5 The Elemental Detective Read online

  Brigitte overbalanced and flapped her stony wings, scraping Riga’s left arm. “I did tell you so.” The gargoyle nipped at an unruly stone feather on her chest. “What happened?”

  Rubbing her arm, Riga told the gargoyle about the body they’d found, the underwater attack when they’d gone sailing. “It all feels connected, but I didn’t sense dark magic when I was in the water. It was something else." The attack had confused her, but the magic hadn’t left her with that sick feeling.

  “What?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “And your next step?”

  Riga rose and brushed the back of her shorts with her hand. “I don’t know that either.”

  “Marriage has made you lose your focus.”

  “Most likely.” Riga followed the ghost back toward the hotel. The ghost vanished behind the same banyan as the menehune footprints, and Riga wondered if there was something special about the tree, something that related to the ghost, or if the menehunes were just being annoying.

  Riga circled the wide tree, but sensed nothing to indicate murder or magic. And why had she thought murder? The ghost was certainly a mystery – but she could have died a natural death. Yet something told her, no. Her jaw tightened, and she returned through the rear balcony door just as Donovan was entering through the front, breakfast tray in hand.

  “You don’t need to collect our breakfast every morning,” she said. “But I love it that you do.”

  “I was awake. Thought I’d make good use of my time.” He slid the tray onto the circular table and drew her into his arms. “Though I can think of some better uses,” he rumbled.

  *****

  Lips burning from the morning’s love making, Riga strolled through the hotel lobby with Donovan at her side. The sleeves of his loose white linen shirt rippled in the balmy island air that drifted through the open hotel doors. Nearby, a uniformed employee unwound Christmas lights from a potted palm. Donovan walked to the valet podium and slipped the man behind it a folded bill.

  The valet nodded and darted down the circular driveway.

  A red Ferrari with the top off purred up the drive, halted in front of them.

  Riga pushed aside her jealousy – she’d love to drive a Magnum P.I. car – and checked her watch, impatient for their rental Mercedes. The Aquatic Protection Society, where the murdered hotel owner had volunteered, would open soon. She wanted to be there when it did, counting on the twin elements of surprise and nuisance.

  The valet exited the car and handed Donovan the keys.

  He hopped over the driver’s door and into the front seat, grinning. “You coming?”

  Her eyes widened. “That’s not our car. Is it?”

  He ran his hands over the wheel. “I wanted this one from the beginning, but the only red Ferrari on the island was unavailable until today.”

  “You sneaky devil.” She sank into the low seat, her bare legs sliding across the buttery leather, and tried not to look impressed. It even smelled like new car, though it was a 1980s model that had been updated with mod-cons like a hands-free phone adapter. Was there an air freshener with that smell? If so, she wanted it. “You warned me marrying you had its benefits. I thought you meant the fantastic sex.”

  “I did.” He revved the engine, and they sped out of the lot onto the winding road, draped with greenery.

  His eyes held a proprietary gleam. “Er, you didn’t want to drive, did you?”

  She just gave him a look.

  The wind whipped Riga’s hair. She knotted it loosely at the base of her neck, pulled a silk scarf from her leather satchel and tied it under her chin.

  “You’re one of the few women I know who can pull off that look without looking like a babushka,” Donovan said.

  “Compliments will get you everywhere.”

  “What else is in that bag of yours?”

  “Sunscreen. Bug spray. Tarot cards. Emergency magic kit. Latex gloves—”

  “You brought latex gloves on our honeymoon? Kinky.”

  “I’d forgotten they were in the bag.” She never knew when she’d stumble across a crime scene. Or create one. She was especially proud of her emergency magic kit – a candle, spell paper, herbs, magical oil, and a piece of quartz – which she’d crammed inside an old mint tin. “That reminds me, I want to pick up some of that red Hawaiian salt,” she said. When it came to magical protection, salt was salt, but she had a secret passion for the more exotic flavors. Volcanic black salt, Dead Sea salt, the pink stuff laced with iron from the Himalayas…

  “Not a problem,” he said. “According to the desk clerk, the Aquatic Protection Society is in a shopping center.”

