The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 7

  He blinked, as if he’d just awakened, and his gaze focused on her. “Huh? Oh. Yeah. Well, Burlingame, just south of S.F. I’m not much of a city guy.”

  “Me neither.” She took a sip of her tea and winced. Too hot. “What do you do?”

  “I own a northern Italian restaurant in San Mateo, south of San Francisco.”

  Riga turned the mug in her hands. North, east, south, west. “You’re making me hungry. What’s the name of your place?”

  “Piemonte. That’s a region in northern Italy.”

  “Had the restaurant long?”

  “We’re still in our first year.”

  Still in the danger zone then. Most restaurants failed in their first year. But San Mateo was a hot location for food these days. It would be easy enough to find out how his place was doing.

  “Is this your first restaurant?”

  His eyes narrowed. “My third.”

  “Got any family? Aside from Sal and Lizzy?”

  He put his elbows on the table, and his expression hardened. “You ask a lot of questions.”

  She relaxed back in her chair. “Guilty.”

  “What’s really going on with you and Sal?”

  “Who says anything’s going on?” Riga asked.

  “I just did.”

  “Like I said. My boyfriend was arrested.”

  “Then maybe you should be at the jail with him, instead of sticking your nose in our family business.”

  “It’s not visiting hours yet.” Riga rose. Her questions hadn’t been out of line, hadn’t gone beyond the usual chitchat. Derek’s defensiveness was disproportionate.

  It wasn’t very nice.

  It was, however, suspicious.

  Riga smiled.

  Chapter 10

  Riga left Sal’s family discussing the plans for the day, and slipped out the living room to the deck.

  The morning air was warm, water dripping from the icicles beneath the eaves. Girls would be skiing in bikinis at the resorts today. Donovan would be sitting in jail.

  She drew her phone from her jacket pocket, and called his lawyer, Sharon.

  “Riga,” the attorney said without preamble. “I’m sorry. No visitors today.”

  Riga lowered her head. She’d known it was a possibility. It was smart. Logical. It would keep him safe, she told herself. But the disappointment was bitter in her mouth. “How’s he doing? Really?”

  “I don’t feel comfortable commenting on his emotional state, but he’s tough, Riga.”

  “And his legal state?”

  “This isn’t going to get easier any time soon. We’re in for a long court battle.”

  “Unless we can prove he’s been set up.”

  There was a long silence. “Yes.” Sharon’s tone was flat. “That would help.”

  A Stellar Jay fluttered to the wooden railing, and cocked its head at Riga inquiringly.

  “Is there something you’re not telling me?” Riga asked.

  “You should know that I’m not the lead lawyer on this case. Since this will be tried in federal court, my firm brought in a specialist in federal case law. And there are other members of the team.”

  Of course. This was a big case; Donovan was a big client. But her little voice warned that Sharon was trying to tell her something.

  Sharon cleared her throat. “I don’t know when yet, but it looks like they’ll transfer him to Reno. It seems they’ve gotten more cautious after Sandra’s death. That’s good news for us.”

  The jay hopped closer, making tracks on the snow-covered rail.

  “The media has been hinting the charges against him are terrorism-related,” Riga said. “That he’s been laundering money for terrorists.”

  “It’s bullshit, media innuendo. The cops are looking at the local mob, yes, but no one’s been charged.”

  “And the local mob... Are they affiliated with terrorists?”

  “Not that I know.” Her voice softened. “Don’t worry, you’ll see him soon.”

  “Thanks,” Riga said to a dial tone.

  She pocketed the phone.

  The bird squawked at her, its blue crown twitching.

  She smiled crookedly. “Says you.”

  The bird fluttered from the balcony to the snow-covered ground, and Riga watched its progress as it hopped into a sunbeam. The snow there sparkled, flickering with iridescence. The shadow of a cloud moved across it, and the bird flew into the woods, the flapping of its wings startling in the deepening silence.

  Riga stilled, feeling a prickling at the back of her neck.

  Magic.

  The world went quiet, held its breath. Closing her eyes, she reached out with her magical senses, probing.

