The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Read online

  The sun slanted across the gargoyle’s wings, casting a long shadow across the golden wood of the wall, across the painting of a cowboy on a bronco.

  “Of course he is interested in me. I am unique! But that is not why he returned this morning. Take care, Riga. Even ze best fae can be dangerous, deceitful, and this Ankou creature is a dark one.”

  “He’s a death fae. Sal said that whenever he comes, he takes a soul. She thinks he may take mine.”

  “That is ridiculous. He has power, yes, but do not overestimate his abilities. He will use your fear to control you. You have magic, Riga, and he wants it. Though it has not escaped my notice that you have not been practicing much magic of late.”

  “I’ve got other things on my mind. Sal’s problem isn’t magical, and neither is Donovan’s.”

  “That never stopped you from using your magic before.”

  “I put a ward on the cabin.”

  “You set that up weeks ago.”

  “What’s your point, Brigitte?”

  “My point is I am a creature of magic and my purpose is to serve a magician. You have not been acting like one lately. This Ankou creature, as dangerous as he may be, has been ze most interesting thing to happen here since—”

  “Donovan’s arrest?” Riga snapped.

  “I too, wish to free Monsieur Mosse. And I know your life is changing. But if you have lost confidence in your abilities—”

  “I haven’t.” Riga swung her feet off the bed. “There just hasn’t been much call for magic lately.”

  Riga pulled out the laptop computer she kept in the top drawer, flipped it open. She had to focus on the now.

  She spent the next hour searching for information on Sal’s family and Martin. There was a wealth of information on Derek and Zara – both had their own websites and numerous articles about the restaurant and gallery reviews. Aunt Lizzy was a blank. The best she was able to find on Martin was his professional profile, which only revealed what he wanted, along with several strong recommendations from colleagues.

  Riga ran her hand through her hair. Dammit, she couldn’t leave Donovan now, go to the Bay Area to do the footwork she needed.

  She picked up the phone, and called a newspaper editor she knew there.

  The editor answered on the first ring. “This is Dora,” she rasped. “What have you got?”

  A gargoyle. A headache. An almost fiancée in jail.

  “It’s Riga.”

  She heard a deep exhale, and imagined the newspaper woman sending a jet of cigarette smoke towards the ceiling.

  “How’re you doing, kid?”

  “Keeping busy.”

  Dora barked a laugh. “I’ll bet. I’m sorry about Mosse, but I don’t suppose you called to give me an exclusive.”

  “I need info on the manager of Hermes Sportswear, Martin Billings, and a seventy-something named Elizabeth Jackson, Lizzy for short. Also a restaurateur named Derek Washington.”

  “They got something to do with the Mosse case?”

  “No.”

  “Strange, you not working on Mosse’s case. Is there something I should know?”

  “I’m under a gag order.”

  “Yeah, I saw your winning encounters with my colleagues of the fourth estate.”

  Riga winced. “That bad?”

  “No-o. Actually, you showed just the right amount of false bravado and vulnerability.”

  “Well, damn. The whole point of false bravado is so no one sees your vulnerability.”

  “Don’t do that,” the editor said sharply. “Mosse has got enough media trouble without throwing a haughty girlfriend into the mix.”

  “What have you heard?”

  Brigitte shifted closer, her claws scrabbling. “Speaker phone.”

  Riga shook her head.

  “Haven’t you been watching the news?” Dora asked.

  “No.”

  “You should be,” the editor said bluntly. “The Wall Street Journal came out with a good piece this morning – solid, fair, but damning. Did you know his South Lake Tahoe casino was in financial trouble?”

  “Everyone knows business up here’s been slow – not just at Donovan’s place.”

  “Yeah, well it’s a motive.” She coughed. “Not that I’m saying he’s guilty.”

  “He’s not.” God help her, she believed it. “But... I’m the girlfriend, not the most reliable source.”

  “Oh, cry me a river. You know there are never any guarantees in love or trust. Besides, you’re no dummy. You wouldn’t trust without good reason.”

  “What is she saying?” Brigitte asked.