  But it was the wrong kind of shopping center, a green-painted two-story wooden complex, inhabited by tourist traps, their windows filled with shells and cheap pearl jewelry. Colorful sarongs fluttered from clothing racks lining the sidewalks.

  Donovan parked in front of an ice cream parlor. A small, blond boy stood outside it in Batman swim trunks and nothing else, earnestly trying to catch the drips curling down the sides of his cone. The kid wiped his hand on his bare chest, leaving a streak of strawberry.

  Donovan chuckled. “His parents will have their hands full.” He nodded toward a staircase on the left. “Up that way.”

  The wooden stairs echoed hollowly beneath their feet. Down an open corridor, past more souvenir shops, and then a small office with posters plastered on the windows. A vintage Save the Whales. Happy Earth Day. Be Kind to Animals.

  “My keen, animal instincts tell me this might be the place,” Donovan said.

  Riga laughed. “I’ll make a detective of you yet.”

  The door stood open, exposing an empty room. They went inside. A ceiling fan wheeled slowly above them, making little progress stirring the warm air. Riga walked to a bookcase and frowned at an ugly glass and bronze sculpture of a dolphin riding a wave. She tapped the plaque beneath it: The Hannah James Memorial. “I wonder what Hannah did to deserve this?”

  A twenty-something with a wisp of a beard hurried out of a back room and adjusted his glasses. His shorts and t-shirt were slouchy, wrinkled. “Can I help you?”

  She smiled at him. “We’re interested in learning more about the seal killings and your work protecting the animals.”

  “Are you press?”

  “Interested parties,” Donovan said.

  He crossed his arms, nose wrinkling with disdain. The nail on his index finger was unnaturally long. He was a guitar player, Riga guessed, but the nail repelled her, a touch of the vampiric. “And you just got interested when you heard about the murder,” he said.

  “Exactly. I’m a private investigator.” She dug in her bag and flipped open her wallet. It was a California P.I. license, worthless in Hawaii. She picked up a brochure lying on a steel desk. “Surely the Society’s work is public information?”

  “Sorry.” He rested against the desk, bracing his hands behind him. “I thought you were just a couple of morbid tourists.”

  “Only one of us,” Donovan said. He grasped the man’s hand. “Donovan Mosse. The private investigator’s husband.”

  He frowned. “Wait a minute. I’ve heard of you two.”

  “Then you have us at a disadvantage,” Riga said, stiffening. Donovan was a public figure, although mainly on the business pages. And not all of the publicity surrounding him lately had been fair.

  “Oh. Sorry. I’m Jay Sylvan. Assistant to the director.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” Riga said. “Dennis’s murder must be hard on your organization.”

  “No one’s ever been killed before – no one human, that is,” Jay said, his voice bitter.

  Donovan walked to a bulletin board and studied the flyers there, his head tilted.

  Sweat trickled down Riga’s back. “Do you always have a volunteer standing guard over the seals?”

  “No,” Jay said. “We don’t have enough people. But when our responders can get out to keep a seal from being disturbed, th
ey do.”

  “How was Dennis connected to the Society?” she asked.

  “He is – was – one of our founding members. He was president of the board.”

  “Any idea who’s attacking the seals?” Donovan asked.

  Jay plucked at the strands of hair dotting his chin. “I really couldn’t say.”

  Donovan turned from the bulletin board. “You must have some idea.”

  “Look. I get where people are coming from. The locals have been walking those beaches for a long time. Now we come in and rope them off, all so a handful of monk seals – which they don’t see as even being native to the islands – can get some sleep. They don’t believe they’re worth protecting. But the monk seals are endangered, and they were here before the Polynesians arrived. The early Polynesians killed most of them off, and now they’ve returned to the islands. The species as a whole is headed for extinction. And when they arrive on the beaches, they need to rest undisturbed.”

