The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Are you sure it wasn’t one of your neighbor’s cars?”

  Tammy folded her hands together, giving Riga a severe look. “I know what my neighbors’ cars look like.”

  Ten minutes later, they escaped, Cesar carrying a bag full of fresh cookies.

  He leaned against the door of his SUV, elbow on the hood. “Someone was with June before she died.”

  “We don’t know that,” Riga cautioned. “The car parked outside her house might have nothing to do with it. You said you saw the police report?”

  He opened the door to the SUV, reached inside. “I got a copy.” He handed her a slim manila folder.

  She thumbed through it, and paused at the photo of June’s body, crumpled beside her car where it had fallen. “You’ve got a better relationship with the police than I, if you could get your hands on this report.”

  “You’ve got more friends in the local cop shop than you might think.”

  “I need to talk to June,” she muttered.

  “Unless you’ve got a Ouija board... Oh.” Cesar reddened, his scars blazing tracks across his skin.

  “We need to go back to the accounting offices tonight, when things are quiet. I want to try again with June’s spirit.”

  “Sure. What about that car?”

  “We talk to the other neighbors, see if they remember anything, if they had any guests who might have parked that car there.”

  The owners of the first two homes remembered that day – the lights and police, the tragedy and spectacle. Neither had had guests, and neither knew anything about the car parked in front of June’s house. No one was home at the third door they knocked on. Riga scribbled a note on the back of one of her business cards, and wriggled it into the crack between the door and its frame, where the person would see it when they came home.

  “Think they’ll call back?” Cesar blew into his hands.

  Riga turned on her heel, and strode across the street to the SUV. “Doesn’t matter. We can use a reverse phone book, get their number and call them.”

  “You are a real detective.”

  She grinned. “And you thought I was just a pretty face.”

  “What next?”

  “There must be some people at the casino who knew June and Sandra. We talk to them.”

  Cesar opened the door for her. “So back to the accounting department.”

  “And the penthouse. Someone near the top was involved in this, and Reuben’s been treating the penthouse as his own since Donovan’s been away.”

  He shook his head. “Reuben? No way. He’s too tightly wound to pull off something like this.”

  “Maybe.” She buckled her seatbelt, waiting to speak until he’d come around the SUV and heaved himself inside. “He and Donovan have been at odds since Donovan’s taken a personal interest in the Stateline casino. Motive and opportunity – he’s a suspect.”

  He started the car, and glanced sidelong at her. “The simplest answer is usually the right one.”

  “Occam’s razor? If Donovan was going to embezzle from his own casino, why would he get the mob involved? It would be safer and saner to keep them out of it.”

  “Someone’s got to pay the IRS their cut. Maybe that was their payoff to Donovan for the receipt?”

  Riga frowned. “The laundering only started a few months ago; we won’t know how the money was going to be reported to the IRS. Returns aren’t due until next April.”

  Cesar pulled slowly onto the highway, and the rear wheels spun beneath them, the car slithering right. He corrected course without a flicker of expression.

  Riga stared out the window at the pines flashing past, their branches weighted with snow. Through a break in the trees she caught a glimpse of the lake, of a string of snow-topped boulders sinking into its waters. “We’ve been running on the FBI’s assumptions, but I’ve got a feeling June’s death is the key.”

  Cesar braked as a camper turned onto the highway in front of him. “That feeling and a nickle will buy you a cup of coffee.”

  “Not in this town.”

  The crowd of press outside the casino had swollen, their movements frenetic.

  “Who kicked over their beehive?” Riga panted, as Cesar slammed the service door shut on them.

  “Feeding frenzy.”

  Riga laughed. “Can we mix any more metaphors?” The feeling of oppression slammed into her, and she bent over, bracing her hands on her thighs. Had her pendulum work made things worse?

  “Hey? You okay?”

  The fluorescent lights above flickered, dimmed.

  “Yeah. Let’s move. Something about this hallway...” She straightened. “The whole casino feels off.”

