The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) Read online

  Riga pocketed her cell phone, bracing for the explosion from Brigitte. They’d planned to train tonight. But when she turned, she found Brigitte regarding her thoughtfully.

  “Dinner with Monsieur Mosse?”

  Riga nodded.

  “And you will spend ze night?”

  “Probably,” Riga said cautiously. She’d been staying there so often, Donovan was nagging her to move in. But even at forty-something, Riga wasn’t that kind of girl.

  “Good,” Brigitte said. “I have an errand to run and shall return tomorrow.”

  “An errand?” Riga didn’t pry into Brigitte’s personal life, was unsure if Brigitte actually had one. What sort of errand could the gargoyle be running?

  “An errand,” Brigitte said. She cocked her head, examining Riga critically. “Are you going to wear that?”

  Riga looked down. She’d dressed in wide-legged khaki-colored slacks and a vintage forties black button-up sweater that hugged her curves. A red silk scarf was knotted jauntily around her neck.

  “Why?” Riga said. “Have I got egg on me?”

  “It is not ze most romantic look. At least unbutton it at ze top.”

  Riga’s eyes narrowed. “Thanks for the fashion tip.”

  “You are welcome. In ze meantime, do not pursue this poor murdered lady. It is too dangerous on your own.”

  “Of course I won’t. The police consider me a suspect. Getting involved would only make me look guilty. Besides, I don’t have a client.” But the sigil nagged at her.

  Brigitte shot her a knowing look. “A coincidence, you think, that a sigillum only five people in ze world know how to create appears near ze body of a dead woman in Lake Tahoe, your home for the last month? A coincidence, now that you are at your weakest and unable to defend yourself?”

  “I’m not defenseless. This may come as a shock to you, but every day, billions of people go about their lives without depending upon magic.”

  “These people you speak of are very silly.” Brigitte fluttered to the sliding glass door that opened onto a wooden deck. The movement was surprisingly graceful for a block of stone. “It is as I feared, Riga. They know what has happened, that you are vulnerable, and they are challenging you. Now open ze door.”

  Riga hastily slid the door open before Brigitte shattered the pane of glass. “They? Who are they?”

  “Stay close to Monsieur Mosse.” Brigitte crouched, her muscles tensing, then with a bound soared off over the pines, a shrinking silhouette against the darkening sky.

  Riga shut the door, shifting her weight uneasily. Brigitte was right; the coincidence was too great. But if the sigil had been drawn by one of Lefebvre’s servants, the police wouldn’t be able to protect her.

  Riga was on her own.

  Chapter 3: Life in the Penthouse Suite

  Riga discreetly undid the top button of her sweater, then waved her key card in front of the electric eye for Donovan’s private elevator. Slot machines rang faintly behind her. Riga wasn’t a fan of gambling. She had nothing against people throwing their money away; it was their money, after all. But casinos felt like purgatory to her, with their bad lighting and no clocks to tell if it was day or night, and by coming here for Donovan, she felt she’d taken enough of a gamble. He, however, lived in his casino’s penthouse. It was a temporary residence, while Donovan worked out “management issues.”

  The doors slid open to reveal a hulking man in a forest-green uniform, with a fine spider-webbing of scars that splintered the right side of his face. She ran her glance over him – ankle holster, bulge over right buttock, and was that a miniature taser on the key ring attached to his belt? Riga felt a surge of weaponry envy.

  “Evening, Miss Hayworth,” he said.

  She smiled and stepped inside. “Evening, Cesar.”

  The doors closed silently and the elevator sped upward. Riga tried to ignore the lurch in her stomach. She hated elevators.

  The elevator slowed to a halt.

  “Penthouse suite,” the guard said.

  The doors slid open to reveal a foyer designed in American Craftsman style, with darkened wood paneling, lofty ceilings and sweeping crossbeams. A red and green totem pole stood against one wall and beneath a chandelier of elk horns stood Donovan, straight-backed, arms loose at his sides. Riga felt a surge of pure, golden joy at the sight of him. His cousin/manager, Reuben Mosse, and Donovan’s executive assistant, Isabelle Locke, faced him.

  “—regret this!” Reuben shouted.