  “It sounds like being president of your organization could be controversial,” Riga said. “Did Dennis have run-ins with anyone?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Oh, I think you could if you wanted to.” She winked. “How well did you know Dennis?”

  “Me?” Jay’s eyes widened. “I only saw him once a month. I work with the Executive Director, not the board.”

  “The seal killer,” Donovan said. “Or killers. You must have put some thought into who’s responsible.” He tapped a wanted poster on the bulletin board with the back of one finger. Forty thousand dollar reward for information leading to the arrest of the monk seal killer.

  “We’ve had some conflicts with certain individuals,” Jay said.

  “With whom, exactly?” Riga forced a smile.

  Jay made an exasperated motion with his hands. “Look, the cops were here yesterday. They’ve got reports of all our incidents, but… I can’t release that information to you. If I could help you I would, but my hands are tied. Killing an endangered species here is a state and federal offense.”

  Riga gave a minute shake of her head. “And killing a human?”

  Jay straightened off the desk, breathing noisily. “It’s the job of the police to protect people. It’s my job to protect the seals. If you find that offensive—”

  A throat cleared behind them, and they wheeled toward the doorway. An egg-shaped man stood there, his face red. A droplet of sweat hung from one tip of his curled, white moustache. He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his crisply tailored khakis and wiped his head. “Good morning, Jay. What’s so offensive?” He glanced at Donovan and gave a start of recognition. “You’re not Donovan Mosse, are you?”

  One corner of Donovan’s mouth curved upward. “I am. And you are?”

  The man strode toward Donovan, hand outstretched. “I’d heard you were in the islands and recognized you from the papers. My name is Townsend, Townsend Murray. I’m the executive director.” He clasped Donovan’s hand, pumping vigorously. “What brings you to our offices? Considering a donation, I hope?”

  “I’m always looking for worthy charities,” Donovan said. “This is my wife, Riga Hayworth.”

  The little man wrung her hand. Then he turned his back on her. Grateful, she wiped her palm dry on her shorts.

  Townsend bounced on the toes of his boating shoes. They were leather, spotless, and expensive-looking, and Riga wondered if the Aquatic Protection Society paid well or if his money came from another source.

  “How can I help you?” he asked Donovan.

  Riga suppressed a twinge of annoyance and smiled harder. She was used to being sole detective and lead in her investigations. But if Townsend related better to Donovan, she’d be a fool not to leverage that.

  “Perhaps we can help each other,” Donovan said. “I’m considering an investment on the island and would like to learn more about potential environmental issues and about your organization, since it appears we’ll be neighbors.” Donovan frowned. “I apologize for dropping in on you like this, but we only became aware of your organization this morning, when we learned Dennis Glasgow had been a member. My wife and I found his body on the beach yesterday, alongside the seal.”

  Townsend shook his head. “Terrible, terrible. Man truly is the planet’s most destructive animal. Yes, of course you have questions. Would you like to come into my office?” He motioned toward a door at the back of the room.

  Riga took a micro step forward. She wasn’t sure if Townsend was a suspect yet or just an information source, but he was willing to talk.

  Donovan checked his watch. “My wife and I have another appointment, but perhaps we can take you to lunch later today or tomorrow and discuss this further?”

  Riga sagged.

  “I’m free today. There’s an excellent Mediterranean restaurant on the beach not far from here. Shall we say noon?”

  “Perfect,” Donovan said.

  They did another round of handshaking and Riga and Donovan left.

  “Interesting technique,” she said, following him down the stairs.

  “You would have handled things differently?”

  “We-ll.” Yes, she would have.

  He stopped at the base of the stairs, turning to her.

  “I would have interrogated him before he had a chance to prepare. But in this case,” she admitted, “your methods may well be an improvement on mine. The delay gives Townsend time to fantasize about that fat donation you dangled in front of him.”

  Donovan arched a brow. “Did I?”

