5 The Elemental Detective Read online

  Donovan coughed.

  “Did you learn any more about the local magic?” Riga asked.

  “Not magic, no. But I found some gnomes at ze Waialeale Crater. They were very agitated, preparing for something.”

  Riga shuddered. How many different types of faeries were on this island? “Preparing for what?”

  “Finally, I have found ze answer. I, Brigitte, have learned ze truth. It is rare, but when ze earth element becomes agitated enough, it releases a… scent humans cannot smell. I do not know ze word. But this scent is powerful, it affects human behavior. Like sex.”

  Donovan frowned. “A pheromone?”

  “Perhaps.” Brigitte shrugged, her stony feathers fluttering. “But this scent makes people aggressive, violent. It has happened in other times, other places.”

  “That would explain all the fights,” Donovan said. “But why attack mermaids? Even I know they’re water, not earth.”

  “That,” Brigitte said, “I do not know.”

  “I wonder…” Riga tapped the edge of a tarot card against her lips. “What did our boat captain tell us? That Kauai is a place where all the elements are battling each other, shaping the island? An attack on one might cause an imbalance, set off a chain reaction with the other elements. Perhaps the mermaids were the simplest victim.”

  “But how does the death of a few mermaids create an imbalance on this scale?” the gargoyle asked.

  “If my people were under attack,” Donovan said, “I’d build my forces up to defend.”

  “Water is rising and the other elements, including earth, are reacting,” Riga said. “They’re seeking equilibrium.”

  Brigitte tossed her head. “If this is his game, I am not impressed. So far, all we have seen are fist fights. What is ze point?”

  “Two people were killed in San Francisco,” Riga said.

  “People are always getting killed in San Francisco,” the gargoyle replied. “It is a blip on ze statistical radar.”

  “She’s right.” Donovan slipped into a button up shirt. “The earthquake frightened people, but there were no serious injuries. If this necromancer is looking for mass deaths, he is going to have to go bigger.”

  “Well, he’s not going to get it by killing the occasional mermaid,” Riga said. “Brigitte, there’s a colony of… I don’t know what to call them. Travelers, I guess, who live out on the Na Pali coast. Townsend suggested they might have some inside information. Can you spend some time out there, see if you can hear anything and if there’s any magic?”

  The gargoyle’s eyes narrowed. “You want me to join a hippy colony?”

  “No. I want you to listen and observe.”

  “You know how I feel about patchouli. And headbands.”

  “I’m not asking you to go undercover. Just some surveillance.”

  “Fine.” Brigitte huffed. “Because ze fate of ze world is at stake, I will go. I will suffer. You enjoy yourselves and drink beverages with tiny umbrellas.”

  “Brigitte.” Donovan placed a solemn hand over his heart. “You know I would never drink anything with an umbrella.”

  Brigitte cast a sneer in Riga’s direction. “She might.”

  “Brigitte, I only ask because it’s nearly impossible for us bi-peds to get out there. It’s a two-day hike, and the trail is particularly dangerous right now.”

  “Whatever.” Brigitte hunched her shoulders, then sprang, and soared out the window.

  Riga watched the dark form pass before the moon. “It’s like living with a teenager.”

  Chapter 24

  Sunlight slanted off the wooden floor of the breakfast room filled with chattering diners. Riga nudged Donovan, and jerked her chin toward Deidre.

  Dennis’s widow sat alone in a booth beneath a watercolor of a Hawaiian sunset. She picked listlessly at a fruit salad, her head bowed, wisps of straw-colored hair dangling from her bun.

  Deidre looked up as they approached. “Hello Riga, Donovan. I’d say good morning but it doesn’t really feel like one today.”

  “We were very sorry to hear about Sarah,” Riga said. “And sorrier to be giving you condolences twice in one week. What happened?”

  Deidre motioned toward the empty bench across from her, and they slid into it.

  “I don’t know, and I was the one who found her,” Deidre said. “She was head down in the fishpond. I pulled her out and tried CPR. But it was too late.” She raked her fingers across her scalp. “She shouldn’t be dead.”

