The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

Men’s voices. “Over here! We found her!”

  She felt herself being rolled, lifted, the light expanded and then all went dark again.

  Riga opened her eyes.

  Fetid air. Fluorescent lights. Ceiling tiles. She was back in hell.

  “Morning, Sunshine!”

  Riga focused. Liz. Her hair was curled, with chunks of three different shades of red – from fire engine to strawberry blond. Riga liked it. “Hi,” she croaked.

  Liz hurried to her with a plastic cup and a straw. “Have some water. They said you’d be thirsty.”

  Riga leaned forward and took the cup, taking a long drink, then collapsed back on the pillow. Liz returned the cup to a table beside her bed.

  “Your sister’s taken Pen home,” Liz said. “She said she’d be back later.”

  “Thanks. New hair?”

  Liz fluffed her curls with one hand. “Like it? I just got a commission for a new painting – sort of impressionist. I’m going to do a lake at sunset, lots of reds and oranges.”

  “So you dyed your hair to match?”

  Liz laughed. “I hadn’t planned on it, just an update, but that’s a good story to tell my clients.”

  “Did everyone get out?” Riga asked.

  “You mean that guy, Donovan? He’s hot! Where did you find him? And yes, he got out too.”

  “Good.” Riga closed her eyes and fell asleep.

  When she woke up, it was dark outside. Donovan lay stretched out in a chair beside her bed. His eyes were closed and he was achingly handsome. How did that song go? Riga could only remember the first line – love hurts, scars and mars. But not necessarily in that order.

  His eyes opened and he leaned forward, took her hand. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”

  She felt like she’d been hit by a truck. “I’ll live.”

  “Pen’s safe at home. Vinnie wanted me to tell you to get well soon. The hospital ghosts give him the heebie jeebies.”

  Riga smiled, then sat up on her elbows. “Wait a minute. You can see Vinnie?”

  “Ever since I got back from… I’m still not sure what to call it,” he said. “And I get Vinnie’s point about hospital ghosts.”

  “You get used to them,” Riga said. “What about the others?”

  “Brigitte is outside and Dog is back with his owner.”

  “So all’s right with the world.”

  They looked at each other a long time, Riga putting off what she’d have to say.

  “Whatever you did worked. You’re back,” he said. “Why did you jump?”

  Riga remembered taking the step. She’d had to back into it – in spite of the whispering pull of the chasm, the thought of falling had scared the hell out of her. But after the drop, all was blank.

  “It was that Haiku that Hermes left on Helen’s refrigerator – he was telling me how to get Hecate back. Woman freeze the moon – it’s a homophone – woman frees the moon is what he meant, and Hecate was the original moon goddess.” The curse of refrigerator magnets – never enough s’s. “Journey to the mouth of dreams, she sleeps in thunder, both pointed to Hecate inside the place of dreams.”

  “What happened down there?”

  She shook her head, sending waves of pain through her skull. Riga groaned, and fell back upon the pillow. “I can’t remember. It must have worked though, I’m here.”

  She reached out with her mind and felt… nothing. Riga had known it was a possibility. But the loss hit her like a physical blow. Hecate was gone, and so was her magic.

  Other people lived perfectly normal lives without magic. But Riga didn’t want a normal life. She wouldn’t think about it now – Pen was safe, everyone got out.

  Donovan traced his thumb along the back of her hand. “What you did was very brave and very stupid. If we’re going to be together, you’ll have to stop that.”

  She looked away.

  “Ah,” he said. He laid her hand gently upon the blanket. “We’re not going to be together, are we?”

  “Donovan, we were under the influence of two powerful beings. Who knows what was real?”

  “They’re gone. What do you feel now? Because I know what I feel, and I know it’s real.”

  Now? She felt wounded, like she’d lost a body part. She felt like she’d just survived a natural disaster. And mixed up in all of that were her feelings for Donovan. What was neediness and what was love? It wasn’t fair to either of them to start something now. “We’ve been through a lot,” she said.

  “That’s life, always throwing curve balls. I’d rather meet them with someone I care about and can count on.”

