The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  Riga answered to no one.

  She stepped into a waiting elevator, the black and white dog trailing behind her. The elevators made her uneasy but her condo was five floors up and that was too much stair climbing. She knelt down and scratched the dog behind his floppy ears. He panted happily, his tawny eyes rolling.

  The elevator stopped with a bump and the building lurched sideways. She gasped, grabbed the metal rail beside her. Enclosed space, three floors up, earthquake – it was Riga’s personal trifecta of fear. The dog barked, placing a paw upon her knee, looking worried. But the earthquake seemed to be over. The doors slid open and Riga stumbled out, heart banging in her chest. She glanced up at the hallway chandeliers. They were motionless. A small quake then, it just felt worse because she’d been in an elevator. Yay, San Francisco, she thought weakly.

  The dog, still in the elevator, barked once. She reached inside and pushed the down button for him. He watched her until the doors closed.

  Riga walked down the hall and stopped short, her breath drawing inward with a hiss at the sight of the pink Valentine, wedged partly beneath her door. She’d been half-expecting it; it had been that kind of day. She pulled her sleeves over her hands and picked it up gingerly, trying not to smudge prints she knew would not be there. Then she realized she couldn’t open the door with the handmade card held between her wrists, cursed, and stuffed the small, garish pink paper into her jacket pocket, careless of prints, and let herself in.

  Riga strode to the kitchen counter and lay the pink construction paper heart upon it. Written across the heart in a childish scrawl were the words: “I adore u.”

  She studied the paper heart for a long moment, then took it into her study and stuck it with a magnet to the whiteboard there, beside the others. The hearts formed two rows, lined up in order received:

  Bee mine

  I love U

  U R sweet

  Let’s kiss

  My love

  I adore u

  When the first heart had arrived, she’d shrugged it off. At the second’s arrival, Riga had been irritated enough to dust for prints. There weren’t any. By the fourth, she’d rigged a discreet camera to watch her door. But when she reviewed the tape all she saw was an empty doormat, followed by a quick blip of electrical snow, and in the next shot the Valentine was there. Next, she placed a camera against the peep hole in her door. The view from the fisheye didn’t reach the doormat, but it would capture anyone who came near. Valentine number five arrived and there was nothing on the tape – not even a blip of white noise.

  She couldn’t ward the hall, because her neighbor used it too. Magic couldn’t solve everything – not that she hadn’t tried. Her attempts to use the Valentines to magically reveal her stalker had failed. It was as if he didn’t exist.

  The construction paper was a common brand, schoolchildren used it. She’d called in a favor and had the ink analyzed; it was from a normal felt tip pen. There was only one anomaly: the smudges of dirt on each Valentine from a local park.

  It was driving her crazy.

  Chapter 4: Nino’s cross

  Her wards were still up, so she knew her admirer had not invaded her home. But Riga searched the condo anyway. The walkthrough reassured her, her paranormal senses detecting only her own energies. Her eyes told her the same – nothing had been disturbed. Her odd travel artifacts, private library, and tasteful furniture had only her own aura upon them. She straightened an old travel poster with a Moroccan scene – it always tilted to the left – and smoothed back the edge of one of her cheerful Pakistani carpets. Normal.

  Reassured, Riga crossed the hall and knocked on the door of 5b, more from boredom than any hope her neighbor, Liz, had seen anything. She heard the scrape of a chair being pushed back, the clunk of something being shifted to the floor. Eventually, Liz opened the door.

  Liz balanced against the doorframe, awkward without her walking stick. She ran one thin hand through her bombshell blonde hair. She’d lost weight again, Riga noticed, her collar bones standing out painfully against her white t-shirt. Keeping weight on was a constant battle for Liz, something Riga could not relate to.

  “Hi, Riga! What’s going on?”

  “I was wondering if you’d seen anyone hanging around my door today.” Riga said, “I was supposed to meet a client at my office but I’m afraid there might have been some mix-up and he came here instead.” If she did have a stalker (and she wasn’t willing to admit that yet), Riga didn’t want to talk about him. Stalkers were often in the peripheries of one’s social network and if Riga blabbed, word might reach and encourage him.