  Riga frowned at the gargoyle. “Dora, I’ve got to go. Can you check on those names for me?”

  “Yeah, but I expect some quid pro quo.”

  “Once the gag order is lifted, I’ll talk to you first.”

  “And Mosse?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.” She couldn’t speak for Donovan. It was the most she could promise.

  “Deal.” Dora hung up.

  Riga slipped her cell phone into her bag, oddly touched by the editor’s words.

  Chapter 14

  Knees aching, Riga sat, legs folded beneath her, in the casino’s service corridor. Arcane symbols in haint-blue colored chalk circled her on the cold concrete floor. She’d drawn them to steady her mind, focus her intention, rather than for protection. A white pillar candle burned before her. It smelled faintly of vanilla. An industrial broom leaned against one bare wall.

  She called the above and below, felt the rush of opposite energies filling her, overflowing, filling the circle.

  The fluorescent light buzzed, flickered.

  Riga had a theory.

  She’d first sensed the strange miasma in the casino after Donovan had been arrested. Ergo, they might, possibly, be connected. Ergo, she should investigate it. Cesar stood at the other end of the corridor, around the bend, behind a closed door, ensuring she wouldn’t be interrupted.

  “Name,” she whispered. She didn’t know what or who it was, but there was something here, something more than a simple building aura. And that meant it had a name.

  The edge of the candle collapsed, and a river of wax streamed down with a hiss, pooling on the rough floor.

  The back of her neck prickled.

  Stilling her mind, she extended her right arm over a grid of letters she’d chalked upon the floor, a crystal pendulum dangling from her hand. Her eyelids lowered to dreamy slits. “Name,” she said, more firmly.

  The pendulum twitched.

  She brought the pendulum over the first letter in the row, A, repeated the question, is this the first letter in your name? The crystal hung, limp. B. C. D – the pendulum jumped. She went back to A. Is this the second letter in your name? Ran the pendulum down the first row. The second. It gave a hop at O.

  The temperature in the corridor dropped, and she shivered. By now she should know to wear a sweater for these sorts of things, she thought in annoyance.

  She returned to A. Third letter? N.

  Riga paused, gnawing on her lip. It could be a coincidence.

  Ice crystals formed along the edges of her circle.

  She returned to A and moved the pendulum more swiftly across the rows now. Past N... O. She didn’t bother to start at A, kept moving. It jerked in her hand at V, and she dropped it, leapt to her feet. Donovan? Donovan’s ghost? Good Christ, no, he had to be alive, had to be okay. She ran from the circle, not bothering with the formal banishing, needing to know, needing to make sure.

  “Cesar!”

  He came toward her at a run. “What? What’s wrong? Shit! Why is it so cold in here?”

  “I need your phone.” She hadn’t brought hers, couldn’t take it into the circle where its energies might disrupt her own.

  He handed it to her, looking up and down the corridor.

  Fingers trembling, she called Sheriff King, paced while she was transferred, put on hold…

  “King here.”

  �
��This is Riga Hayworth, is Donovan all right?”

  “He’s still in custody, if that’s what you mean. Beyond that—”

  “You’ve seen him? You’re sure he’s okay?”

  “I just left him to take your call. What’s wrong? Did you get a threat?”

  She sagged against the wall. “No. No. Just... I panicked. Sorry.” She hung up, returned the phone to Cesar.

  He looked at her quizzically. “What’s up? You’re white as a ghost.”

  “I need to close things here,” she said, still shaken. But he was alive. She hadn’t called Donovan’s ghost. Perhaps Ankou had been playing games with her, or perhaps… Perhaps the energy in the casino was Donovan’s – somehow projected, wrapped into the walls, reflecting his own turmoil in the place he loved best. She didn’t know, didn’t care. He was alive.

  She returned to her circle, muttered a prayer, and swept it with the broom.

  Cesar watched her, his expression uneasy. “What next?”

  She checked her watch. It was nearing the same time of day when she’d first seen June’s ghost. “Back to the finance department’s cafeteria.”

  “Lead on.”