  Hate, dark and fiery and choking. It hit her in the gut, left her gasping.

  Her chest squeezed; her eyes flew open.

  Something was in the woods, watching. And it was some thing and not someone – of that she was sure. But whether the fear, bubbling beneath her skin, thundering through her chest – whether it came from her or from it – of that she was not sure at all.

  A wheel creaked, squished unevenly through the snow. She whirled about, saw nothing.

  Where was it? Where was the damn thing?

  Heedless of the cold on her bare hands, Riga grabbed the railing, called for energy from the above and below. It filled her, streamed through her feet and into the crown of her head. She shaped it, charged the protective aura she kept about her, sent it flying outward.

  “Go away,” she said, her voice low and intent.

  A bird chirped, lifted from the trees, winged away, breaking the spell.

  Riga sagged, giddy. It was gone, whatever it was.

  She returned inside, passing Zara, resplendent in a red and white turban and matching red ski suit, and Lizzy, elegant in a cashmere sweater and matching slacks, on their way into the kitchen.

  A youngish-looking man, freckled and blue-eyed, bounced into the living room, coming to a halt when he caught sight of Riga. His eyes widened with surprise. Then he strode forward, bony hand extended, all gangly arms and legs.

  Hello, Scarecrow, she thought. Did that make her Dorothy?

  His Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat. “I’m Martin, Martin Billings, plant manager for Sal’s company, Hermes Sportswear.”

  She shook his hand. His grip was firm, his bones prominent beneath the skin. She took in his blue microfiber hiking pants and snowboarding jacket – all products of Sal’s firm.

  “I’m Riga Hayworth, a friend of Sal’s.”

  “Where is Sal?” He turned his head, searching, shifting restlessly from side to side.

  Derek emerged from the kitchen, frowning into his coffee.

  “Still in her room, I guess,” Riga said. “Hermes? The Greek trickster god?”

  Martin cracked his knuckles. “He was also the god of athletics.”

  “I’ll bet he cheated,” she muttered.

  Martin ruffled his sandy hair. “Yeah, those winged sandals might have given him an unfair advantage.”

  Derek walked past them, and sat down on the couch. He shoved the magazines on the coffee table aside with one foot, crossed both feet upon the table.

  “So what does a plant manager do?” Riga said.

  Martin’s shoulders twitched. “It’s a small company. I’ve got my hands in every pie. What are you doing here?”

  Zara and her aunt came out of the kitchen, chattering.

  Yawning, Sal stomped downstairs, wearing a cream colored ski suit that hugged her ample curves. “Morning, everyone. Where’s the coffee?”

  “In the kitchen, dear,” Lizzy said. “Right where you’d expect it to be.”

  “I’ll pour you a cup,” Zara said. “Cream?”

  “Nope. Hot and black, like I like my men.” Sal hooted.

  “Sal!” Lizzy frowned.

  The shaman ducked her head. “Sorry, Aunt Lizzy.”

  “Look.” Derek cleared his throat. “We’ve got serious business to discuss. I
think we should just sit down, and get it out of the way now.”

  Sal looked pointedly at his feet on the coffee table.

  He didn’t take the hint.

  The shaman’s lips thinned. “Breakfast first. Besides, I scheduled the family meeting for tonight so we could have some time to enjoy together.”

  “I’d enjoy the day more if we got this out of the way,” Derek said.

  Zara emerged from the kitchen, and handed Sal a cup. “Back off, Derek. This is hard enough for Sal – for all of us. I, for one, am going to enjoy my all-expenses-paid vacation.” She raised her mug in a toast to Sal. “Thank you, cuz.” She took a sip, looking at them over the rim of the cup. “I’m going snow-shoeing. Anyone want to come along?”

  When she didn’t get any takers, she smiled and waltzed off. Over her shoulder, she called, “If you change your mind, come find me.”

  “Oh, the hell with it.” Derek kicked his feet off the table, and stood. “Zara’s right. May as well hit the slopes.” He strode from the room.

  “And what about you?” Riga asked, regarding Martin narrowly. “Any plans for the day?”