  “Sorry, didn’t see anyone. I’ve been painting like crazy all afternoon. Do you want to come in for a drink?” Liz asked. “I could use one.”

  Riga shook her head, no. “Sure, why not?” She blinked. Why had she said that?

  Liz laughed. “Well make up your mind, will ya?”

  “Sorry. My head’s not really in the game today,” Riga said. “And I’ll have that drink.” She and Liz had been neighbors for years, but didn’t know each other well – Riga’s fault. Liz had made the offer before.

  Liz tried to smother her look of surprise. She turned and walked slowly to her kitchen, her gait stiff and uneven. “I just opened a bottle of Cab,” she called over her shoulder. “That okay?”

  “Sounds great.” Riga looked around the condo with interest. The layout was the mirror image of her own: an entry into the living/dining area, kitchen to the right, beds and bath to the left. However, while Riga’s balcony looked out upon the Golden Gate, Liz had a view of the Bay. The lights of Berkeley were beginning to twinkle in the darkening light, mountains purpling behind them, the Bay a swathe of deep blue-gray.

  Riga tore herself away from the view. Liz walked toward her, one glass of wine held outstretched, the other close to her hip. Riga stepped forward and took the glass. “Thanks.” She took a sip and let the wine roll across her tongue. It tasted of mulberries, dark chocolate, and tobacco. Some people matched their wine to their food. Riga matched her food to her wine. “Nice,” she said.

  Liz watched Riga wander to a table littered with paints and brushes. A canvas was propped against a tabletop easel and on it, Liz had painted a swirl of grape leaves with big, bold strokes.

  “I think there’s a temple beneath all those vines,” Liz said. “I went for a walk this morning and saw some grapevines in the window of a Greek restaurant. They were cheap plastic, but they really grabbed me for some reason. You know?”

  Riga had never been plagued by the artistic impulse, so she didn’t know. She pretended to study the painting. It did remind her of something, but she couldn’t think of what.

  “Your cross – didn’t you tell me it has something to do with grapevines?” Liz asked.

  Riga touched the silver cross at her neck and didn’t reply immediately. She couldn’t recall ever discussing much of anything with Liz. Then she remembered riding up in the narrow elevator with her neighbor one day, awkward in their forced closeness. They might have spoken of it during the slow ascent.

  “It’s a St. Nino’s cross, one of Georgia’s patron saints,” Riga said. “When Nino introduced Christianity to Georgia, the pagans worshipped the grapevine. She built a cross from the vines and tied the cross bars together with her hair so they could continue worshipping the grapevine, and the cross.”

  The early Christians had been masters at subverting Pagan holidays and symbols. It beat conquest by force, but they’d done plenty of that too. Good thing she never felt guilty for things she wasn’t actually responsible for. Riga had enough to answer for, and didn’t believe in original sin.

  Liz took a long sip. “The god of wine – now that’s a religion I could get behind. Mind if I smoke?”

  Riga shook her head. “It’s your home, go ahead.”

  Liz took a silver lighter from the table, fished a packet from her pockets, and fired up a cigarette. She inhaled deeply. Her body seemed to settle into its thin frame a
s she exhaled a stream of smoke.

  Suddenly, a cigarette seemed like a good idea to Riga, but she didn’t smoke. She drank more wine, thoughtful, feeling a pleasant lethargy steal through her body. “Did you feel the earthquake?”

  Liz shook her head, the smoke forming a zigzag in the air before her. She watched as it blended together, floating to the ceiling. “No. Was there a quake?”

  “About ten minutes ago. I was in the elevator – it scared the hell out of me.”

  “Those damn elevators,” Liz said. “I wonder how old they are?”

  They made desultory conversation and Riga remembered why she’d refused Liz’s other invitations. They had nothing in common but a hallway. Riga finished her wine, and left.

  She felt off-kilter, out of sorts. Back in her condo she tried to meditate but her mind wouldn’t cooperate after a glass of wine, so she switched to Tai Chi. It wasn’t much better. Finally she put a Miranda Lambert CD in the stereo, and sat on her balcony drinking wine, watching the Golden Gate Bridge wink in the distance. Her meditation on the Pinot Noir was successful.