  Reuben carried the Mosse genes: startling green eyes, ebony hair, square jaw, dark good looks. But while Donovan was tall and broad shouldered, Reuben was slight. Donovan’s hair swept in dramatic waves, Reuben’s lay flat against his scalp, thinning at the top. Reuben was not quite Donovan and that, Riga suspected, was a problem.

  She stepped into the foyer, the heels of her boots rapping upon the wood plank floor, and the three turned, taking notice of her.

  “Riga,” Donovan said. His jade-colored eyes warmed, the expression on his sculpted features shifting from irritated to welcoming. He wore a tailored suit that was black as sin and Riga’s lips curved in a smile in spite of the tension in the air. Their relationship was still young and her stomach fluttered at the sight of him.

  “Miss Hayworth,” Isabelle said, appraising. “How nice to see you.” She tucked a wayward strand of blond hair behind one ear. Her pale green Jackie Kennedy-style skirt and jacket accentuated the alabaster translucency of her skin.

  “Am I interrupting something?” Riga asked.

  Reuben spluttered. “This isn’t over, Donovan.” He stormed past Riga into the elevator.

  Isabelle tucked her lime green case beneath her arm. “Will there be anything else, Mr. Mosse?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She nodded and followed Reuben into the elevator, sparing Riga a bemused glance in passing.

  Riga unbuckled the belt on her suede jacket, watched the elevator close.

  Donovan sauntered toward her. “Sorry about that. Reuben’s having a hard time accepting some of my changes.”

  “He’s been in charge here for a long time, hasn’t he?” Riga mused. And now, he had Donovan to contend with. It would be a tough adjustment. But family was important to Donovan and if he was second guessing his cousin, the problems at the casino must be serious.

  “Forget about Reuben,” he said, nibbling at her ear. His arms encircled her, his lips grazed her neck and heat coursed through Riga’s body in response. “You are a sight for sore eyes.”

  “Mmm...” She leaned into him and Donovan did other interesting things with his hands and mouth. Riga felt herself melting beneath him, her brain disengaging. Reluctantly, she stepped away.

  “You did say something about a bottle of Château Lafite, didn’t you?” Riga took a step toward the living room, with its wide view of the lake.

  But Donovan clasped her lightly about the wrist, drawing her towards him. “Wait. I need to ask you a favor.”

  Riga arched a brow. Donovan had a legion of minions at his command, and didn’t need favors from her.

  “You know business is down,” Donovan began. “And not just here, in the whole region.”

  Everyone knew it. It was why Donovan had moved into his Stateline, Nevada casino, rather than returning to his home in Vegas.

  “I’m not sure a metaphysical detective can help you with that,” Riga said, playing along, “though I do know an excellent shaman...”

  Donovan blanched. “No shamans.”

  Riga looked at him, surprised. “What’s wrong with shamans?”

  “What’s wrong with faeries?”

  Riga stiffened. Faeries were her bête noir. “If you knew any, you wouldn’t have to ask,” she muttered.

  “Huh. Well the Supernatural Channel sent a crew here to do a reality TV show about Tessie, the Lake Tahoe monster. The crew is here, but the host broke his leg skiing. They were set to cancel, but when I showed them a photo of a possible substitute host, you, they
reconsidered.”

  Riga’s nose wrinkled. Lake monsters. As if. “No. Absolutely not. I’m a metaphysical detective, not a monster hunter. And the TV adds ten pounds.”

  “You’re a paranormal investigator and a dead ringer for Rita Hayworth. You’re perfect. They want to hire you to seek the cause of the recent uptick in Tessie sightings, and film you doing it. I didn’t promise them anything. They just want to meet you tomorrow. It’s a legitimate client, a short, two week assignment and the pay is fair.”

  “How much?” Riga asked, reluctant.

  Donovan named a sum and she gave a low whistle. The money was more than fair; it was a good year’s pay.

  “Think of all the Tessie t-shirt and coffee mug sellers you’d be helping,” he rumbled, his voice low and seductive. “You’d be supporting an entire line of tourist schlock.”