  He followed her down the hall, silent as a cat on the concrete floor. “That’s because it’s empty. The mob is one thing, but not even gamblers like being associated with terrorist financiers.”

  Riga seethed on the ride up to the penthouse, wanting to argue the point, knowing it was futile. There was no terrorist connection. But people would believe what they wanted to believe, see what they wanted to see.

  The elevator door slid open on the foyer, on shouted male voices: Reuben, and—

  “Donovan.” Riga gasped, moving forward.

  Cesar grasped her elbow in a crushing grip. “Wait.”

  She whirled on him, furious. “Let go of me.”

  “You’re a detective,” he said in a low voice. “You won’t figure this out unless you play it smart. Listen.”

  She shook her head, and went to the open study door, stopping inside it. The men didn’t notice her.

  “This casino is dying,” Reuben shouted. “You have got to put your ego aside, and remove yourself.”

  “I can’t step aside, not when the casino needs me.” Donovan stood in front of the fire, his green eyes blazing, his chiseled face haggard. He rumpled his black pelt of hair, a counterpoint to the razor sharp creases in his coal black suit.

  Reuben paced in front of him like an angry cat. “You aren’t helping. We’ve just lost the New Year’s poker tournament because of your mess.”

  “My mess?”

  “There’s no use pretending this was caused by anyone else. I don’t know what happened to that money,” Reuben snarled, “but I do know we’ve got a crisis to deal with now, and you aren’t helping.”

  The silence thickened.

  Finally, Donovan spoke. “You think I’m guilty. Christ.”

  Riga bowed her head, heartsick at the hurt in Donovan’s voice.

  All his adult life, Donovan had been in control, shaping his destiny, taking care of others. If he went to prison, he wouldn’t even be allowed to decide what time to wake up in the morning. He couldn’t step back from the casino, from doing things, from taking charge, not now. Not ever.

  “You know you need to step aside, and let me do my job,” Reuben said.

  “Donovan,” she said.

  His head jerked toward her, his eyes widening. “Riga.” His voice rumbled through her like a thunderstorm.

  She felt, rather than heard, a sob rise to her lips. Embarrassed, she clenched her jaw, blinking back the tears that threatened.

  He strode to her, pulling her into his arms, kissing her forehead. He smelled of musk and woodlands, and Riga breathed into him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, and pressed her head to his chest, feeling the corded muscles beneath his clothing, content to hear his heartbeat thundering against her, to feel the warmth of his presence.

  Or perhaps not so content. A shiver of want ran through her.

  Someone sighed in the corner of the room, and Riga turned her head toward the sound.

  Isabelle stepped from the shadows, slipping a cardinal red briefcase beneath one slim arm. She brushed a fleck of lint from her camel-colored skirt suit, and looked to Donovan, cocked her head towards the door, questioning.

  “Reuben, Isabelle... Some privacy?” Donovan said.

  Reuben’s lips tightened with disapproval. “We still have decisions to make.” />
  “You’ve made your point,” Donovan growled. “We’ll talk more later.”

  Reuben stomped past.

  Isabelle followed, but stopped beside them. “He’s right though, there is a lot—”

  “Not now.”

  She blinked, tucked a wayward strand of blond hair behind one ear. “Of course.”

  Isabelle left, closing the door gently behind her.

  Donovan put his hands on her arms and gently stepped away from her. “I called when they released me. Did you get my message?”

  She shook her head. Half the time she didn’t hear her phone ring.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he said. “God, I can’t tell you how much.”

  She brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”

  He pulled her toward the fire, down upon a leather couch, and sat beside her. “Riga, there’s no way for this to end well. Even if I’m acquitted... That’s not what people will remember. The accusation will stick.”

  “Not if we find out who’s really responsible.” But they’d have to do it quickly, prove his innocence while the media spotlight was still on him. If they found the culprit after the press had moved on – no one would know, it wouldn’t get the same coverage. Once, long ago, Riga had been in PR. She’d blocked most of it from her mind, avoiding that scene now, but she still knew how it worked. And she hated it.