  “I plan to stay here and read until I can get an audience with the queen. I’m not very athletic.” He winked. “But I’ve got all the best sports gear.”

  Lizzy took Derek’s vacated seat. “I wasn’t expecting to see you here this morning, Miss Hayworth.”

  She extended her wrinkled hand toward Martin. “And you must be that young man from the plant Sal told us about.”

  Gingerly, Martin took her hand. “Yes, ma’am. I’m Martin Billings.”

  Lizzy tilted her head, birdlike, and smiled. “And I’m Sal’s aunt Elizabeth, but everyone calls me Lizzy.”

  “May I get you some coffee, ma’am?”

  “Why that would be lovely!” Lizzy beamed at his departing back. “What a polite young man. And are you staying with us now, Riga? Or did you come for an early morning visit?”

  “Sal invited me to spend the night.”

  Sal snorted, dropping her bulk onto the stone ledge that ran around the fireplace.

  “But I’ll have to return to the casino this morning,” Riga continued.

  “Casino!” Lizzy clapped her hands together. “Oh, may I come with you, dear?” She leaned forward conspiratorially. Her breath smelled of peppermint. “The young folks don’t like me driving on these icy roads, and I have to confess, I’m happy to let someone else do it for me.”

  Sal made frantic chopping motions with one hand across her throat.

  “Well...”

  “Oh, lovely!” Lizzy said. “I’ll just go get ready.” She skipped off to her ground floor room, the door closing noisily behind her.

  “The casino?” Sal whispered, leaning toward her. “Are you kidding me? We’ll never get her out of there! No wonder Uncle Art wouldn’t come with her.”

  “Has she got a gambling problem?”

  “No! She sticks to penny and nickel slots. She just won’t stop. The last time we dragged her out of a casino, she wouldn’t speak to us for the rest of the week.”

  Martin cleared his throat, cup of coffee in hand. “I’ll be happy to play escort.”

  “You’ll be there all day,” Sal said bluntly.

  “I didn’t have any plans, though I would like to go over some numbers with you when you’ve got the chance.”

  Sal’s lips puckered. “If you can manage my aunt, I suppose I’ll owe you. And by manage, I mean give her what she wants.”

  “I’ll be happy to. Besides, old ladies love me.” Martin’s face stretched into a grin. “Uh, does anyone want this coffee?”

  Sal reached toward him. “Here. I’ll take it.”

  He handed it off to her. “I’ll go and get ready.” He strolled to his room.

  Riga cocked an eyebrow. “That’s your second cup this morning.”

  “I don’t need nagging from you. I’ve got Lizzy for that.”

  “I’ve got a trio of aunts who put Lizzy’s little gambling obsession to shame, if it makes you feel any better.”

  “It doesn’t.”

  “New topic: there’s a man I’d like you to meet.”

  Sal’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

  “He’s a bodyguard.”

  “I thought you were my bodyguard.”

  “Sal, I’m no bodyguard. I’m a detective. I can’t stick with you twenty four/seven. We’ll kill each other. And I’ve got other stuff to deal with.”

  “Huh. This bodyguard any good?”

  “I wouldn’t suggest him otherwise. But I think you two should meet, get a feel for each other, before we make any decisions.”

  “Well. I guess it wouldn’t hurt.” Sal stood, and stretched. “I’ll go get my hat.”

  “Would you grab my purse? I left it in your room.”

  Sal nodded, and Riga heard her run lightly up the stairs. For a large woman, she was light on her feet.

  She rose, and went to the tall picture windows. Riga should have known it would take an age to get everyone in the cabin mobilized, and she was itching to get back to the casino, to talk to Isabelle, to start figuring things out before she met with Donovan.

  Sal returned, chest heaving, a furry white hat and Riga’s leather satchel clutched in her hands. “The nails in the banister are gone.”

  “I’ll dust for prints again. Maybe the person wasn’t as careful this time around.” They had to have been taken down within the last thirty minutes, Riga thought. The would-be killer had moved quickly, decisively.

  “One of them really tried to kill me. It didn’t seem real until...” Sal sat down abruptly beside her.

