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

by Kirsten Weiss

  Sighing, Riga turned to the gabled stone and shingle mansion. One day, Donovan hoped to fill it with children. She wasn’t sure what she hoped for.

  Patches of snow dotted the short lawn. She closed her eyes and inhaled the scent of the estate's pines. From behind their home, waves crashed, as if a motorboat had recently passed and churned the waters. Some of the tension in her shoulders leaked out, and she imagined it draining into the earth.

  “So.” A feminine voice above her graveled. “What did you learn?”

  Riga's eyes fluttered open. “There was another incident.” She trudged inside, through the stone-tiled foyer, up the white-carpeted stairs to the master bedroom. She longed to throw herself on the king-sized bed facing the lake. Instead, she went to an inset bookcase and pressed a hidden knob.

  The bookcase swung inward, revealing a small library. Rough, wooden bookshelves on three walls. Small windows high in the walls, their view blocked by pine trees, one window ajar. A single lounge chair in a corner beside a reading lamp. A western-style desk with studded leather on the top and a matching leather chair.

  Brigitte perched on the desk beside a black replica of a nineteen-forties-era phone. The desk groaned beneath her weight.

  The gargoyle's head rotated with a grinding sound. “And?”

  Riga dropped her satchel with a thud to the wooden floor. “An attack by Africanized bees inside the lab. It was chaos.” She frowned, her internal alarms jangling. Chaos.

  “What are you thinking?”

  She pulled off her safari jacket and draped it on the back of the chair. “I think I need to research chaos magic.”

  “Faugh!” The gargoyle sniffed. “Modern tripe!”

  “But chaos keeps cropping up.” Riga opened a drawer and pulled out an e-reader. In no time, she'd downloaded a book and sat reading in her leather lounge chair, her legs in their khaki slacks stretched out.

  “You see what I mean?” the gargoyle asked. “You cannot even find a real book on this so-called magic.”

  “You're just mad I won't let Donovan get you an e-reader. But you know you'll break it.” Stone claws were not designed for touch screens.

  “Chaos magic.” The gargoyle sneered and subsided, her feathers rasping into place.

  Riga read quickly (speedreading was her first life hack). When she'd finished an hour later, she laid the e-reader on the desk and exhaled heavily.

  “Well?” Brigitte asked.

  “As I'm sure you already knew, chaos magic doesn't cause chaos.”

  “Yes, yes.” The gargoyle shifted on the bookshelf. “And?”

  “It's more a philosophy than a magical system. It’s based on the idea that it's the magician's belief in his systems and symbols that make them work. So, the magician should experiment and develop the best system and symbols that work for him.”

  “Or her,” Brigitte said.

  “Chaos magicians pull from all sorts of traditions. For example, the servitors in chaos magic are like the thought forms the 20th century occultist Dion Fortune wrote about.”

  “Tuplas, you mean.”

  “Whatever. These spirits or entities are normally created through ritual and will. Magicians can them use them to do their bidding.”

  Brigitte’s feathers rustled. “Everyone wants a servant.”

  “But in chaos magic, instead of using the classic rites, the author might create a servitor based on a Star Trek character. I've never tried to create a thought form,” Riga mused.

  “I advise against it,” Brigitte said sharply. “They can develop minds of their own. And like demons, they can turn.”

  They both fell silent. Riga and Brigitte had dealt with their share of demons.

  “This is the problem with modern magicians,” Brigitte said. “They think they can do anything! Like children, they have no sense of any possible dangers.”

  “There are risks. But you’ve got to admit, pulling from many traditions and making your own magic isn't so different from what I do.”

  “I must admit nothing. You would never base magic on a TV series! It is ridiculous. Profane! There are reasons why we work magic based on tradition.”