  She laughed, her annoyance evaporating, and wrapped an arm around his waist. “We’ve got over an hour until lunch. Shall we wander?”

  Hanalei rested between misty green mountains and a bay, and as they walked past turquoise-painted wooden buildings with corrugated tin roofs, and picnic tables with palm umbrellas, their gaze kept drifting to the conical hills. When they grew bored with the art galleries, they turned to the beach, removing their sandals and letting the cool waves wash over their feet.

  “What did you think of them?” Donovan asked.

  “The men at the Protection Society?” She shrugged. “Jay is young, earnest, and afraid of saying the wrong thing. Though I got the feeling he was more upset by the murder of the seal than of Dennis. Townsend is awfully well-dressed for the director of a small non-profit. If he has his own wealth, I’m surprised he didn’t take a cushy board position rather than a director’s job, which requires actual work. Either he’s a true believer, or something’s up.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I do love your suspicious mind.”

  “So that’s why you married me, for my mind?”

  “There might have been some other factors.”

  “What did you pick up from the interview?” Riga asked.

  “Mr. Townsend Murray is one of the few men I’ve met who’s more interested in me than in you.”

  “More interested in your money, another good reason for you to take point on the questions.”

  “I noticed you were unusually quiet back there.”

  “Why should I do the work when I’ve got a big strong man to do it for me?”

  “For that, you’re going in the water.” He threw her over his shoulder and charged into the waves.

  “Stop!” She shrieked, laughing. “We’re meeting a suspect!”

  Gently, he put her down, knee-deep in the surf. He traced the line of her lip with his thumb. “Thanks for marrying me.”

  “I couldn’t stand to watch you beg.” She stood on her tiptoes, and brushed his lips with hers. Their kiss deepened, and a familiar, hot longing surged through her.

  They broke apart, their breath quick and fast.

  “We’re meeting a suspect in ten minutes,” Riga said.

  Groaning, Donovan strode deeper into the ocean, unbuttoning his shirt. He tossed it over his shoulder and dove, slicing cleanly through the low waves.

  She caught the shirt, scooping it to her chest.

  He surfaced, wiping his f
ace with both hands. Donovan walked to her, water cascading from his bronzed chest.

  Her lips parted, her body aching.

  “I needed to cool off,” he said.

  She dug a small towel out of her satchel and handed it to him, along with his shirt. “And now, so do I.”

  Chapter 6

  The director of the Aquatic Protection Society relaxed at a round table on a deck overlooking the beach. He glanced curiously at Donovan’s water-darkened shorts, but didn’t comment.

  “Hello, Townsend.” Riga sat in the wooden chair beside him and smiled. For a suspect – or for a man about to solicit money – he seemed utterly tranquil. His fingers dangled over the arms of the chair like tiny sausages, a plain gold band biting into his ring finger.

  “Is an outdoor table all right?” he asked. “Or would you prefer to sit inside?”

  “Outside is fine.” Donovan signaled for the waitress, and they ordered drinks.

  “How long have you lived here?” Riga asked after the waitress had departed. Yes, yes, she’d told herself she’d let Donovan take lead. But she wasn’t about to just sit there like a lump.

  “Just over three years now. I learned about the plight of the monk seals not long after I arrived, and found others as outraged as I was, so I took over as executive director of the Aquatic Protection Society.”

  The waitress arrived with their drinks– a tropical martini for Riga, brandy for Donovan.

  When she had left, Donovan said, “So who’s killing the seals?”

  Townsend choked on his beer, placed the bottle down carefully. “You get straight to the point, don’t you?”

  “Why waste each other’s time?”

  “If I knew who our seal killer was, he’d be in jail,” Townsend said.

  Riga stirred her sunset-colored drink with a wedge of pineapple. “You must have some suspicions.”

  “Suspicions, yes.” Townsend smiled complacently. “But that’s not enough for an arrest.”

  Patronizing. Riga’s teeth began to hurt, and she realized her smile had become a rictus grin. She loosened her jaw, took a sip of her drink.