  His eyes had changed, they were emerald green. Dionysus was gone. But something else clouded Donovan’s eyes: doubt. It was easier, Riga told herself, to just end it – feelings were too tangled, longing mixed with obligation.

  “I don’t want to be rescued, Donovan. I need some time to sort things out, and so do you.”

  He stepped away from the bed. “I won’t pester you,” he said. “You know how to reach me.”

  Chapter 45: Vinnie

  Three weeks passed. Donovan was never far from Riga’s mind, but she couldn’t bring herself to call. He’d given up on her awfully easily, she realized, so her decision had probably been the right one. He must have thought better of things once he’d put some time and space between himself and Dionysus. She didn’t know what was worse: the loss of her magic, or the hope that blossomed in her chest whenever the phone rang.

  She’d searched for Vinnie at his building, but couldn’t find him. Riga didn’t know if the problem was her or if he was truly gone. The magical energies that seemed so clear and logical before confounded her now. She considered calling in Pen, who, like Donovan, could still see the dead. But Riga didn’t want to do anything that might remind Pen of her journey to the other side. Pen’s memory of the ordeal was a blank, and Riga wanted to keep it that way. She figured Pen had enough to deal with, coping with her newfound ability.

  Brigitte flapped her stony wings in frustration. “You must practice! Your power is still there. You must clear your mind and relearn how to channel it,” she said from her stone pedestal.

  “Now my charms are all o’erthrown, and what strength I have’s mine own, which is most faint,” Riga quoted.

  “Do not quote The Tempest to me, Riga. I know it better: ‘We are such stuff as dreams are made on: and our little life is rounded with a sleep.’ In other words, get over it.”

  “What if I can’t?”

  “What if? What if? There are no what if’s! There is only work!”

  But Riga’s heart wasn’t in it.

  At least she’d gotten her nights back. The streetlamps didn’t so much as flicker when she drew close. It was an empty victory. She still went out alone.

  Dora called, asking her to do some writing – Aaron had been arrested in connection with the councilwoman’s death. One of his construction workers had been implicated, and claimed the murder was on Aaron’s orders. Anna, Aaron’s first ex-wife, had stepped up, managing his business and dealing with the press. Lauren and Cleo were now suing him for responsibility in their “accidents.” Apollo had been a vindictive bastard when it came to women.

  But Riga had declined. She wasn’t sure how much of the guilt belonged to Aaron and how much to Apollo. And the sound of Dora’s voice over the line depressed her. She wanted to hear Donovan’s voice.

  And then the phone rang and it was him.

  “Riga, you need to come to Vegas,” he said without preamble.

  “Why? What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Vinnie. He followed me here. I need your help – or he does but it’s hard to explain on the phone. Will you come?”

  Donovan sent his jet for her, and six hours later, he was ushering her along a concrete service hallway beneath one of his casinos. He wore a tailored black suit and a red tie, which would have looked clownish on most men but looked damned good on him. His green eyes sparkled. This was Donovan’s realm and he was in his
element.

  Showgirls in sequins and yellow feathers brushed past, their faces caked with makeup, limbs encased in tanned nylon. Donovan grabbed Riga’s elbow and pulled her out of their way, a hard, impersonal motion. She swallowed. What had she really lost, after all? Just a fantasy, and indulging in it would have been a mistake.

  “Has Vinnie been harassing the showgirls?” Riga asked briskly.

  Donovan shook his head. “I’ll have to show you. Don’t worry, we’re almost there.”

  They turned a corner and climbed a long, barren staircase. Riga heard cheers, applause. Donovan threw the door open and they passed through heavy black curtains until Donovan tugged on her elbow, signaling her to stop. They stood in the wings of a stage.

  Riga gaped. A country starlet in jeans, a plaid shirt, and a big buckled belt waved at the audience. “Is that…?”

  “We get big names at my casino,” Donovan said. “Don’t sound so surprised.” He nodded toward the stage. “There’s Vinnie.”

  The ghost looked nervous as he tuned his banjo. He noticed Riga in the wings and waved to her, smiling.

