The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  Riga went to the closet, and the rows of slacks and blouses it held. What went with bulletproof vests?

  He growled, a low frustrated noise. “Then I’m calling Ash.”

  “He’s with Sal.” She looked over her shoulder at him. “I’m headed to the hospital shortly, will meet up with him there.”

  He slid out of bed, pulled his slacks on. “This is my problem. I couldn’t live with myself if you were hurt because of it.”

  “I understand. That’s why I’ve given King everything I know, and why he gave me that vest.” She nodded toward the vest draped over a rickety wooden chair. “He’s a good detective.” But she hadn’t told the Sheriff everything she suspected, and this morning, she needed to work alone.

  “I’m calling one of my men to watch you.” He turned to her. His hair was rumpled, his chest bare. “Please, Riga. Do this for me.”

  She hesitated. It wasn’t fair to make him worry, and his request was reasonable. “I’m going to the fortune teller’s shack – the one in the mini-mall. Can your man meet me there in an hour? I should be done by then.”

  Donovan’s shoulders relaxed. “He’ll be there. You can’t miss him. He looks like Thor.”

  “What’s his name?”

  He slipped an arm into his black shirt. “Thor.”

  “Easy to remember. And what about your protection? What about Cesar?” she asked.

  Donovan looked down, buttoning his shirt. “He’s in Reno, on his way to Vegas for a pick up.”

  Good. She liked Cesar, but didn’t like that situation.

  “When will I see you again?” she asked.

  “Tonight. The casino.”

  “June’s ghost?”

  “That too.”

  He gave her a lingering kiss goodbye. Once he’d left, Riga showered and changed into khakis, a loose white blouse that hid the vest, and boots. She stepped out onto the balcony, hopeful Brigitte was there, discreetly waiting for Donovan’s departure.

  She wasn’t. Riga felt the stirrings of anxiety in her gut. Brigitte wouldn’t have left her without a word for so long. Not under these circumstances.

  She closed her eyes and reached out with her magical senses, searched for the tie that bound her and the gargoyle together.

  Nothing.

  Uneasy, Riga returned inside and unearthed a roll of duct tape from one of the closets, and taped the two pieces of her phone together. Stylish.

  Not liking the look of the light outside, she wrapped a cable knit scarf around her neck. Riga checked her leather bag, tossing out the scraps of paper that had accumulated, making sure she was ready for anything. But you were never really ready for anything – only the things you’d prepared for.

  Chapter 28

  Riga pulled into the parking lot of a mini-mall, a two-story, brown painted wood-timbered building. Cars crusted with ice and snow clustered in front of a grocery store, and she rolled past them, to the far corner of the lot, where an old photo shack stood, a red palm painted on its side. Icicles hung thick from its eaves, and red-checked curtains shielded the windows. A battered VW bug crouched beside the shack.

  She smiled, satisfied. Her quarry was home.

  Fortune teller… Red... The photo...

  She thought she understood Vogelberg’s last words. Lake Tahoe was thick with psychics and other magical practitioners, but only one worked in an old photo shack with a red palm on the side: Lily. And Lily and Reuben knew each other – she’d seen him once going into the shack.

  He hadn’t been pleased to find Riga there.

  Riga got out of the car, her steps mincing on the slick asphalt. She slipped once, caught herself before she could hit the ground. Reaching the brown-painted door safely, she felt a sense of accomplishment. Small victories. She’d take them.

  Window boxes held rows of miniature Christmas trees. Something glittered in their branches and Riga leaned forward for a closer look. Tiny white lights, unplugged now in the cold morning light.

  She rapped smartly on the door.

  “Just a minute,” a feminine voice rang out.

  A gust of wind played with Riga’s hair, and she smoothed it behind her ears. A storm was coming all right. The sky above was flat and blue now, but storms moved quickly in the mountains – one moment sunny skies and the next, roiling clouds. And clouds massed behind the mountain peaks, piling upon each other like waves about to break.

  The door opened on an elfin-looking woman with delicate skin and blond hair flowing down her back.

  Her blue eyes widened with delight. “Riga!” Bouncing on her toes, she crossed her arms, rumpling her violet-colored crocheted vest. “Come in, come in. It’s freezing out.”