  “Another woman died here three years ago under similar circumstances,” Riga said.

  Deidre’s green eyes widened. “Hannah?” She sucked her cheeks in, reddening.

  “You knew her then?” Riga asked slowly. “Sarah wasn’t able to give us her name.”

  Deidre put her hands up, palms forward. “I shouldn’t have said it. The family asked that we keep it private, and we’ve honored their wishes. I’m sorry, I can’t say anything more. And you can’t believe there’s a connection between a drowning three years ago and Sarah’s death.”

  “It is strange, though,” Donovan said. “I spoke to Sarah on the phone about the drowning in the morning, and she died the very same way a few hours later.”

  “Surely that’s just a coincidence,” Deidre said. “I talked to her that morning about the linens in the meeting room. But I don’t think she died because of table cloths.”

  “When did you discover the body?” A memory fluttered through Riga’s mind, just out of reach, something that jarred.

  “Just before noon. I know you’re trying to help, but it was an accident. A terrible, terrible accident.”

  “Do you really believe that?” Riga asked. “Your husband’s assistant died less than a week after his murder. Do you really think it’s a coincidence?”

  “Yes! Please, I just don’t want to talk about it anymore.”

  A shadow crossed their table and they looked up. Paul stood over them, scowling, his dark hair mussed. “What’s going on?”

  Donovan leaned against the back of the booth. “We were talking with Deidre about Sarah’s death.”

  “Why? Can’t you see she doesn’t want to talk about it?”

  “Because there have been two deaths related to this hotel in one week,” Riga said.

  “My brother was shot. Sarah slipped and fell. They’re not related.”

  “Why are you so certain?” Riga asked.

  Paul flushed, his birthmark turning a deep purple. “Because it doesn’t make any sense. The police don’t think they’re connected. Look, I get that you think you’re a private investigator, but the game is over.”

  “She is a private investigator,” Donovan growled. “And her question was perfectly reasonable. I understand – better than most – how difficult this sort of thing can be. But I also know you won’t be able to live without some resolution to your brother’s death.”

  Paul stood, stiff, breathing heavily through his nose. “Please, just leave it alone.” He held out a hand to his sister-in-law. “Come on, Deidre. Let’s go.”

  Riga and Donovan watched them leave.

  “I hope I haven’t scotched your hotel deal,” Riga said.

  Donovan rubbed his jaw. “You haven’t. He was controlling himself with us because he wants to sell. Badly. Strange that they refuse to see a connection between the deaths.”

  “They’re protecting each other. Or they think they are.”

  Donovan threw her a sharp look. “Maybe.”

  “At least we’re closer to the time of death – between ten thirty and noon. The fish pond is secluded, but she couldn’t have been in there that long without being found, so she likely died closer to twelve o’clock. We need to talk to the people in the bungalows nearby. They may have seen something.”

  Donovan checked his watch, and slid from the booth. “Let’s go before they leave to play tourist for the day.”

  They tackled the nearest bungalow. It was empty, no one responding to their knock. But they were in luck at
the second.

  A florid man in shorts, sandals, and a black polo shirt, tight around his middle, opened the door. His bushy, gray eyebrows rose in surprise. “Yes?”

  “We’re neighbors of yours, in bungalow six,” Donovan said. “My wife is a private investigator. We wanted to ask you about yesterday.”

  Riga handed him her card.

  “The drowning?” The man read it, looked up. “I’ve never met a private investigator before. What can I do for you?”

  “Did you see anyone along this trail or at the fishpond between ten o’clock and noon yesterday?” Riga asked.

  He looked down at his flip-flops. “Well, I don’t think I was much help to the police, or I’ll be much help to you. I don’t exactly spend my days here staring at that trail.”

  “But did you see anything?” Riga persisted.

  The man scratched his sunburned ear. “I heard several people go by, but I only saw one. He looked a lot like me, if you get my drift,” he said, patting his stomach. “Maybe a little more scruffy.”

  “Was he a guest? I don’t suppose you’ve seen him before,” Riga said.

