have bounced back from his “death” fairly easily. Now she wondered if it had been too easy.

  “I haven’t forgotten,” she said miserably. She looked at the water, unwilling to meet his gaze. “I don’t know what to do. Brigitte and I had talked about creating a magical system just for me – God knows I’ve theorized about it enough. But that sort of thing takes time.”