  “Yes,” Riga said slowly. There were more known quantities when dealing with traditional forms. It was easier to predict magical causes and effects. But she’d gone magically off-roading more than once. Uneasy, she stirred in her chair. “And the chaos motto gives me pause. Nothing is true, everything is permitted. That can go bad fast.” She tapped the e-reader. “Though this author argues that chaos magicians can and should behave honorably.” But without some core belief, without a code or compass, Riga had a hard time understanding how.

  “Why do you think what you are dealing with now has to do with chaos magic?” Brigitte asked.

  Riga clawed a hand through her auburn hair in a quick, angry gesture. “Because chaos keeps coming up. Every person I've spoken with has used that word to describe what’s happening. There’s something… different about this magic.”

  Riga pawed through her satchel and pulled out the notebook. “There was an attachment surrounding the lab, knotted like – well, it was a tangle. Chaos. But it was big enough that I could make out some of the symbols on the attachment.” She opened the notebook and shoved it across the desk to the gargoyle.

  “And there was no end to the cord. It wasn’t attached to whomever had cast the spell,” Riga finished.

  Brigitte craned her neck at the dashes and symbols. “Gibberish.”

  “It looks like an equation.” Riga pointed to a star made up of arrows pointed on both ends. “This is the symbol for chaos magic.”

  Brigitte tossed her head. “If you say so.”

  “Now that I've read my electronic book, I do say so. And there's something else. Not long after Acton was killed yesterday, the spell turned on Donovan.” Her speech grew rushed. “The magician had to have been nearby, watching, but I couldn't sense him.” But why hadn’t she?

  “You will, of course, have to kill this magician.”

  Riga's jaw hardened. It was their eternal argument, her own personal snake biting its tail. “No.”

  “If, as you say, these symbols and systems are personal to the magician, then you cannot break his spell. You cannot hope to read or understand it.”

  Damn. Riga sank back in the wingchair and blew out her breath.

  “You don't even know if he's using a demon to do his, how-do-you-say? Filthy work?”

  “Dirty work,” Riga corrected absently.

  “To end his dark magic, you must find this magician and kill him.”

  “You're half right.” Riga stood. “I’ll find the magician.”

  *****

  Getting into the country club was easy. Donovan had a membership.

  Getting to Acton Industry’s main rival, Harley Westbrook, was a different matter. A stone-faced bodyguard stood outside the archway to the lounge Westbrook had commandeered.

  In the end, Riga had cast a cloaking spell that convinced the neckless bodyguard she was a waitress.

  Riga dropped the spell when she was seated in the wingchair opposite Westbrook.

  The mogul started, dropping his cigar on the modern gray carpet.

  She nodded toward the smoldering butt. “Membership really does have its privileges.” It was a non-smoking club.

  He grunted, scowling, and retrieved the fallen cigar. “The room’s mine. And so is the carpet.” He set the sheaf of papers he'd been reading on the curving wooden coffee table between them.

  The club reminded Riga a bit of her home – different shades of wood and pale stone. But sand-colored wallpaper patterned with pale silhouettes of aspens covered one wall of the lounge.

  “Rented for the day?” She shrugged out of her suede jacket and draped it over the arm of the chair.

  “For good. Who the hell are you?”

  “Riga Mosse.” Nonchalantly, she adjusted a cuff of her ivory blouse. She was in
a hurry and judged Donovan’s name the path of least resistance. Also, people were slower to notice her resemblance to Rita Hayworth. “I think you know my husband? Donovan Mosse.”

  Squinting, he stuck his tongue in his cheek and rolled the cigar between his knuckles. The squint may have been intended to discomfit her, but it made his eyes nearly vanish into his face.

  She sat, silent and unmoving.

  He stretched his legs past the coffee table, his boots coming close to brushing her own. Harley had long legs, and Riga guessed he was over six-feet. He shrugged beneath his navy suit jacket, making himself more comfortable. “If you're soliciting for charity, that goes through my office.”

  His response had been annoyingly predictable. “I'm not. I'm a detective. I'm investigating Gabe Acton's death.”

  “You said you're Donovan Mosse's wife? The Donovan Mosse who owns the casinos?”