  The gargoyle on the ledge beside her stirred. “And how is ze bold Liz?” Her voice was a French-sounding Lauren Bacall.

  Riga shrugged. “Painting up a storm, doing her own thing.”

  “Ah, ze life of ze artist. Like us, she stands separate from society, bravely creating her own world! Unlike you, however, Liz has had husbands. And she is still quite popular with the gentlemen.”

  Riga turned her head and gave the gargoyle a long stare. If she ignored the eagle-like body, it was like looking at a statue of a French maid. The gargoyle’s face had been carved human, with long hair cascading down her stone-feathered back. She took another sip of the wine. “Not helpful, Brigitte.”

  Brigitte arched her back, flexing her wings. It was something of a relief to Riga that Brigitte’s renaissance sculptor had clothed her in a breastplate of scales. Brigitte’s head turned, making a grating sound. “Now that man in ze bar, c’est magnifique! That one could show a woman a thing or two.”

  “He’s trouble.”

  Brigitte sighed. “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Chapter 5: Bad Haiku

  Riga slept late and awoke the next morning feeling as if she hadn’t slept at all. She tried to catch the tail end of her dream but it eluded her, a jumble of broken memories. Tarot and dreams were her method of journeying to the other side – Riga had never been able to click with shamanism – and it bugged her that she’d lost this one. She dressed in khakis and a linen shirt, then prepared a quick meal. Marmalade on toast – breakfast of champions.

  She pulled up in front of Helen’s house at ten o’clock sharp. Helen lived on the ocean side of San Francisco, on a street parallel to the Great Highway. It was windier here, the road threatened by ever encroaching sand dunes. The fog hadn’t burned off yet, a gray blanket over this part of the city. A swirl of wind caused the mist to coalesce into an opaque form. It gusted down the street, phantomlike. Riga buttoned her suede safari jacket, repressed a shiver. The fog might not burn off at all today, she thought, at least not here.

  Helen’s house looked as if its builder hadn’t been able to decide if it were a Victorian or nautical: gingerbread trim and circular windows. The white and blue paint said nautical and it was peeling. A set of stairs led to the front door and upon these lounged a lithe teenager in a black zip-up jacket and a pair of green convertible hiking slacks. The wind tossed her mop of chestnut-colored hair and she impatiently clawed it behind her ears. Riga reached her step and the girl looked up, her skin dewy with youth and fog.

  The girl crinkled her gray eyes in a smile. “Jesus, how do you do it? That car pulled out just before you got here.”

  “Regular sacrifices to the parking gods. And don’t swear.”

  “You need all the help you can get in that battleship you drive. So what’s your sacrifice of choice?”

  Riga glanced back at her Lincoln and activated the car alarm with her keychain. “Priuses bathed in the blood of virgins. How’d you know I’d be here, Penelope?”

  “Your desk calendar. And don’t call me Penelope.”

  Damn. What had possessed her to let her niece have a key to her office? “Okay, Pen. What are you doing here?”

  Pen gracefully unfolded herself and stood to face her aunt. “I’m your assistant, aren’t I?”

  “You’re my receptionist. When you feel like it. How long have you been here?”

  Pen shrugged. “Five minutes.”

  They engaged in a brief staring contest. Riga broke first. “Fine. You can take notes. Did you bring your camera?”

  She looked affronted. “Of course! You know I don’t go anywhere without it.”

  Riga placed a hand lightly on Pen’s elbow. The kid was skin and bones. “Hey, before we go in – my new client found your flyer under her windshield.”

  “Cool!”

  “She wasn’t happy about it,” Riga said. “Thanks for helping out with the advertising, but let’s stick to bulletin boards from now on, okay?”

  Pen drew her eyebrows together. “If you’d just let me get you online, I wouldn’t have to resort to such primitive measures.”

  “No Internet.”

  “But it makes it so hard to find you!”

  “It’s supposed to be hard – it’s part of the initiatory process. If people want to deal with the metaphysical, they have to figure things out, face the unknown.”

  Pen snorted. “Yeah, right. You just don’t want to admit that you don’t understand technology. Je—Jeez, you’re behind the times. No website, puhleez!”

