The Gargoyle Chronicles: A Riga Hayworth Mystery (Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 8)

by Kirsten Weiss

  Exasperated, she cocked her head. “The spouse is always the most likely suspect.”

  A green shimmer danced at the edges of her vision. Her hands tingled. She fingered her necklace, a charm with a crooked Georgian cross.

  “You know,” he said, “now that we’re married, I find that statistic a little disturbing.”

  “Only a little?”

  He reached for the glass door’s handle.

  “Hold up.” She turned toward the cars and relaxed her gaze. No dark magic wove through the parking lot. Frowning, she pushed her aura outward, imagined eyes and fingers on its golden edges.

  And felt a prickle of sticky sweetness behind her.

  Dread pooled in her gut, and she turned. A snarl of black cords, like barbed wire, encircled Donovan.

  “Shit!” She dug into the pocket of her wide-legged slacks at the same time she reached for the in-between. From her pocket, she scooped rough grains of salt. “Ad quos eieci!” She threw the salt. It sizzled where it fell against the tarlike cords.

  Donovan sputtered, brushing salt from the lapel of his black suit jacket. “Is this payback for defending Deepika?” he asked, laughing.

  The cords released, dissolving, and Riga's heart began beating normally again.

  Where is he? She swallowed, scanning the lot. The magician had to be here, and she looked for the connecting cord. But there was none. The cables of dark magic around Donovan were evaporating. But their tie to the magician couldn't have disappeared that quickly.

  She extended her senses, pushing her aura outward. Her vision darkened. That same aching, dark magic sweetness was there, and something else. The scent of ozone and taste of wet, rusted metal. Novocain numbness spread through her fingers. A chaos of light and color and numbers cascading–

  “Watch it!” A man shouted, jerking her from her trance.

  Her stomach tightened. She whipped around.

  The mountain lion, leash trailing, loped toward them.

  Her eyes widened. She froze, paralyzed, blood pounding in her ears. Ghouls, vampires, necromancers, no problem. But—

  Donovan grabbed her arms, turning and pushing her against the building. He pressed his taut body against hers.

  The lion ran past.

  “He's harmless,” his owner shouted, panting. “Here kitty! Here, kitty, kitty!”

  The hard planes of Donovan's muscles relaxed against hers, and she inhaled his musky, forest scent. “Idiot,” Donovan muttered.

  She gasped a ragged laugh. The lion – could it possibly be named Kitty?

  But she'd felt that seductive call of dark magic. There was nothing funny – nothing accidental – here.

  She swallowed. How had the magician conjured something so dark so quickly? He had to be powerful, and she was smart enough to be frightened. Her sensei’s voice echoed in her ears. There’s always someone bigger and badder than you.

  “I'll make a charm for you tonight,” she told Donovan.

  “To ward off mountain lions?”

  “Don’t joke. Not about this. Donovan, the dark magic I saw around Gabe... It was around you.”

  His expression turned to granite. “Good.”

  “Good?”

  “It means we've got his killer’s attention.”

  Her jaw clenched. Donovan enjoyed the hunt, and it could make him reckless. She'd seen it on their honeymoon. The risks were his choice, and she wouldn’t love him if he didn’t take them. But they were married now, and she was damned if she’d become a widow before their first anniversary.

  “We need to talk to his partner,” she said.

  He lowered his head and captured her mouth with his own. Her body heated. Donovan pulled her closer, his breathing uneven and warm against her neck. “Tomorrow,” he rumbled.

  She almost objected, but the weight of her failure pressed down on her. Riga sensed that guilt on Donovan as well. Tonight, she’d let him take that away. Tomorrow, her hunt would begin.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Tod Crafton wasn't much taller than Riga. He strode from behind his expansive desk to shake her hand. “Good morning, Mrs. Mosse. It’s nice to meet you.”

  She blanked momentarily, wondering who he was talking to. Riga hadn’t changed her name, though she didn’t mind being called Mosse. But when would she get used to hearing it? “Call me Riga.” She adjusted her satchel over the shoulder of her favorite suede, safari jacket. She’d picked it up in a second-hand shop, pre-Donovan. Today’s ivory blouse, post-Donovan, was silk. One corner of her mouth curled upward. How quickly she’d grown spoiled.