  “Tempting,” she said. But she felt a twinge of irritation. She could use the money, sure – though she didn’t like Donovan pointing that out. And the TV show could be fun. It wouldn’t be a long commitment and it would take her mind off her lost magic. So why did this feel like a trap, closing in upon her?

  His arm stole around her waist. “Everybody wins,” he murmured. “You, the local businesses—”

  “You?” She turned her head and their lips nearly touched. He smelled musky, intoxicating. All she had to do was lean forward…

  “Of course, the casino will be featured in the show as well.”

  “Of course.” Riga laughed wryly. “It does sound fun but I can’t do it.” She felt relief at the declaration. Of liberation?

  Donovan scratched the small x-shaped scar on his chin, and looked at her thoughtfully. “That hair shirt doesn’t suit you.”

  Riga almost looked down at her sweater, caught herself in time. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I mean it’s time to end this penance you’ve been on. Your life is worth more than that.”

  “I’m not doing penance,” she said, indignant. “Look, I can’t go on TV like some cheap psychic. It’s with good reason magicians keep a low profile.”

  “A vow of poverty?”

  Riga gritted her teeth. “That’s unfair.”

  “What’s unfair is that grotty cabin you rented,” he drawled. “Why won’t you just move in with me, here?”

  Riga’s jaw settled in a mulish expression. It was an old argument. “Don’t try to manipulate me.”

  “I’m just trying to make you see that what I want you to do is in your own best interests.”

  Riga burst out laughing.

  One side of his mouth pulled into a grin. “All the show wants is a telegenic paranormal investigator. They don’t need to know about your other skills. Just hear them out.”

  She placed her palm upon his chest. “I can’t. I’m a person of interest in a murder investigation.”

  He stared. “You’re joking.”

  Riga explained about the Sheriff, about Lefebvre.

  Donovan groaned. “What were you thinking? Why would you incriminate yourself like that?”

  “I didn’t have much choice,” Riga said. “I don’t have a client. I can’t investigate it. Lady – Sarah Glass deserves justice. I was duty bound to tell the police what I could.”

  “Bound by whom?” He released her and began to pace the hall. His booted feet were as silent as a panther’s on the wood plank floor. “Good God, Riga, do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

  “Of course I do!” This was about more than justice for Sarah Glass. If the murder had been committed by one of Lefebvre’s men, Riga would be on their list as well. But her hands were tied. Rules were rules, and as much as she regretted entering into that magical bargain, as long as she had no client…

  “On second thought,” she said, “I’ll do it.” The show would be her client. True, they’d be paying her to look for a lake monster rather than a killer but if they knew she was a person of interest in a murder by magic, they’d run with it.

  “Now you’re just being perverse.”

  “I need a client.”

  He reached into his pocket and drew out a phone. “You need a lawyer.”

  “A lawyer won’t be any help against the person who drew that sigillum.” She placed a hand over his, covering the phone. “Donovan, if Sarah’s killer knows of our relationship—“

  “Everyone knows about our relationship. It was in the tabloids.”

  “Then you may be in danger too.” Riga slipped an amulet on a silver chain into his palm. She closed his hand around it and felt a shiver of energy run through the talisman. It was Donovan’s now. “Please, wear this until it’s all over.”

  He clenched his fist around the charm, unheeding. “Dammit, Riga. You can’t stay out in that cabin. It’s too isolated. You need to move in here, where I can protect you.”

  “Aunt Riga?” A mop of unruly chestnut-colored hair peeked around the corner, followed by the form of a lithe teenage girl.

  “Pen?” What was her niece doing here? Riga looked to Donovan for explanation.

  Pen hurtled across the foyer and into Riga’s arms, knocking her a step backward. “Isn’t it awesome? Donovan said I could be an intern for the TV crew!”

  “Surprise,” Donovan said, his voice flat.

  Riga glared at him.

  Awesome.

  Chapter 4: Ashes

  “Donovan talked to my Mom and she said it was okay,” Pen chattered. She wore olive green cargo pants and had unzipped her thin black motorcycle-style jacket to reveal a t-shirt that read: “When Seconds Count, the Police Are Only Minutes Away.”