  “That's the one.” She smiled thinly. “Don't worry, I've got a club membership, or they wouldn't have let me inside.”

  He glowered at his bodyguard's back. “At least someone was doing their job.”

  “So. Acton. Any thoughts on who killed him?”

  He raised a brow. “Not, where were you yesterday at four-thirty PM?”

  “You know Acton’s time of death? Then you do care.”

  The cigar moved more quickly between his knuckles. He looked out the picture window, to the golf course and the lake beyond. “It's my business to know things.”

  “Whoever killed Acton hired someone to manage the hit. It doesn't matter where you were.”

  He trained his gaze on her and brought the cigar to his mouth, puffed. “And you think I’m responsible.” He shot a stream of smoke to her left.

  “I think you have a unique perspective on the victim that I'd like to hear.”

  “All right.” He leaned forward, thick arms on his thighs, hands dangling between his knees. “Contrary to popular belief, Gabe Acton was a better businessman than a scientist. He knew to surround himself with talent and how to get that talent to do their best. But geniuses sometimes have their own ideas about how things should work. They start to think because they’re brilliant in one area, they're brilliant in all.”

  Riga thought about that. “Their own ideas? Such as Tod Crafton disliking contracting for the military.”

  He raised a brow. “He’s got his reasons.”

  “Oh?”

  His gaze shifted to the picture windows. “It’s not my business to tell.”

  A part of her appreciated his discretion. Another part found it irritating. “And Deepika?”

  “She liked the military angle, thought it was a stable income stream. And there is good money in it. But she’s wrong about the stability. Political winds shift. Remember what happened to aerospace in the eighties?”

  Barely. “There were cutbacks in defense spending. It nearly killed the industry in Southern California. So what was Deepika's beef?”

  “Like I said, Gabe wasn't the brains behind their breakthroughs.”

  “But Deepika was? And she wanted more... what? Control?”

  “You'll have to ask her.” He relaxed back in his chair. “It's lucky you're easy on the eyes, you know, or I'd have thrown you out on your ass, Mosse’s wife or not.” His gaze traveled from her boots to the top of her head and returned to rest on her face. “You know, you look kind of familiar. Have we met?”

  “No.” How many classic-movie fans were there on this side of the lake? “You crashed an Acton Industries party here at the club last month.”

  He shrugged, the shoulders of his navy suit wrinkling. “So? I'm a club member.”

  “Tell me more about Tod and Deepika.”

  “Not much to tell. Tod owns forty-nine percent of the company, and now I guess Deepika’s got the rest. That is what you want to know, isn’t it? Who benefits?”

  So Gabe had the majority share. That explained why it was called Acton Industries.

  Three men with golf clubs slung over their shoulders strolled past the glass door to the patio. They roared with laughter.

  “There was a scientist at the event talking chaos theory,” she said. “Did you meet him?”

  “Scientist?” He snorted. “He was a computer geek.”

  At a recruiting event for chemists? “You talked to him?”

  “I talked to a lot of people, and computer geeks can be useful. Especially the weirdos.”

  “Was he a software engineer?” she asked.

  “Yeah.”

  “Were there other software engineers at the event?”

  “Nah, he was a fish out of water. That's probably why he buttonholed Deepika. With her math brain, she gets computers.” He waggled his fingers near his ear.

  “Did you get his name?”

  “I got his card.” He snapped his fingers.

  The bodyguard turned, and his eyes widened at the sight of Riga. Expression hard, he strode to the two. “Yes, Mr. Westbrook?”

  “The cards I collected from that party here last month. Get 'em for me.”

  The man glanced nervously at Riga. “Yes, sir.” He strode from the lounge.

  “Don’t tell me you’ve got another office inside the club?” she asked.

  “I like this place. What can I say? I'd buy the club if I could, but not everything's for sale.” He crooked a smile, as if the thought pleased him. “So I lease its rooms. You?”

  “Me?”

  “Where do you work?”