  “How do you know I’m not responsible?”

  She gazed steadily at him. “I made the decision to trust you long ago. That hasn’t changed.”

  He stood, walked away from her, stared into the fire. “I can’t drag you into this. You may feel obligated, but don’t. You don’t owe me anything.”

  She tilted her head back, felt her hair slip, cascade down her shoulders. “This isn’t about obligation.” But was it? Perhaps, deep down, there was a sense of obligation, but not because of Donovan’s proposal, not because of a sexual bond. It was because he was a good man, and he deserved better.

  “This isn’t your problem,” he said.

  “And what if I want to make it my problem?”

  “Riga—”

  “There’s a ghost in accounting,” she said. “Her name is June Carding. When she died, Sandra took her place in the department. June’s spirit is confused, hard to communicate with, but she knows something about the money laundering.”

  “You’re changing the subject.”

  “Not changed, closed it. Short of having the guards chuck me out of the building – which would be unchivalrous and embarrassing – I’m with you in this.”

  He frowned.

  “I’ve checked out the detective Sharon hired,” Riga continued. “Vogelberg’s good. But he can’t talk to dead witnesses.”

  “If there’s a ghost in accounting, I can talk to her.”

  She shook her head. “I think it’s a sort of imprint haunting. June is living out the same event over and over again. It’s going to be hard to get through to her. You’ll need help.”

  “I don’t want you to rescue me, Riga.”

  “If you think I can just sit back and watch this unfold, when I have unique access to evidence, you’ve got another think coming.”

  “This isn’t a case of metaphysics.”

  “This case will take a lot of people, working together, to collect the pieces that will get us to the truth. Please don’t ask me to step aside.”

  Something sparked in the depths of his eyes. “June Carding... It’s a chance.”

  She uncoiled herself from the couch, paced toward him. “I’ve never failed to solve a case, Donovan.” A smile ghosted her lips. “And I always get my man.”

  Chapter 19

  Their lovemaking was frenzied, bittersweet.

  Spent, Riga lay on top of him. Donovan reached up and grabbed the throw blanket from the back of the leather couch, pulling it over her. The soft fabric tickled the backs of her knees, and she twitched with pleasure.

  He nibbled her ear. “We can’t stay here forever.”

  She trailed one hand along his hip, knowing this feeling would have to end. Soon, they’d be pitched back into the real world, into the accusations and anger and fear.

  He wrapped his arm around her, and pulled her more tightly to him. “But I don’t want it to end either.”

  She felt his chest rise and fall beneath her, the beating of his heart. She raised herself, drew her fingertips across the small, cross-shaped scar on his jaw. Donovan had a strange, wild sensuality that never failed to fascinate her, even when she pretended otherwise.

  Riga rolled off him, padding to the fireplace, the blanket draped around her like a toga. The stone hearth warmed her feet, and she picked up the wrought iron poker, prodded the flames. The logs shifted, a shower of sparks shooting upward.

  “They told me you were staying with a friend,” he said.

  He sprawled at ease, one arm bent behind his head, his legs long and firm as tree trunks. Modesty had never been Donovan’s strong suit and she smiled at his nakedness, at the rough triangle of dark curls that ended above his bellybutton.

  “I’ll have to return there tonight.” Riga explained about Sal, the fishing wire across the stairs, the death fae, the bargain. She hung her head, unable to look at him. What she’d done was unforgivable, and it affected him. He had to know. “It was just a moment, a split second when my mind thought ‘yes,’ and that was it, the bargain was made. It was wrong. I know it’s wrong – to take a stranger’s life in exchange for yours. But I just—” She rubbed her temple, unsure where to go next.

  “You really believe this? That my life is in danger? That this... Ankou, can take my soul?”

  Her head jerked toward him. “Of course you’re in danger! Sandra is dead. Someone here, at the casino, did this, and they framed you.”

