5 The Elemental Detective Read online

  “There’s no one there now,” he said.

  “But there was, and something up further, on that trail. I think we need to find it.”

  She let Donovan pull her to the boat and hoist her up to the captain, who helped her climb the ladder. A breeze brushed her skin, and her flesh pebbled. The captain dropped a towel around her shoulders.

  Donovan climbed up the ladder. Only when he was completely out of the water, his dark hair plastered to his muscular legs and chest, did she relax.

  “Lunch?” The captain said brightly.

  Donovan nodded, and the captain busied himself below deck.

  “Someone grabbed me by the ankle, pulled me under,” Donovan said in a low voice. But his eyes glittered.

  She stared in disbelief. He was actually enjoying this. And then reason reasserted itself. Of course he’d enjoy it. It was something to battle, a problem to solve.

  But she hadn’t enjoyed it. Riga looked away. The beach, white and shining, seemed to bob with the rhythm of the boat. Magic was her first love. She’d never grow bored with its mysteries. But Riga didn’t like it when its forces played with her, dragged her into terrors, shoved visions into her head. It made her feel small, weak, insignificant. She liked it even less when the people she loved got hauled along for the ride.

  She ran her fingers over Donovan’s arms, assuring herself he was unhurt. A band of angry red circled one of his ankles. “Someone pulled you under? Or something?”

  “Someone.” He lifted his ankle, tilting his head to examine it. “Teeth would have left more of a mark, though whoever it was moved inhumanly fast. I was under the boat before I knew what was happening. And then there was a sort of surge of energy and whoever grabbed me, let go. I saw you floating underwater unconscious.” He grasped her hand, his expression darkening. “Your turn.”

  “I saw you go under.” She put her head in her hands, felt the towel slip from her shoulders. “It was like a scene from Jaws, all that blood in the water.”

  “Blood?”

  She bent and picked up her towel from the wooden deck. Still shaken, Riga was having a hard time looking at him. “It must have been part of the vision. It seemed real until I found myself on a beach with a tidal wave headed in my direction.” A band seemed to squeeze her chest. Her struggle to find the surface had been no trick, no vision. It had been real. She didn’t know if she’d come close to drowning, but it had felt like it.

  He didn’t respond.

  She straightened.

  He toweled off his arms, looking thoughtful.

  “What?” she asked.

  “The two events – your vision and my attack – came so close together I thought they were related. But now I’m not so sure.” He went to a white-cushioned bench and sat, one leg extended, the other drawn up, his hand dangling off his knee.

  She sat beside him, and curled her legs beneath her. “You said you felt a sort of shock, and then the hand released you?” That implied magical aid – aid she hadn’t delivered – and competing forces at work. Unless Donovan himself had somehow done it.

  He rubbed the faint cross-shaped scar on his jaw. “In dreams, water represents the emotions, and a tidal wave could mean you feel swamped by an emotional upheaval. Our marriage could account for that.”

  “But not the blood I saw in the water. Or the dolphins behaving so strangely.”

  He looked at the awning above them, and his lips parted. Then he snapped his jaw shut.

  Donovan’s phone lay on the table, and she picked it up. “I’m calling Pen,” she said. Her niece was probably awake by now, and without Brigitte as protection. Were her other loved ones under attack? Pen only had the meager protective spells she’d been taught – spells Riga suspected the teenager wasn’t practicing.

  But there was no service, no signal, no luck. She put the phone down, frustrated.

  “Pen’s fine,” Donovan said.

  She pressed her lips together. Now was the time to tell him about Brigitte’s appearance here on the island. “Donovan—”

  “Can we agree the attack underwater is related to the bodies we found?” he asked. “Which Pen has nothing to do with?”

  “Bodies?” The captain clambered onto the deck, a wicker basket in one hand and a metal bucket filled with ice, juice, and hard liquors in the other. He stopped in front of them. “You found bodies?”

  “On the beach this morning,” Donovan said, “between Princeton and Hanalei. A man and a seal, both shot.”