  The girl’s gray eyes snapped with excitement. “Even she saw that it was a great opportunity. The colleges I’m applying to like to see some film experience. I’ve got my YouTube channel, but everyone’s doing that these days. This internship will help set me apart.”

  Riga slouched in a leather chair in front of the fire, wine glass in one hand. She nodded, making “mm hmm” sounds at random parts in Pen’s monologue. The fireplace was made of stone and big enough to walk inside, with antique skis arranged above the mantel. Riga’s eyes lost focus in the roaring flames.

  If it hadn’t been for Brigitte, Riga wouldn’t have escaped the conflagration in Paris. The firemen had barely been able to contain it. In the morning, all that had been left of Lefebvre’s house was ashes and charred beams.

  Riga felt fear rise in her throat – the emotion was inextricably linked to the memory. She had to stop this, return the memory to its box, focus on the here and now, the warm room, the glass of wine in her hand, Donovan and Pen beside her. She breathed deeply and felt her dread subside.

  Lefebvre had to be dead. But if one of his servants was here, what did he want? The demon was giving him power – one way or another, it was always about power. But to commit the crime here, in Riga’s backyard… The murder circled back to Riga somehow. It had to.

  “So have you talked to them yet?” Pen asked. “When do we start?”

  “It’s still not a sure thing,” Donovan said, stretching his legs toward the fire, exposing the black cowboy boots beneath his tailored slacks. “We’ll speak to the producer tomorrow.”

  “But they’ve got to take Riga! She’s a metaphysical detective. She’s perfect.”

  The two argued about the merits of Riga as a TV personality, while Riga brooded. If the killer was one of Lefebvre’s men (or women – had there been any women?), and if the murder wasn’t a coincidence but rather a warning to Riga, then anyone near her could be in danger. She couldn’t put Pen in that position.

  The cell phone in her pocket buzzed and she extracted it, wary. All the people who tended to phone her were in the room with her now. But the number belonged to her sister, Rebecca. She stood and walked outside, to the balcony, to take the call.

  “Hi, Becca.” Riga’s breath frosted the night air and she shivered from the cold. She regretted leaving her jacket inside.

  “Riga! How are you?”

  “I’m
good. Pen’s okay.” Riga gazed out over the lake, gleaming blackly like a giant Rorschach test.

  “I know. I talked to her after she arrived. I just wanted to thank you and Mr. Mosse for taking her. So, how are things going with him? Are you two serious?”

  She sat down on the edge of the fire pit and looked wistfully at the cold lumps of charred wood inside. “Becca, there may be a problem with Pen’s visit.”

  Rebecca’s voice became hushed. “Has she told you?”

  “Told me what?”

  “Whatever she hasn’t been telling me. Riga, I don’t know what to do. Something’s wrong with Pen. She hasn’t been the same since last month, when she stopped seeing that counselor you suggested. Pen’s been having terrible nightmares, and then getting up at noon looking like death warmed over. When Mr. Mosse called about the possible internship – it was like getting the old Pen back. She was excited about something again, her old self. If she says anything to you – you’ll tell me, won’t you?”

  “I’ll keep you posted,” Riga said, vague. She gazed into the room she’d just left. Pen and Donovan were in animated conversation, Pen gesturing expansively.

  Pen had gained the ability to see ghosts in her late teens. It was a tough adjustment. Riga had begun to see when she was in college, and had an idea what Pen was going through. But rather than work with Pen herself, she had recommended a psychiatrist, who could hear ghosts. Rebecca had always been uncomfortable with Riga’s oddities, hadn’t liked Pen spending time with her. Unwilling to make waves in that relationship, Riga had told herself she wasn’t the right person to help her niece through it. But this visit to Tahoe was a startling concession on Rebecca’s part. Her sister was scared.

  “Rebecca, I’m a person of interest in a murder investigation,” Riga blurted.

  There was a long pause. “Does this mean you won’t be doing the TV show?”

  “No, I think I’m still going to do it, if they’ll have me.”

  “Well, that’s okay then.”

  Riga was shocked into silence.

  “Well, it doesn’t really affect Pen, does it?” Rebecca said. “She’s not under investigation. And she really does need this – for her own mental health and for college. Pen really wants this.”