  Riga ducked inside, feeling unnaturally large in the confines of the shack, and pulled the door shut behind her. A square wooden table stood in the center of the cramped room. Two wooden seats had been set into the wall on hinges to save space. Riga flipped one down and sat upon it, got up again, took off her pea coat, and hung it on an empty peg. A space heater sat on the narrow counter to her left, doing champion’s work. Sweat pooled beneath the vest.

  Lily pulled down the other flip chair and sat. The wall behind her was lined with rows of metal tea tins on wooden shelves.

  Drying herbs and ceramic faeries hung from the wooden beams above them. Riga avoided looking at them.

  “How have you been?” The palm reader asked. “It’s been weeks.”

  “Reuben’s told you about Donovan, of course.”

  “Of c...” Lily blinked. Her mouth snapped shut.

  “I saw him here last month. Remember? It’s no secret he’s been seeing you.”

  Lily flushed scarlet, and Riga suddenly understood her own unwitting double entendre. She’d thought Reuben had been seeing Lily as a client. Was there something more there?

  The palm reader pulled her hair forward, twining it around her fingers, shielding her face. “You know I can’t talk about clients.”

  “But he’s more than a client.”

  Shoulders hunched, Lily stared fixedly at a spot on the table.

  “He’s soon to be my cousin-in-law.”

  Lily’s head jerked up. “What? You mean... You and Donovan Mosse? Oh, Riga. That’s wonderful! Congratulations!”

  Riga stretched her lips into a grin. A rotten liar, she’d learned long ago to stay as close to the truth as possible. “Which is why I need to know what’s going on with Reuben. Discreetly. He said he was in his office the afternoon Sandra, the accountant at the casino, was shot. But he wasn’t there. Was he with you?”

  Lily smiled, shaking her head.

  Riga pushed harder. “It doesn’t look good when someone lies to the police about where they were when a murder took place. Someone needs to clear this up. Someone in the family, who knows how to keep things quiet.”

  Lily plucked at the tablecloth.

  Riga waited. Come on, Lily. Pick up the hint.

  “His wife brought him here,” Lily blurted. “Last year. She wanted a reading. He thought it was stupid. They were having… problems.”

  “And he came back?”

  She blew out her breath. “I think he just wanted to talk, and figured since I knew the story already, I was safe. We didn’t mean for it...” She released the strand of hair coiled around her finger, picked up another. “He was here, with me. We heard the shot. You know how sound carries in the mountains. But we didn’t know what it was. I thought it was a car backfiring. Later, when I saw the news...”

  Riga gazed at her, assessing. Lily could be lying. Or telling partial truths. The Sheriff’s station was only a few blocks away – she’d had to pass the photo shack on her way to and from there. Reuben could have come here, gone on foot through the woods to the station, killed Sandra, and returned. Or he could have been there the entire time, innocent, as Lily said.

  Riga stood. “Thanks, Lily. I’ll let the Sheriff know. He’ll be discreet.”

  Lily lurched across the table, grasped Riga’s wrist. “Reuben
needs to tell his wife in his own way. He’s going to do it. But she can’t find out like this. Please, Riga.”

  “I won’t tell her.” There was no way Riga was going to step into that mess. She doubted the Sheriff had any desire to do so either.

  Lily released her, slumped in her seat. “Sorry.” Her lips tilted downward.

  Riga shrugged into her pea coat.

  Lily’s eyes grew watery. “I’m not... I’m not that kind of girl. You know?”

  Riga sighed, put her hand on the doorknob. “Yeah. I know.”

  Outside, Riga stopped dead.

  A black SUV was parked beside her Lincoln. Two of Gregorovich’s thugs from the casino lounged outside it; one leaned against the passenger door to her own car. They wore black parkas and careless expressions.

  The guy against her car had done a piss poor job of concealing his weapon. The cuff of his shiny gray slacks bunched around an ankle holster. Riga guessed he had another weapon closer to hand.

  She could go back inside, call Ash for help. And bring them in after her? What would happen to Lily?