  “Oh, I saw him before. Just about everybody did. He made a ruckus in the hotel dining room earlier this week, drunk in the middle of the day.” He squinted. “Come to think of it, weren’t you there too?”

  Riga and Donovan glanced at each other. Grover Garfield, the lighthouse keeper.

  “And you saw no one else?” Riga asked.

  He shook his head, regretful. “Nope. Sorry.”

  “Thanks. I don’t suppose you have a card?” Riga asked. “In case we want to get in touch with you later?”

  He shambled into his bungalow and returned with a business card. “Here you go. Hope I was of some help.”

  “You were,” Riga said.

  They walked back to their bungalow and sat in the deck chairs by the pool. The sun soaked into Riga’s skin, leeching the tension from her limbs.

  Donovan pulled a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his sheer white shirt and handed it to her.

  She unfolded it. An address. “What’s this?”

  “That’s where Sarah lives with her mother. I mean lived.”

  “You’re a marvel. How…? Oh. Another early morning with Ellen?”

  “I thought you might want it.”

  “I do,” she said. “Something was bothering Sarah. If she didn’t tell anyone at the hotel, maybe she confided in her mother. And then there’s Grover. We need to talk to him again.”

  “I checked a map. Sarah’s home is not far from the lighthouse.” He closed his eyes.

  “Convenient.”

  They didn’t stir from their chairs.

  “We really should go,” Riga said, but her arms and legs felt like warm noodles.

  “Yes.”

  “But it’s very comfortable here.”

  “Mm.”

  “This is a terrible place for an investigation,” she said, exasperated. “It’s too beautiful. It’s making us lazy.”

  “All right. Murder calls.” He swung his feet from the chair. “We can re-do our honeymoon another time, another place, and as often as we like. Let’s go find Grover and Sarah’s mother.”

  They drove down winding roads draped in green, scattering chickens in their wake. Slices of blue ocean rose and fell between the hills. And then they were curling up the narrow road to the lighthouse.

  “As beautiful as it is,” Donovan said, “this drive is getting monotonous.”

  “It’s a small island,” she agreed.

  They parked, and walked down the spit of land to the lighthouse, starkly white against the sea. Waves crashed faintly beneath them.

  The lighthouse door was metal, studded with bolts, and locked. They checked the outbuilding nearby.

  Its door opened at Donovan’s touch, and he stuck his head inside. “Mr. Garfield?”

  “Yeah? Who is it?” A disembodied voice called.

  “Donovan Mosse and Riga Hayworth,” Donovan said.

  A pause. “Come in.” Grover’s voice sagged with resignation.

  They walked into a small entryway, and Donovan turned right, opened a door into a light-filled room. Grover sat behind a battered wooden table. Papers lay scattered across it, and a laptop computer sat open on his left.

  Grover half rose, then sat down again. “To what do I owe the honor?”

  “Are we catching you at a bad time?” Riga asked, not much caring.

  The lighthouse keeper ran a hand through his graying hair. “No. I guess not. I was just reviewing the budget for our upcoming fundraiser.”

  “Oh?” she asked. “What fundraiser is that?”

  “The Aquatic Protection Society is holding their annual fundraiser here, at the lighthouse. We’re doing it jointly this year, to raise funds for the restoration of the trail.”

  “The trail seemed solid to me,” Donovan said.

  “Yeah, because you probably weren’t looking too closely. The land is eroding around the cliff-side barrier. Sections of it are hanging free. It’s a hazard.”

  “Did you hear about the drowning at the hotel yesterday?” Riga asked.

  He nodded, and his shoulders slumped. “Yeah. Poor kid. The place really is starting to seem cursed.”

  “You were at the hotel when it happened, weren’t you?” Riga said.

  “Yeah.” His eyebrows gathered in. “I keep wondering… I was down by that pond. Must have left just before she slipped. If I’d stuck around a little longer, maybe…”

  “What were you doing there?” Donovan asked.

  He waved his hand toward the papers. “Meeting with the committee about this.”

  “Who else is on the committee?” Riga asked.