  She named the address.

  “You like it?”

  “I'm not sure it suits me.” Riga shifted, surprised by her own candor. She hadn't even admitted this to Donovan.

  “That's interesting.” He leaned forward again. “Why?”

  She took her time answering, casting for magical influence at work and finding none. “Do you want to visit a detective in a luxury office, or in a working office?”

  “I want to see success. It's proof my theoretical detective knows what she's doing. But am I your typical client?”

  “Not by a long shot.”

  He tipped his head. “You got something against rich clients?”

  “No, but you’re not my type.” A skeptic. Or was his bluff, bare-tacks demeanor a front for a secret interest in the occult? She didn’t sense magic on him, but the nagging doubt at the back of her mind refused to shut up.

  He stiffened. “So, you're a do-gooder.”

  “Not by a long shot,” she repeated. Riga didn't do her work with any delusions about saving the world. Or getting rich. She did it because she had to.

  He barked a laugh.

  “You wouldn’t make a bad detective,” she said. He’d gotten her to talk.

  “Nah. I never wanted to be a detective when I was a kid. I wanted to be a spy.”

  The skin between her shoulder blades prickled. “I heard Acton Industries has had to fend off some espionage.”

  He laughed shortly. “I’ll bet they have, with what they’ve got.”

  “How do you know what they have?” What were they working on?

  He tapped one finger on the side of his nose and didn’t reply.

  “What's your interest in Acton Industries?” she asked.

  “I want to buy the company.”

  “And do what with it?”

  He smiled. “I like you. Most people would assume I'd let it keep on doing what it was doing.”

  “Would you?”

  “Of course not. Word is, they've made a breakthrough, one the government doesn’t have the imagination to handle. Something that big shouldn't be in the hands of bureaucrats.”

  She tried again. “What sort of breakthrough?”

  He winked. “That would be telling.”

  She repressed a grimace. It probably didn’t matter to the case. But what if it did?

  The bodyguard returned with an older woman in a pencil skirt and cardigan.

  She carried a china plate
, a stack of cards atop it. “Here you go, Harley, the cards you requested.” She smiled, expression guileless, at Riga.

  “Thanks, May.” He shuffled through them, drew one out. “This is the guy.”

  “And he was talking about chaos theory,” Riga said, examining the card.

  “Oh, yeah.” He nodded to May, and the older woman left. “Chaos is the son of quantum physics, blah, blah, blah.”

  She read the name. “Murdoch Montgomery?”

  “The guy's a giant Scot. He wasn't wearing a kilt, but I can’t help thinking of him in one. And believe me, I’d rather not.”

  She photographed the card with her phone and returned it to him.

  “So, did you hire him?” she asked.

  He grinned. “All personnel information is confidential.”

  It was as good as she was going to get today. “Thanks.” Riga stood.

  He did not.

  She exited out the sliding glass door and onto a porch overlooking the golf course. A pine rose through a circular hole cut in the deck.

  Beneath the tree, Riga braced her hands on the railing and stared past the rolling lawn at the massive lake. Tethered boats bobbed in the distance, their masts swaying. Wind tossed her hair, and the far-off lake turned gray. A trick of the light – perhaps a reflection off the golf course – turned the whitecaps sickly green.

  Harley Westbrook had been helpful. Too helpful?

  She glanced sidelong at the lounge. The closed glass doors reflected the golf course, obscuring the man within.

  Her safari jacket flapped in a sudden gust of wind that made her take a step backward. Strands of hair lashed her eyes, and she clawed it away.

  “Look out!” a man shouted.

  She turned.

  A blur of color. The brush of something weighty against her arm. A thunk.

  Riga stared.

  A beach umbrella quivered, its point embedded, chest level in the pine tree beside her.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Murdoch Montgomery’s A-frame cabin was tucked behind a hill, blocking any view of the lake. Faint clangs of metal on metal, from a shopping mall under construction, echoed up the hill and set Riga’s teeth on edge.