  Silently, he trailed after her. Inside the cafeteria, he poured himself a cup of coffee, and leaned against the counter, watching. She sat down at a table and pulled out a notebook. June appeared, right on time. Riga took notes, recording the ghost’s monologue. When June disappeared through the wall, Riga rose, stretched.

  “You told Ash you’d take over for him at eight,” Cesar said.

  “That gives me an hour to pack. Let’s go.”

  Cesar escorted her to the penthouse. Riga waited until the elevator doors closed before him, then wandered to the study. She felt closest to Donovan here, and she strode to the window beside the desk, gazing out.

  The darkness was complete, her own image reflected in the black glass. A chill crawled up her spine. She drew the curtains shut before sitting at Donovan’s desk, then called the neighbor who had found June’s body.

  “Hello-o,” a woman’s voice wavered. “This is Tammy.”

  “Hi, Tammy. My name is Riga Hayworth. I’m a private investigator, and I’d like to ask you about the afternoon you discovered June Carding’s body.”

  “Rita Hayworth? Like the actress?”

  “No, Riga.”

  “Isn’t that in Latvia?”

  “Yes.” She tapped her pen on the desk. “It’s the capital. May I meet with you tomorrow?”

  “I suppose,” Tammy said doubtfully. “I have a doctor’s appointment after lunch. Kidney cancer. It’s a terrible disease and I beat it, but I need to be checked again. There are so many tests.” She sighed. “What about ten o’clock?”

  Riga agreed, confirmed the address, and hung up, wondering what she’d let herself in for. But the ghost’s neighbor was another string to pull on, another knot to unravel. Riga had a gut feeling that June’s death meant something, but there were other, more obvious leads to follow.

  And others were following them. This wasn’t her case.

  Pans rattled in the kitchen. Cesar.

  She retreated to the bedroom, and with a nod to Brigitte on the dresser, began the dismal act of packing new clothing for her overnight at Sal’s. Donovan’s suits hung, cleanly pressed beside her own silk blouses and tailored slacks. Riga pressed the lapels of his favorite suit to her, inhaling.

  All she smelled was detergent – Donovan wasn’t there, and seemed to be slipping further and further away.

  Brigitte sprang into the air, wings flaring, and resettled lightly on the bureau. “I had hoped there would be more visitors to your boudoir. But none came.”

  “How boring for you.” Riga folded her clothing neatly into her leather satchel.

  “Have you at least set a protective spell upon your friend, Mademoiselle Sal?”

  “No. But it’s a good idea. I’ll ask her permission when I see her again.”

  Riga examined the back of her suede jacket. It had been torn, as she’d feared, from her tumble beneath the news van. But the rip was on a seam. She could fix it. And there was no oil from the undercarriage – that was a relief. She rummaged in the closet and pulled on her navy pea coat. “I’ve got to get back to Sal.”

  “You should hurry. It is possible ze tall, dark Monsieur Ash has bitten off more than he can chew.”

  “I doubt it. He worked in Iraq.”

  “That is not ze kind of trouble I was referring to.”

  “What do you...? Forget it.” Riga swung her satchel off the bed and onto her shoulder. “And Brigitte? Thanks. For watching the place, I mean.”

  The gargoyle preened. “Tonight, I shall move to ze study. It appears more people congregate there. Perhaps I can learn something of value.”

  A knock at the bedroom door sent Brigitte into the air, wings flapping. When she settled, Riga went to the door, opened it.

  Cesar stood there, a pair of gray slacks and what looked like a police hat under one arm, a matching shirt on a hanger in the other. He thrust them at her. “Here. The armored car company has agreed to let you play guard number two for today’s pickup. We’ll get you past the press this way.”

  Riga took the clothing, examining them. The shirt, with its armored car badges, was way too big. And the slacks... She frowned. “Why do these slacks have Velcro in the sides?”

  “Uh. We couldn’t find slacks that would fit, so I borrowed these from the wardrobe department. It’s part of the naughty policewoman costume. Sorry. Best I could come up with on short notice.”

  “Naughty... Oh.” The slacks were designed for quick removal. She blew out her breath, brows raised. “I guess that works. I’ll put them on.”