  She walked forward. “Looking for someone?”

  The man against the SUV opened its rear passenger door. His eyes were small, piggish, in his broad face. The freckles were an incongruous note – the Beaver gone bad. “Get in.”

  Her mouth went dry.

  The first rule of assaults – never get in the freaking car. Do everything you can not to get in the car.

  On the other hand, there was no reason to think this was the start of an assault. Sure, Gregorovich’s men probably beat people for fun, but she didn’t think that was why they’d come for her.

  “This isn’t a good time,” she said. “I’m due for questioning at the Sheriff’s department.” Might as well slide that lie in so she could repeat it later, give them something to think about.

  The second man straightened from her car, rolled his head. His neck and shoulders formed a taut arc, thick and muscled.

  “The Sheriff can wait,” the man by the SUV said.

  Thug number two moved toward her.

  She got in the SUV.

  Thug two slid in beside her, forced her to shift over. He took her bag from her, held it on his lap. It would have looked comical, the big man hunched over her purse, if her heart wasn’t threatening to break out of her chest.

  The interior of the SUV was all black – probably made it easier to hide the blood stains.

  With that depressing thought, she propped her head on her hand, elbow against the ledge, and gazed out the tinted window. Riga had the highway sights memorized by now – as much as she loved Tahoe, the main highway that wrapped around the lake had been so well traveled it had gotten monotonous. Sheriff’s station, pancake house, casino, hotel, snow covered golf course, stands of trees, private drives…

  The SUV turned off the road, and stopped before an electronic gate. It swung open, shuddering on its hinges. The car rolled slowly down a steep driveway, tires crunching in the snow, and into a circular drive with a snow-covered fountain in the center – cupid aiming his bow. Cupid looked angry, brows furrowed in concentration, arrow aimed toward a wood and stone lakeside house. It looked a lot like the house Donovan was staying in now, with a gabled roof and stone-covered walls on the first floor, natural wood on the second.

  The man in the backseat opened the door, slid out. He waited, impassive, as Riga stepped out of the SUV and onto the swept drive. The two men bracketed her, fore and aft, marching her to the door. It swung open before they reached it, and she spotted a security camera in the eaves, aimed at the vehicle.

  She walked into the foyer, curling her lip at the gilt and glitter – a crystal chandelier, gold painted baroque side tables, and a red and gold Persian rug. Gregorovich had bypassed mountain chic and gone straight for post-Soviet schlock. The conspicuous consumption theme continued down carpeted steps with curlicue, wrought iron banisters, and into the living room. Picture windows looked out over the lake, blue-gray in the morning light, and at pines laden with snow. But Riga’s eyes were inexorably drawn to the hockey game on the massive TV that covered most of one wall.

  Gregorovich lay, stretched out on a gilt couch with white cushions, his gaze fixed on the game.

  “Sharks or Red Wings?” she asked.

  He swung his feet to the floor, faced her. His black silk shirt was open at the collar, exposing wiry hairs upon his chest. A band aid creased his forehead, a memento of the accident in the casino.

  A part of her wanted to laugh – he dressed like a seventies cliché of gangster. But those black, expressionless eyes chilled her.

  “Red Wings, of course. You like hockey?”

  “No, and I don’t like being kidnapped either. What do you want, Gregorovich?”

  “Call me Vasily, please.” He came around the couch toward her, his arms open in a pacifying gesture. “All my friends do.”

  It was all she could do not to step back, put more distance between them. “We’re not friends. What do you want?”

  He cocked his head toward a chair. “Have a seat.”

  “No thanks. I don’t plan on staying here long.”

  He shrugged. “Women! They do what they want to do, eh?” He turned to the two thugs and laughed, an odd, high-pitched whinny that made her flesh twitch. The thugs laughed with him, their shoulders bobbing with mirth.

  Gregorovich sat on a white leather chair, wagging a long finger at her. “That was some trick in the casino – the guns, the lamp. How did you do it?”

  “I didn’t. I don’t know what happened.”

  “There’s magic on you, Miss Hayworth. I can smell it.” His nose twitched.

  “Must be my perfume.”

  He relaxed backward, and snapped his fingers. “Bag.”