  “What’s… going on?” Riga said.

  “I thought her voice would blend well with Vinnie’s.”

  The band began to play. Vinnie had a microphone but Riga knew she and Donovan were the only ones who could hear him. There were, however, a few perplexed looking members of the audience and Riga wondered if they might have some ability as well.

  “They’re amazing together,” Riga shouted over the music. She had to lean close to make herself heard. Donovan smelled of fine tobacco and cherries, damn him.

  “I couldn’t get him a record contract – his voice would never record,” Donovan shouted. “I thought if he got a chance to perform, he’d be able to move on.”

  Riga felt her heart swell with the music. Donovan had done this.

  The last strains of the song faded and the crowd roared its approval. Vinnie glowed.

  Riga smiled, he really was glowing. A golden light enveloped the ghost and he vanished.

  “Did you see that?” she said.

  Donovan guided her back through the door and shut it, dampening the noise from the stage. “I guess this means he’s crossed over.”

  Riga could barely speak. Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. “Donovan – this was amazing. Thank you for helping Vinnie. I never would have thought to –”

  He cut her off. “I did it for you.”

  She looked down, tried to get hold of herself. Donovan was wearing his black cowboy boots again, she saw. He was a man of many parts and he’d surprised her tonight.

  “But you’re right,” he said lightly. “Vinnie owes me. I wonder if I’ll ever collect?”

  The noise of the concert faded. It was just her and Donovan.

  “You’re better than Dionysus, you know.” Dionysus was just an archetype, Donovan was the full package.

  “But I’m not so different from him. That’s why he chose me. And that’s why Hecate chose you.”

  “She didn’t choose me –“

  “Hermes then,” Donovan interrupted. “But you were chosen for her for a reason and if we’re like them, is it so strange that we would want to be together as well?”

  It was a risk, she thought. But sometimes, maybe, you just had to take that leap of faith.

  She kissed him.

  The light above flickered, and went out.

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  Turn the page for a special preview of Kirsten Weiss’s next Riga Hayworth novel,

  The Alchemical Detective.

  Chapter 1: Calcination

  The egg quivered, then rolled, seemingly of its own accord, to the edge of the counter.

  Riga stared at it, her violet-colored eyes narrowed in concentration. Magic, she reminded herself, was a matter of will and she had that in spades. However, it was also a matter of focus and in this area, she was lacking.

  The egg trembled, then slowly rose into the air; one inch, two inches, five.

  “Yes,” Brigitte said encouragingly, her voice a French-accented Lauren Bacall. Her stone claws tensed, gouging tracks in the linoleum countertop.

  The egg exploded, splattering the gargoyle with shell and yolk.

  Brigitte shrieked, the sound of rocks scraping against each together. “Faugh! Water! Bring ze water!”

  Riga hurried to the sink and turned on the tap, frustration wrinkling her brow. She grabbed a dishtowel and soaked it in warm water. Her hands trembled and Riga swore under her breath. Two months ago, this would have been easy.

  At first she’d thought her magic was gone. Now Riga knew it had gone haywire and her rehab attempts weren’t working. If anything, her magic had become more unpredictable, more dangerous. She only dared practice with Brigitte because the centuries-old gargoyle was made of stone. But even Brigitte wasn’t indestructible.

  Someone beat upon the front door and Riga whipped around, startled. She should have sensed whoever was coming up the steps. Another small failure. More pounding; the cheap wooden door vibrated beneath the blows.

  “Police! Open the door!”

  Gargoyle and woman looked at each other. Woman acted first. Riga tossed the towel in the sink. “Don’t move,” she said to Brigitte.

  “But ze egg. It dries like cement,” Brigitte wailed.

  “Later.” Riga hurried to the door and flung it open. A chilly blast of pine-scented air swept inside, tossing Riga’s auburn hair and stinging her skin.