  The slacks were tight and she had to roll the cuffs, but they fit. She didn’t know if she should feel depressed about the squeeze or elated that her forty-four-year-old body still fit into a stripper’s costume. The shirt hung loosely upon her, but she tucked it into the pants, praying the Velcro wouldn’t give way.

  Shoes were a problem. Cesar hadn’t been able to find work shoes in her size. In the end, she settled for a black pair of boots with low heels. They weren’t quite sensible enough for a security guard, but they’d do.

  She knotted her hair into a tight bun and jammed it under the cap, then made a face at herself in the mirror. Donovan would laugh his ass off if he could see her now.

  A mournful sigh swept the bedroom, raised the hairs on the back of her neck.

  Riga froze, catching Brigitte’s gaze in the mirror’s reflection. “Did you hear that?”

  The gargoyle hissed, her stone-feathered shoulders hunching to her ears. “We are not alone.”

  Riga searched the room, but found no one, living or dead.

  Cesar knocked on the door. “You ready in there?”

  Riga grabbed her leather satchel, exchanging looks with the gargoyle. “Ready.”

  In the foyer, Cesar introduced her to the armored car guard, a slight, older man with sandy hair and pink skin. His nose twitched, and he shifted the money bag to his other hand, gripping its leather strap tightly. “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

  “Don’t sweat it.” Cesar handed Riga a pair of dark glasses, took her leather satchel from her. “The armored car is at the side entrance. Our security guys have pushed the news crews back, will make sure they don’t get too close. I’ll meet you a couple blocks down the road – the driver knows where – and you’ll get into my SUV. Got it?”

  They took the elevator to the ground floor, and she followed the guard through the casino. It was strangely quiet, the usual clatter and clang of slot machines muffled. Waitresses and dealers crept across the red carpets, as if at a funeral.

  Riga shook her head. There were too many empty rooms, empty tables, empty chairs.

  They took a side exit, emerging into a bank of reporters. The journalists gave her no more than a casual glance, and she hopped into the waiting truck, sandwiching herself between the driver and the g
uard.

  The driver grinned at her, driving the truck out of the parking lot, onto the highway. “Easy peasey.”

  Automatically, one corner of her lips tilted upward, but the smile was perfunctory, tense.

  The armored truck pulled up beside Cesar’s SUV parked beside a darkened liquor store. Riga leapt out, tossing her hat upon the seat, and promising to return the shirt. Clambering into the SUV, she glanced up at the sky; the stars were obscured by a blanket of clouds.

  Cesar turned to her, his expression smug. “Worked like a charm. And the beauty of it is, we can use it again. There’s a pick-up every day.”

  Riga was having a hard time breathing in the tight pants. “I should have kept the hat.”

  Chapter 15

  After the warmth of the day, the snow in Sal’s driveway had melted, exposing the blacktop. It gleamed slick and treacherous beneath the streetlamps. Cesar followed Riga up the wooden steps, reaching past her to ring the doorbell.

  Ash opened the door. Raised voices flowed out from the cabin in an angry wave.

  “Just in time for the fun,” he said.

  “What’s going on?” Riga stepped inside, nudged an overturned boot beneath the bench in the entryway.

  “Family shouting match. Sal’s told them she’s selling the business.”

  “That’s my cue to leave,” Cesar said. “Oh, hey. I forgot to tell you. The P.I. is going to make a surprise visit here tomorrow morning.”

  Riga raised a brow. “Surprise?”

  “Heh. Guess I ruined it. Sharon’s coming with him.”

  “Thanks for the warning,” she said.

  Cesar grinned. “See you tomorrow?”

  “I’ll call you.” Riga moved past Ash, following the shouting.

  Unnoticed, she slipped into the living room, and took a seat upon the edge of the fireplace step. The family was around the corner, in the breakfast nook beside the kitchen. From her position, she could see Zara’s back, slim and rigid in a black knit top, a black and white patterned turban on her head. Riga closed her eyes, and listened.

  “What isn’t fair,” Sal was saying, “is people who don’t own my company having a say in what I do with it.”