  The captain whistled. “They killed a man? Now they’ve gone too far.”

  “They?” Riga asked sharply.

  “I don’t know if it’s a ‘they’ – might just be a ‘he.’ Or a ‘she.’ Someone’s been killing the seals.” He put a finger to his temple. “Shot through the head.” He raised the bucket. “Drink?”

  “No thanks,” Riga said, leaning in. “But why?” Something like this had happened before?

  Sketching a bow, he opened the basket on the table before them and whipped a red and white checked cloth over the table, followed by plates, sandwiches, and plastic containers filled with food. “The popular theory is that it’s a local pissed off at the haole seal-lovers. You know, the ones who block off the beach around the seals. The Hawaiians have been walking those beaches their entire lives. Now whenever a seal shows up, they can’t. It makes people angry. You know who got shot?”

  “Dennis Glasgow,” Donovan said. “He owns the Aloha Princeton Resort.”

  The captain nodded. “That explains it. He’s part of that group that protects the seals. Probably got in the way of the killer. Sure you don’t want anything to drink?”

  “Just juice,” Riga said absently. It was too hot for alcohol.

  The captain’s theory was neat, clean, logical.

  And she knew in her bones it was wrong.

  Chapter 4

  In unspoken agreement, Riga and Donovan headed straight to the hotel bar. It was sleek, modern, and neutral-colored with pale slate tiles and windows facing the bay. The bar’s only concession to island style was hibiscus flowers in tabletop vases.

  Mid-afternoon, the bar’s single customer was a man in rumpled khakis slouched on a leather couch, half a dozen empty glasses before him.

  Donovan steered her to a table by the windows, beneath a slowly turning fan. A waitress hurried to them, her blond hair held in a bun by chopsticks. She placed two glasses of water, rattling with ice, on the round table between them. “Would you like menus?”

  “No, I’ll have a brandy,” Donovan said. He looked to Riga.

  “Can you do a lychee martini?” Riga asked.

  Donovan’s expression flickered.

  “Sure,” the waitress said. “Anything else?”

  “No thanks.”

  The woman walked away. Riga reached for the ice water.

  “I guess this means you’re not pregnant,” Donovan said.

  Riga choked.

  Donovan’s eyes crinkled, his smile lopsided.

  She slapped her palm against her chest, coughing. “Pregnant? What made you think that?”

  “The captain told me that dolphins were attracted to pregnant women. And then you turned down the alcohol on the boat.”

  Was it that unusual for her to turn down a drink?

  The waitress returned with their glasses, setting them atop square napkins. Riga took a sip.

  Yes, she thought, it was unusual. And the martini was delicious. “A pregnancy would put a spoke in my plan to drink every type of tropical martini ever invented on our honeymoon.”

  “Was that your plan? How greedy.”

  “Don’t sneer.” A lychee fruit, speared by a toothpick, lay against the inside of her glass. With two fingers, she extracted the toothpick, and pointed it at him. “At least martinis don’t come with umbrellas.” She put the fruit in her mouth, slid it off the toothpick with her teeth.

  “Then I’ll chalk up the dolphin behavior to your animal magnetism.”

  Head lowered,
she pressed the point of the toothpick into her napkin, bending the tip. “Donovan… You know at my age the odds are low—”

  He lay a hand over hers. “I know. Don’t read anything into it.”

  They’d talked about the possibility of children before getting married. Before she’d become involved with Donovan, she hadn’t considered a family. But now she wondered. If they’d met earlier in life, if she was only five years younger. If, if, if.

  He wanted a family, she knew, and she was unsure if she could provide one at her age. But he’d been raised in foster homes and had told her the idea of adopting delighted him.

  “Hey!” Two meaty hands slammed on their table.

  Riga’s drink tipped, spilled. Donovan was out of his chair before she could react, a broad hand on the man’s chest, pushing him back. The man stumbled, and sat on the tiled floor.

  “Can I help you?” Donovan’s voice was cold iron.