  “We’ll figure this out.” But Riga knew her words were cold comfort. How do you wrap your brain around someone wanting you dead?

  Chapter 11

  Humming with impatience, Riga shooed Martin and Lizzy into his SUV, then got into Sal’s Jaguar, pulling the door shut. She’d had no luck with the prints. Again.

  While Sal fiddled with her car keys, Riga trolled through her bag for her glasses. The glasses case was empty – she must have left them inside. She squinted at the light blazing through the windshield, reflecting off the snow. “Can I borrow the cabin keys?”

  Sal tossed them to her, and she ran back inside, searched, gave up. She didn’t have time for this.

  “Find ‘em?” Sal asked, when Riga got back into the sports car.

  “No.” Riga slammed the car door. She rummaged through the satchel again, her hand brushing against the glasses case, rattling it. She opened it.

  The glasses were in the case.

  “I swear this case was empty.” Riga’s forehead puckered.

  The shaman bit back a smile. “Looks like you’ve got the fae’s attention. They played a harmless prank, but you should propitiate them so things don’t escalate.”

  “The hell I will.” It was blackmail – give the fae goodies, or deal with a lifetime of misplaced glasses and car keys. There were other ways to deal with them.

  Sal shrugged. “It’s your funeral.”

  Surreptitiously, Riga turned her pockets inside out. It was an old remedy against faeries, but the classics were classics for good reason.

  Sal roared out of the driveway, and skidded around the corner.

  Riga tightened her seatbelt. “In a hurry?”

  “Huh.”

  Deliberately, Riga unclenched her jaw. She pulled her phone from her pocket and called Cesar.

  “The press have got all the entrances covered,” Cesar said. “I think our best bet is for you to pull into the loading bay again. Drive straight up the ramp. Ash and I will meet you there.” He paused. “Any word on Mosse?”

  A dented pickup, molting rust, slowed in front of them. Dirty snow crusted its bumper. Sal revved the engine, swerved around it.

  Riga gripped the door handle. “No.” She felt cautious around Cesar after his declaration of vengeance, unsure if he was friend or foe.

  A thought whispered through her mind: Keep your
friends close, your enemies closer.

  Cesar grunted. “See you in ten.” He rang off.

  Sal wrinkled her brow in concentration, and hunched low over the wheel, navigating a steep slope. At the stop sign, the wheels spun before they came to a halt.

  The shaman straightened, and knocked her hat askew on the low car roof.

  “How’d you meet Ankou?” Riga asked, her voice cracking.

  Sal adjusted her hat, whipping the car between a semi and an SUV and onto the tree-lined highway. “I’d just begun the ascent from lower world when we sort of crossed paths. I was bringing back the fragment of a soul for one of my clients. Ankou got a little too curious. I had to make him back off. But he appeared to me again, and again. Eventually, I realized something was meant, and we talked. Now he does me favors down below, and I help him out here.”

  “You made a death fae back off? On his own territory?” She knew the shaman had some serious mojo, but this was more juice than she’d expected. Shamans believed illnesses could be caused by a fragmentation of the soul, Riga knew. By finding and returning that fragment to the original soul, Sal could heal physical and psychological illnesses. Riga had studied the rudiments of shamanism, even traveled on a drumbeat to the lower and upper worlds, but that sort of healing was beyond her. She’d stick with doctors and first aid kits.

  Slivers of lake flashed between the pines.

  “Have you forgotten everything you learned about shamanism?” Sal asked. “The passage between the worlds isn’t his territory anymore than mine. And that soul fragment didn’t belong to him.”

  “Is that how you became interested in Celtic faeries?”

  “You think because I’m black I can’t work with faeries?”

  “What? No—”

  “You think I should be hunched over a pot, cooking up hoodoo spells?”

  “Will you stop?” Riga glared. “I was just curious about why you went the faerie route instead of power animals or ancestral spirits. I mean, I get that if you’re going to work with faeries, Great Britain is the mother ship—”

  “For your information, faeries can be found in every culture, from Estonia to Siberia. And my grandmother was Irish.”

  “Really?”

  “Really! For all you know, you and I could even be related. So how do you feel about that?”