  “And I’m Tod.” Tod Crafton’s office was contemporary minimalist. White floors and black desk. Two walls were white, the third made of horizontal slats of wood. The fourth, a floor-to-ceiling window, overlooked a complex of other square, white buildings.

  Riga scanned the room for hints of the man’s character, and only learned that he was criminally neat. She had a hard time imagining his business partner, Gabe, in a matching office.

  He held her hand for exactly the right amount of time and pressure, then released her and turned to her husband. “Donovan. God.” Fifty-something, he had a squarish, pleasantish face, now lined with worry. “Deepika told me you were there yesterday?”

  Donovan grimaced and clasped the man's hand. “Too far away to do anything. Gabe was a good man.”

  Donovan had insisted on coming, something she normally would never allow a client to do. But he’d taken Gabe’s death personally, and he was no a novice. Besides, if it hadn't been for Donovan's connection to the company, she’d never have gotten past the Acton Industry guards.

  “From what I heard, you couldn’t have saved him.” Tod ran his hand through his bush of sandy-brown hair then jammed them into the pockets of his lab coat. “No one could. Killed by a fire hydrant. I'd say I'd never heard of anything so bizarre, but...” He shook his head, pressed his thin lips together.

  “That's what Gabe came to see me about,” Riga said. Gabe’s widow knew about the appointment, so there seemed little point in keeping it secret from his partner. Word would get out. “He was worried about the accidents at Acton Industries.”

  Tod Crafton went rigid, the muscles in his neck and shoulders cording. He walked to the window. His back to them, he stared, past the low buildings surrounded by aspens to the barren hillside.

  They were on the outskirts of Carson City, on the eastern side of the mountains from Lake Tahoe. The stark change in topography always sent a shock of surprise through Riga. There was something alien and dangerous-seeming about the dry Nevada earth, the paltry scrub, the dearth of trees and shade. It was too exposed.

  Tod Crafton didn't say anything for a long time. “I see.”

  She glanced at Donovan. He lifted one shoulder, dropped it. The elegant folds of his black Armani returned neatly to their places.

  “He didn't tell you he was meeting me?” Wondering what had fascinated Tod outside, she edged closer to the window. A high, electrified fence encircled the complex.

  “No, I– What exactly did he say to you?” He turned to them and raised a hand. “No. Perhaps it's best if I don't know. If I know, I'll have to report it. I'll still have to report this conversation.” He looked toward the ceiling. “Gabe, what have you done?” he muttered.

  “He didn’t break any laws,” Donovan said. “Gabe didn't tell us what you're working on, only that there'd been a succession of odd accidents. And in spite of investigations, they couldn't connect any to human sabotage.”

  Tod’s brows shot upward. “Human sabotage? What other kind of sabotage could there be?”

  “Figure of speech,” Riga said quickly. “I'm looking into a corporate recruiting event he attended a month ago. I don't believe that is classified.”

  His forehead wrinkled. “No, I don't suppose it is. Please, sit down.” He motioned to a grouping of black leather chairs around a table. They lowered themselves into the seats.

&nbs
p; “Why are you interested in this recruiting event?” Tod sat with his back to the window and the sepia-toned mountains. He crossed his arms over his chest.

  “Because your partner was worried about it.” She ran her hand over one thigh, smoothing the fabric of her khaki slacks. “And now he's dead.”

  He blinked rapidly, swallowed, and removed his glasses, rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I still can't–” He cleared his throat. “Are you suggesting Gabe’s death wasn't natural?”

  “You can't deny the timing was damned odd,” Donovan said.

  He slumped in his high-backed chair. “No. But I wonder if you're seeing what you want to see?” His pale cheeks reddened. “When you called, I took the liberty of looking up your wife's business online.” He angled his head toward Riga. “A metaphysical detective?”