  Eyes wide, the waitress scurried to Riga’s side. She blotted up the drink with a towel, eyes darting to the men.

  The man scratched his grizzled jowls, a confused bear. His legs bowed, his stomach pressed hard against the buttons of his pale blue shirt. He looked up. “I heard you found my friend.”

  “Your friend?” Riga prompted.

  “My friend is dead.”

  The tension in Donovan’s shoulders relaxed. He looked at Riga, questioning.

  The upside of interrogating those who’d over-imbibed: they said more than they should. The downside: slobber. Disgust warred with curiosity. She hated drunks, and wondered if this was a true expression of grief or if the grief was just an excuse to overindulge.

  Curiosity won. “I think we should buy this man a drink,” she said.

  Donovan hauled the man to his feet, and grabbed a chair from a nearby table, plunked it in front of their own. “One of the same for the gentleman,” Donovan said, “and another for the lady.”

  The waitress laughed shakily, but she hurried away without comment.

  Wary, silent, Donovan watched the man.

  The waitress returned with his drink – something a mellow golden brown, no ice.

  When the waitress had gone, Riga said, “You knew Dennis Glasgow?”

  He belched, his expression mournful. “Friend of mine. Now he’s dead. Too young, the good die young.”

  “I’m Riga Hayworth. What’s your name?”

  “Garfield. Grover Garfield. I’m the lighthouse keeper, up on the point.”

  Riga raised a brow. Heaven help the shipping industry if he was on duty today.

  “Off duty,” Grover said. “Came to meet my buddy. But he’s dead. Heard you found him.” Oblivious to Donovan’s growl, he put a hand on her wrist, lying across the table, and her muscles tensed. “I just wanted to know – was it quick? I don’t want to think about him being in pain.”

  Donovan lifted his hand off hers. Dropped it. “It was quick.”

  He slumped back in his chair. “That’s a relief.”

  “How did you two know each other?” Riga asked.

  His eyes widened. “I’m the lighthouse keeper. Course we know each other.” He shook his head. “Good man.”

  Riga pressed her lips together. Grover had passed the optimal intoxication point, and was unable to talk sensibly. “Who do you think killed him?”

  “Who killed him? Who killed him?” He lurched to his feet, swaying. His voice rose to a roar. “Who would want to kill him? He was a good man.”

  Another man wearing a blue-denim shirt with the hotel logo entered the bar, looked around. A brick-red birthmark splashed across his tanned face. He shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, ruffling his brown hair, and beelined for their table, his expression grim. Gently, he took Grover’s elbow. “Come along, Grover. You don’t want to bother these people.”

  The lighthouse keeper pointed a wavering finger at Riga and Donovan. “They started it.”

  The man shot Donovan an apologetic look. “He’s had a rough day.”

  Donovan rose. “So have you.” He extended a hand. “I’m sorry about your brother.”

  Riga looked at the newcomer with interest. So this was the murder victim’s younger brother, and the co-owner of the hotel. She relaxed her vision. His aura was the bruised purple of mourning, flecked with black, and she looked away, feeling like a voyeur. The black specks of hatred made her uneasy. But his brother had just been killed, so they were understandable. And she’d never found aura reading terribly reliable. They could be as confused as people’s emotions, changeable, tangled. She glanced at Grover, looking intently at a spot on the wall. She had no desire to look at his aura.

  Donovan and the newcomer clasped hands.

  “I don’t believe you’ve met my wife. Riga, this is Paul Glasgow.”

  Lightly, Paul took her hand. He turned back to Donovan, and swallowed. “I understand you found my brother.”

  “That got around quickly,” Donovan said, his voice deceptively light, “and we haven’t told anyone.”

  “No, no, of course not. But it’s a small island. You can’t keep secrets for long. The police told me he’d been shot, but—”

  “He was too young!” Grover clutched Paul’s shoulder, leaned into it, and Paul took a step back, bracing himself. “Too. Young.” He used his finger to accent each word with a poke to Paul’s chest.