  He swung his bare feet from the couch, and rested his elbows on his knees, his muscular arms dangling loose. “If this is what you believe, then I’m glad you’re at Sal’s, that you’ve put some distance between you and the casino. But families can get ugly over money. This isn’t some genteel country house mystery. You could have been seriously hurt on those stairs.”

  “Donovan. You don’t understand what I’ve done.”

  He stood swiftly and came to her, ran his hands down her arms. “Forget about it. It’s done.”

  “You don’t believe me, not really.” If he did, he wouldn’t be taking it this easily.

  “Of course I do. After everything we’ve experienced together, how could I not? But... I admit, I’m having a tough time taking our fairy problem seriously. How bad can they be?”

  She nodded. “Disturbingly.”

  “Tell me.”

  “They’re daimons, both material and immaterial, of nature and of the supernatural, liminal beings that exist between our world and the other. Do you know that stories of faeries exist in nearly every culture? Although the Renaissance magicians had a mania for classifying the supernatural, for putting its beings in a hierarchy, they left the fae outside their systems. The fae stand apart, because they’re so unpredictable, so impossible to classify. That makes them dangerous.”

  She swung the poker loosely, like a pendulum. “How much do you know about them?”

  “Wings. Pointy hats. Curly-toed shoes. Rosy cheeks.” His gaze dropped to the curve of her butt, and in spite of everything, she laughed.

  “Think less Tinkerbell, more Brothers Grimm. They hail from a darker age than those gauzy Victorian faeries, to the old stories of stealing human babies and kidnapping mortal women. That’s the sort of world the fae come from, and they’re powerful and amoral and dangerous.”

  “You just said they were unpredictable.”

  “There have been helpful faeries, of course. But they’re apt to turn. They’re like nature: beautiful to look at and demanding of respect, because it can just as easily turn and eat you.”

  “And your friend Sal works with them.” He stared at the fire. “Faerie shamanism. Bizarre.�
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  “It’s not as New Age as it may sound. Eskimo shamans have been known to work with little people; so have the Celts. As in between creatures, the fae are well-suited to help a shaman with his own journey between worlds.”

  “But if they’re as unpredictable as you say, how could a shaman trust them?”

  “Because the fae get something out of the bargain, too. They’re as hungry and curious about our side of the universe as we are of theirs. And shamans will typically propitiate them with food and other things.” Like sex. Riga shifted uneasily.

  She hurried on. “Sal’s a cultural relativist, so she takes the fae in stride. But I’m not, and I don’t like them. Unfortunately, I’m stuck with Ankou, until I can figure out who’s trying to harm Sal.”

  He shook his head. “I’m glad you brought Ash in, but why not use him to guard Sal during the nights as well?”

  “It didn’t seem fair to use him twenty four-seven. And I need to be there too, if I’m going to figure this out.” And she did have to figure it out. Donovan might be skeptical of Ankou, and she certainly had reason to be, but the fae took their agreements seriously. For the fae, a deal was more than a deal.

  He smirked.

  “What are you grinning at?”

  “With your wild red hair, you look like Boadicea, holding that poker like a weapon, wearing that blanket as a cape.”

  She slid the poker into its hook upon the stand, and raked her hand through her hair. “My hair’s auburn.”

  His green eyes gleamed, and he pulled her closer.

  She held her hand up. “Donovan.”

  He stopped, his chest pressed against her palm. “I’m glad you ended the deal with Ankou, though I don’t believe he has any power over me. In a sense, this is good. I’ve been warned; I’ll be more careful.”

  “But—”

  “Forget about Ankou. I want to meet this ghost in accounting.”

  She let her hand slide down to his hip. “If we’re lucky, she’ll appear at the same time every evening. We can try tonight, if you like.”

  “Can’t you summon her?”

  “Ye-es. But in her state, I’m afraid it would only confuse her more. I could just end up making things worse.”