  Riga's smile grew pained. She never should have let her niece talk her into that website. “Gabe seemed to feel the situation at your company was extreme and unusual. Is it so surprising he'd turn to a consultant who deals in the extreme and unusual?”

  “But metaphysics... What you do, it sounds like magic.”

  “I'm an investigator. Metaphysics is the investigation of first causes.”

  “I am aware.” He glanced toward the array of awards and certificates on his wall – graduate degrees in chemistry and mathematics and religious studies from Duke. Membership in a fraternal organization, Zeta Tau Psi. Awards from local and international charitable organizations. “But your site mentioned home dehauntings. And then there was that reality TV show...”

  Her neck stiffened. She’d never live down that paranormal show. But it’d had its uses and paid well. “The recruiting event?” she prompted.

  “The usual affair. We were looking for more chemists. The only thing that really stands out was the arrival of Harley Westbrook. I should have seen that coming. He practically lives at that damn golf club.”

  “Harley Westbrook of Orion Mark?” Riga asked. “Your main competitor?”

  “The S.O.B. tried to headhunt our recruits.” His face reddened. “Gabe was furious. He had to throw Harley out himself, since none of the club’s staff had the nerve.”

  “And Mrs. Acton?” Riga asked. “Deepika? I believe she was there too.”

  Donovan smiled. He knew she wasn’t going to forget the spouse.

  “She runs the–” Tod's mouth flattened. “Yes. She got cornered by some mathematician talking chaos theory, I think.”

  “Chaos theory?” Riga leaned forward. Her leather satchel slipped off her shoulder and thumped to the white-tile floor.

  “Yes. The theory focuses on complex systems, such as weather, that appear to behave randomly. But of course, nothing’s random. All these systems contain underlying feedback loops and patterns. No model can describe the reality of these systems with one-hundred percent accuracy. Heisenberg demonstrated that mathematically with his Uncertainty Principle.” He laughed shortly. “Watching your local weather report should be enough evidence of that for the layman. At any rate, chaos theory can help us understand these systems better. And like Deepika, it's interdisciplinary.”

  “Is this something your firm works with?” she asked, curiosity piqued.

  “I really can't discuss it, but it is something that interests Deepika. She's got advanced degrees in mathematics and chemistry, you know. I went to rescue her from the guy, but she waved me off.”

  “And did you hire him?” she asked.

  He angled his head. “You know, I don't believe we did.”

  “And the rumors?” Riga asked.

  He stilled. “Rumors?”

  “Of infidelity,” she said. It was a stab in the dark, but… The spouse was always the prime suspect for a reason.

  Donovan’s expression smoothed.

  “Deepika is the top woman in the company,” Tod said hotly, “and she's from India, which is taking so many of our tech jobs. She’s also married to the owner. People don't see that she's earned her position. It's jealousy, and it's sick. There's no truth in the rumors. Never has been.”

  But there were rumors, she thought, satisfied. “And the rumors that you were unhappy the company is working for the military?” Riga asked, now on firmer ground.

  He stiffened. “We don't work for them. We're contractors.”

  “Contractors developing military technology,” Riga said. “How do you feel about that?”

  His jaw worked, no sound emerging.

  The white door burst open, and the receptionist raced into the sleek office. “Mr. Crafton. Building A.”

  “Not again.” He leapt to his feet and hurried across the sleek office.

  Riga and Donovan rose as well. She retrieved her satchel from the floor.

  “I'm sorry,” he said, “but you can't... Please wait here.” He rushed out the door, slamming it behind him.

  Donovan folded his arms over his Armani suit. “Rumors of infidelity?”

  “All right,” she admitted. “I made that up. But I've got a bad feeling.” And suddenly, she really did, her stomach twisting, her nerves jumping. “The faster we wrap this case up, the better.”

  She walked to the window and slung her bag crossways over her body. Green sparks danced on the other side of the glass. Riga tried to focus on the twinkles of light, but they slipped away.

  The stark, white building directly across from them was labeled A, and she relaxed her gaze. Inky, oozing cords the size of bicycle paths wrapped around the building. Something tugged, sweet and seductive, in her low belly.