  “Yeah. Let’s get you home, Grover.” The hotel owner began to pull him away, then stopped, released Grover, and turned.

  Grover studied his open palms, his expression perplexed.

  “I still want to sell,” Paul said. “I don’t want to run this place without my brother. It’s not…” Abruptly, he departed with the lighthouse keeper.

  Donovan lowered himself into the chair opposite her. “Well, that was—”

  “Useless,” Riga finished for him.

  “Let’s hope this really is Grover’s day off, or there’ll be ships running aground. And Grover Garfield? Could he be named after the presidents?”

  Riga laughed. “I didn’t want to ask.”

  He took a sip of his drink. “What would you have asked?”

  “If Grover had been more sober? I’d get him talking about the murder victim, his habits, his friends, his enemies. And I’d find out where Grover was when Dennis was killed. We should talk to him again, later.”

  “And to Dennis Glasgow’s brother.” Donovan rubbed his jaw.

  “The captain mentioned Dennis belonged to a group protecting the seals. They may know more about who’s attacking them. It’s still unclear who was the primary target – Dennis, or the seal.”

  “Dennis was married.”

  “Oh.” She enjoyed interviewing grieving widows about as much as she’d enjoy talking to a grieving brother, but both had to be done. Soon. When people were emotional, ugly truths were more likely to slip.

  “And if you had a Hawaiian P.I.’s license, who else would you talk to?” he asked.

  “Other colleagues, people near the murder site who might have seen something. The police have likely already begun that. They won’t be happy if they think we’re interfering.”

  Donovan closed his eyes. “There was a house overlooking the site. Its owners are wealthy.”

  “Are you channeling this information?” she joked.

  He opened his eyes. “It overlooks the ocean and was a very nice house. I’m surprised you didn’t notice it.”

  “I was distracted.”

  “I’ll find out who they are and get an introduction.”

  “That easy?”

  “People with money run in the same circles,” he said.

  “And you know they run in your circles because...”

  “It’s the sort of house I might buy. Some day.”

  She placed her hand on his. “Donovan. Thanks for this.” It wasn’t the honeymoon he’d planned, but he’d shifted gears effortlessly, without complaint.

  “The sooner we figure this out, the sooner you’re free of it and we’re back to our
honeymoon.”

  “This will still take time.” Riga conjured mental lists of suspects, timetables. “If we split up, we can cover more territory.”

  “I’m not letting you out of my sight. My first priority is for my bride to survive the honeymoon.”

  “What’s your second?”

  “To see she enjoys it.”

  She arched a brow. “How do you propose to accomplish that?”

  His eyes darkened. “Is that a challenge?” His voice grew husky.

  Awareness of his masculinity tingled through her, and Riga’s lists evaporated in a curl of smoke. Sex, she thought, not for the first time, was not the detective’s friend.

  Chapter 5

  A warm breeze brushed Riga’s cheek, waking her, and she reached for Donovan. His side of the bed was deserted. She flipped on the light.

  At least the furniture this morning was upright, she thought with a sigh. But a trail of child-sized footprints led from the bedroom and out the open patio doors.

  Menehunes. Again.

  Riga dressed in white-pleated shorts, a cotton tank top and sneakers, and went outside, following the trail of muddy feet across the tile patio, past their private swimming pool. The trail stopped at a banyan tree near the beach. In the darkness, the tree’s aerial roots felt alien, threatening.

  The hell with the menehunes. She turned from the tree, following the sound of waves.

  Riga clambered atop the pile of rocks that isolated “their” strip of beach, and watched the stars fade. Unaware of Riga’s presence, the dripping ghost beside her sobbed, raking hands through her glistening hair.

  Something fluttered to the rocks, scrabbled toward her.

  Riga didn’t turn her head toward the gargoyle and they sat, listening to the ebb and crush of the waves. The sound blended with the ghost’s whimpers. Finally, Riga said, “Thanks for not saying ‘I told you so.’”