  Backseat thug trotted to Gregorovich’s side, handed him her bag.

  Gregorovich unhooked the straps, rummaged through it. He brandished her duct-taped cell phone. “Your Mr. Mosse can’t afford to buy you a new phone? Very sad.”

  “I buy my own phones. And that was an emergency repair.”

  “You are a regular MacGyver, though this phone lacks a certain style. Clamshells are passé.”

  Riga bridled. She so did not need fashion tips from a man whose idea of style was stuck in the disco era.

  He turned the phone off and tossed it aside, dove back into the bag. “Ah ha!” Triumphantly, he pulled out her tarot deck, and shook his head, smiling, as if she’d been naughty. “There is no sense hiding. Gregorovich sees all.”

  She shrugged. “Lots of people have them.”

  He relaxed back in his chair, and opened the box of cards. “You are not lots of people.” He began to draw the cards out, paused. “May I?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “Some people do not like to have their cards touched.”

  “They’re just paper and ink.”

  He smiled. “That is the truth. They are just cards. The magic is in the person who uses them. And sadly, I have no more than the average person.”

  “It’s enough for a tarot reading. You’re curious. Draw a card.”

  “Just one?”

  “Just one.”

  He tilted the box, and cards cascaded into his open palm. He shuffled. The cards snapped expertly in his slender hands. “How many times should I shuffle?”

  “Until you feel you should stop.”

  “Hm. Now, I think.” He looked at her expectantly.

  “Cut the deck.”

  He cut it with one hand.

  “Turn the top card over,” she said.

  He flipped it.

  A golden haired youth dangled by one foot from a gallows – the Hanged Man. In today’s world, the card usually meant a period of restraint, meditation, or forced inactivity, when things seemed incapable of moving forward. But for Gregorovich, she’d go old school on the interpretation.

  “The Hanged Man,” she said. “A traitor.”

  He hissed. “Who?”

  “The
tarot doesn’t give names, and I’m no psychic.”

  He dropped the cards on a glass side table. They scattered across its smooth surface.

  His expression hardened. “You and your detective, Vogelberg, had an appointment with me. You didn’t make it.”

  “Vogelberg’s dead.”

  “I know,” he said. “That doesn’t explain why you didn’t come.”

  Riga swept up the cards. “I was busy, and he didn’t tell me about the appointment.”

  The gangster’s eyes narrowed. “What did he tell you?”

  “Before he was shot, he told me he had a theory about the money laundering, but he didn’t tell me what it was. After he was shot, he told me it wasn’t you. His exact words, were: ‘not Gregorovich.’ You have any idea what he was talking about?”

  “Obviously, I was not involved in the money laundering. Or the hit on the accountant.”

  “Really?”

  Gregorovich laughed, looked at his audience. They joined in. “Really.”

  The hell of it was, she believed him. “Okay. You got your answers.” She shifted her weight. “May I go now?”

  He smiled, slow and wolfish. “I like your direct nature, Miss Hayworth.” His gaze traveled from her head to her boots. “And other things. Yes, I like you.”

  “The feeling’s not mutual.”

  His eyes narrowed, and something flickered behind them. Danger.

  He snapped his fingers, then turned his back and resumed watching the game. “Return Miss Hayworth to where you found her... In the condition you found her.”

  Spasmodically, Riga clutched the tarot deck.

  The men looked disappointed.

  Chapter 29

  Before it rolled to a halt, Riga was out the door of the SUV.

  She turned to Gregorovich’s man in the back seat. “My bag?”

  He grunted, tossing it to the pavement of the mini-mall parking lot. Her bag’s contents spilled across two parking spaces – pens, flashlight, leather journal, tarot deck, beef jerky, chocolate bar, fingerprint kit, makeup bag…

  The SUV screeched off, and she bent to pick up her things, hands trembling. She swore long and colorfully, giving vent to the rage she’d bottled inside – at Gregorovich, the bullying, her own weakness. She was alive, she told herself, so she’d played it right. But it was cold comfort. She fumbled her keys. Once. Twice. Cursing, she found her car key in the bunch, and hurried to her car.