  “It’s a joint committee between the boards of the Aquatic Society and the lighthouse.” Grover eyed her with distaste. “More detecting?”

  Riga nodded and leaned her hip against the table. It lurched sideways, and she hastily straightened off it. “We met with the vice president of the Society – Carol – I guess she’s the president now. Was she there?”

  His bushy eyebrows rose. “No, because she’s not on the committee.”

  “Who is?” Donovan asked.

  “Me and Townsend, of course. Paul’s volunteered – it’s not a regular board committee, you understand. We have non-board members on it too. It’s just for this event.” He rattled off more names, and Riga pulled her notebook from her satchel, wrote them down.

  “Out of curiosity,” Donovan said, “what’s the Aquatic Protection Society fundraising for? Anything special or general operations?”

  “General ops. They do this every year. That organization is mostly volunteer, but they have office expenses – the young fellow who works there, Townsend’s salary. Not that he needs it, but it’s only fair that he gets paid.”

  The light in the room dimmed, a cloud passing before the sun.

  “So if you were at the committee meeting,” Riga said, “what were you doing alone at the fishpond?”

  “You ever been on a committee? There was no end in sight to the damn meeting, so we took a break, and I ran for it.” His eyes took on a faraway look. “I liked that fishpond. It’s peaceful. Secluded.”

  “Did you see anyone else down at the pond?” Donovan asked.

  “I didn’t see anyone, no. I heard someone coming, and took off – thought it might be someone from the committee come to tell me they were starting up again. It must have been Sarah though. Poor kid.”

  “How well did you know her?” Riga asked.

  “She was Dennis’s right-hand man… er, woman. She came with him to all the committee meetings, to anything work related. I knew her to talk to her, but I didn’t know her. She was pleasant, but kind of kept to herself, if you know what I mean.”

  “Can you think of any reason why someone would want to kill her?” Riga asked.

  Grover’s hand jerked. “Kill her? She was murdered? It wasn’t an accident?”

  Riga’s e
yes narrowed. If it was an act, it was a good one. “That’s what we’re trying to figure out.”

  “You think she might have known something? About Dennis? Because they worked together?”

  “It’s a possibility,” Riga said.

  He rubbed a hand across his face, making scratching sounds. “I don’t know. I still can’t believe anyone would kill Dennis.”

  “Well,” Riga said, “thanks for your time. And good luck with your fundraiser.”

  “I’ll need it.” The lighthouse keeper picked up a spreadsheet and tossed it back down in disgust. “Hey, I don’t suppose you’d be interested in making a donation?”

  Donovan opened his wallet and pulled out two bills. “For the cause.”

  Outside, Riga rubbed her arms against the chill breeze. Clouds massed on the horizon. She believed Grover. So why did she have such a bad feeling about him?

  “Looks like rain,” she said.

  Donovan glanced up. “I’m surprised we haven’t had more of it. We’re in Kauai’s rainy season.”

  He stopped, however, to put the top on the Ferrari before they left the parking lot.

  In thoughtful silence, they drove to Sarah’s home, a purple cinderblock house with a corrugated tin roof. Chickens pecked in the front yard.

  Donovan eyed the gold sports emblem that covered one wall. “Someone’s a basketball fan.”

  He knocked on the door. A dog inside barked. There was a shuffling sound, then locks drawing back, a chain rattling.

  An older woman wearing a housecoat opened the door. Her face was lined with grief. “Yes?”

  “My name is Riga Hayworth. This is my husband, Donovan Mosse. We knew Sarah and are very sorry for your loss.”

  The woman cracked the door, sheltering behind it. “You with the hotel?”

  “We’re guests,” Donovan said. “And I’m looking into buying it. Sarah and I met quite often over the last few days. My wife is a private detective.”

  The woman hissed an indrawn breath. “Come in.” She turned and walked through a gloomy hall.

  They settled in a tattered living room. Cheap paintings of Hawaiian sunsets lined the walls. The cushions sagged.

  “Why are you really here?” she asked. “You’ve come a long way to bring condolences for a woman you only knew a few days.”