  Riga gave Pen’s t-shirt a pointed look. Emblazoned across it was a picture of a steak and the words: MEAT IS MURDER, TASTY, TASTY MURDER. “Thank you, Miss Conformity. And for your information, I am not behind the times. I have a smart phone.”

  “Name one new song you’ve got on it that’s not country.”

  “You can put songs on it?”

  Pen stared, horrified.

  “I’m kidding.” Riga turned her back on her niece and climbed the rest of the stairs. “Cup of Brown Joy by Professor Elemental.”

  “What?”

  “My latest tune. It’s chap hop. Very cutting edge.”

  The bell looked like it had been installed in the 1970s – a dingy rectangle of cracked plastic. Riga pressed hard on it and waited, sensing Pen slouch up the stairs behind her. A Mini Cooper slowed as it drove past, then revved its engine and peeled off, tires screeching. Riga rang the bell again.

  “Did you hear a bell?” Riga asked.

  Pen shook her head.

  “Me neither. I wonder if it’s broken?”

  Riga waited another minute then knocked hard on the door. It swung inward a few inches. She and Pen looked at each other. Riga touched the door lightly with her fingertips and pushed it open further.

  “Helen?” she called, peering into the dark, wood-paneled hallway. “It’s me, Riga Hayworth.” She strained to hear footsteps, or a voice of acknowledgment. But the house was silent.

  Riga had a bad feeling about this. She smelled dark magic – a mix of sulfur and disappointment. “Wait here,” she said to Pen. “I’m going to go inside. She may be upstairs or in the yard and can’t hear us.”

  Pen’s hand moved compulsively toward her hip pocket, where a tiny video camera protruded. “I’m going with you.”

  “No. She doesn’t know you’re coming. I don’t want to startle her by bringing a stranger into the house. Wait here,” she commanded, gesturing at the stairs. To her surprise, Pen took a couple steps back and returned to her perch without further argument.

  Good. Pen’s parents were going to give her hell if she got her niece involved in a police investigation, and Riga feared that this was exactly where today was headed.

  She took a moment to shield and cloak herself, then stepped inside, leaving the door open behind her. Helen had squeezed a bench into the hallway for people to sit on while removing their sh
oes, and above it were pegs for coats. Amidst feminine cardigans and a pink rain jacket hung a man’s peacoat. Her husband’s? The new boyfriend’s? A living room with a stone fireplace was on the left. Riga walked inside it, her boots clicking on the hardwood floor. She looked around without touching anything.

  “Helen?” she called again, not expecting an answer, but following form. There were photos on the mantel. A wedding shot in a silver frame of Helen in a traditional veil, and her husband wearing a tuxedo and clown’s nose. They were laughing, turned towards each other, eyes bright with delight. Herman had been a handsome man, with thick hair just asking to be ruffled and classical bone structure. In another photo they huddled together on a large rock at the beach, a blanket draped around both their shoulders as if they were Siamese twins. Riga stopped to examine that thought. The couple didn’t look at all alike and in many ways they were physical opposites: Helen blonde and fair to Herman’s dark good looks, Helen heavy and masculine looking, her husband more of a metro-sexual. Still, there was something about them – something in the way they looked at each other.

  Riga took a photo of the pictures with the camera on her cell phone and moved on down the hallway. A bedroom off to the left, and then into the kitchen. Helen’s purse sat beside a bag of groceries upon the center island – a wooden chopping block. Riga looked inside the paper sack without touching it: coffee and pastries. Had they been purchased for her visit?

  “Helen?” Riga called again. She turned right – a TV room with a bar. The odor was stronger here. A door exited from it into the back yard. Riga looked at the door, it had a heavy deadbolt and was locked.

  She turned at the foot of a staircase that descended into the room. “Oh, Helen,” she said sadly.

  What had been Helen lay upon the stairs, upside down. Riga didn’t need to check for a pulse to know she was dead, but she did it anyway. The flesh was cold. Helen’s head hung off one of the lower steps, twisted at an odd angle. Her eyes stared sightlessly, arms stretched overhead. One leg was bent akimbo, toe to knee, a parody of a ballet pose.