  Amazing. The spell was huge. Glyphs danced across the paths – and yes, they were paths. Paths to somewhere she'd never traveled, and how she wanted to now. Where would they lead her? What mysteries would they unravel? She'd never seen anything like it, and the power–

  “Riga?”

  She shook herself, and found her hands pressed against the glass, her nose millimeters away. Swallowing, she stepped from the window and rummaged in her satchel. Fumbling past tarot cards, a container of salt, and a pocket knife, she pulled out a small, leather-bound notebook and pen. Her hands trembled slightly.

  Below, Tod Crafton and his receptionist raced across the lot toward Building A.

  “Are you all right?” Donovan asked.

  “Fine.” Her voice cracked, and she cleared her throat, ignored the sweet taste of magic on her tongue. “It just surprised me, that's all. There are cords of dark magic around Building A. They're big enough that I can see symbols on them.” She'd seen similar attachments before, connecting victims to spells, but never so large. Had symbols been on those earlier cords as well, and she'd never noticed because of their size?

  Focus. She searched for an end to the ropes of dark magic, for a ribbon leading away and to the magician who’d cast the spell. Riga started.

  The cords of magic went nowhere.

  They attached to nothing but themselves in a giant knot.

  Her mouth went dry. How was it possible? In her experience, a spell was always connected to its magician.

  Donovan rested a hand on her shoulder, and warmth flooded through her. She drew a shuddering breath and closed her eyes. When she opened them again, she was centered.

  Quickly, she sketched the symbols she could make out in her notebook. They looked familiar, but the arrangement was strange and connected by dashed lines.

  The door to Building A burst open. People in lab coats flooded out, heads ducking. A rippling, gray-specked cloud flowed above their flailing arms.

  Riga tilted her head, squinting. “Is that...?”

  “Bees,” Donovan said. “Or wasps? It’s impossible to tell from—”

  The office door behind them opened, and they turned from the window.

  Deepika stopped short, one hand on the knob. “Oh! I'm sorry. I was looking for Tod.” She wore black slacks and a matching silk blouse. Mourning wear for the stylish professional.

  Donovan strode to her and took her hands. “Deepika.
” His voice was a gentle rumble. “I didn't expect to see you back at work so soon.”

  “Neither did I.” She smiled weakly at Riga. “But I couldn’t just sit at home. I know there are things I must do for the funeral, but the coroner hasn't released the body.”

  “He hasn't?” Riga asked, surprised. Magic may have caused the accident, but it was still an accident. There was nothing for the coroner or sheriff to investigate.

  “The sheriff said there were questions.” She rubbed the front of her swanlike neck. “But I have questions. I still don’t understand how this could have happened.”

  “I’m sorry,” Riga said, feeling inadequate. Then, “How did you and Gabe meet?”

  Her eyes warmed. “I was studying in China. Gabe was there as a tourist, and… I decided to come to America.” Then she seemed to notice the activity in the parking lot behind them. She walked to the window, her steps dragging. “What's going on?”

  “Insects in Building A,” Riga said. “That's where you work, isn't it?”

  “Yes,” she said absently. “But we exterminate–” She bit her bottom lip. “I should go.” Deepika hurried from the office.

  “Don't say it,” Donovan said.

  “That it's awfully convenient Deepika’s on the scene but not in her own lab when a swarm of bees attack? Nah. That’s not suspicious.” Her smile faded. “You knew Gabe would never hire a metaphysical detective. Why did you bring him to see me?”

  “I didn’t. I wanted you to meet him. I had a bad feeling,” he said, echoing her earlier words.

  “I’m glad now you did. Whoever’s behind this needs to be stopped.” Riga could feel the strands of evidence gathering in her hands. Her chest tightened. But could she unravel the correct thread before anyone else got hurt?

  CHAPTER FOUR

  After their trip to the lab, Donovan dropped Riga at their house. His black SUV zipped up the long, winding drive and vanished around a bend, toward his casino.

  Her shoulders loosened, but Riga’s relief at his departure was followed quickly by guilt. She loved and respected Donovan, but she was used to working alone. Would that ever change?