  Two sheriffs stood before her in wide brimmed hats and heavy forest green parkas. Riga might have taken them for rangers had it not been for their belts, strapped with weapons, slung low on their hips. The older one had his fist raised for another round of door pummeling. He lowered it with what looked like regret. He was bulky, bearlike, with steel blue eyes, and she imagined he enjoyed making the door shiver beneath his fist. The tag under his badge read: Sheriff John King. The badge itself: El Dorado County.

  “I heard a woman scream,” King said.

  “I banged my shin on the coffee table,” Riga said.

  “Are you alone?” He peered over Riga’s shoulder. It wasn’t hard – Riga was five foot six, and he stood well over six feet tall, imposing in every direction.

  “Yes. Can I help you?” Riga didn’t budget, unwilling to let them in. It wasn’t that Riga didn’t like cops; she was friends with plenty of them, when they were out of uniform.

  “It was quite a scream,” he said.

  She quirked her lips. “Now you’re just embarrassing me.”

  The Sheriff looked at her. She returned his gaze. The silence stretched between them.

  The Deputy coughed. “Are you Ms. Hayworth?” he asked. Riga figured him for his early thirties, which meant she had a decade on him. He was well built, and between the startling pale blue of his eyes and the chiseled planes of his face, would have looked at home on a magazine cover. But Riga’s gaze was drawn to the Sheriff. The Deputy had youth, the Sheriff had presence.

  “I’m Riga Hayworth.”

  “My name is Night, Deputy Night. May we come in? Please?” He smiled ruefully, exposing dimples and gleaming white teeth. “It’s kind of cold out here.”

  Riga hesitated. But she wasn’t wearing a coat and was freezing in the doorway. She could feel the heat from the cabin oozing past her, out the door. “Okay.” Reluctantly, she stepped back, and allowed them past her.

  Hands resting on the butts of their guns, they prowled the room as if they owned the place. They could have it, for all Riga cared. It was one of the lower-end tourist cabins, crammed with a mis-matched jumble of seventies era furniture. A giant picture window looked out upon a forest scene: pines, and patches of snow wetting the ground. The afternoon sun slanted low in the sky, sending beams of light glittering through damp tree branches.

  Brigitte, still covered in egg, had shifted to face the cabin’s small living room. The deputy stared at the gargoyle, walked
to Brigitte, and ran his hands across her stony feathers as if in a caress. Brigitte would love that, Riga thought.

  “Cool harpy,” he said. “Where’d you find it?”

  “Garage sale,” Riga said.

  Night tucked his hat under one arm, and ruffled his blond hair with his free hand. “Do you know it’s got egg on it?”

  “Forget the statue,” the Sheriff barked. Turning, he stumbled over a cheap American-Indian themed rug. “Miss Hayworth, may we sit down?”

  She indicated the lumpy sofa, a cruel gesture given the state of its springs, but she didn’t want them to linger.

  They sat. She remained standing.

  The Sheriff removed his hat and put it on a nearby coffee table, covering decades of coffee rings. “Riga Hayworth. Is that your real name?”

  Riga raised an eyebrow. “If you mean, did my parents choose it? Yes.”

  “Funny sort of name,” King said. “Like that old movie star. Were your parents fans?”

  She shook her head, no. Not after she’d grown to look more and more like the screen siren; that had disturbed her parents, made them wonder if they’d really picked the name or if the name had picked their daughter. Riga’s resemblance to Rita Hayworth was uncanny; auburn hair, arched eyebrows, and olive skin.

  “How well did you know Sarah Glass?” King asked.

  Riga looked at him blankly.

  Sheriff King shifted with impatience. “Otherwise known as Lady Moonstone.”

  “The palm reader?” Riga asked, surprised. “Not at all. I think she’s a member of the Tea and Tarot group. She didn’t show at last week’s meeting, which was my first, so I never had a chance to meet her.” Riga had forced herself to attend for the first and probably last time. She wasn’t a joiner.

  Now, Riga knew, she was supposed to ask why the police wanted to know about Sarah Glass. But the cops weren’t here to satisfy a casual curiosity. Something bad had happened and Riga wanted to put off learning what it was for as long as possible. Though her magic had gone awry, she sensed the tug of something dark and inexorable moving towards her, and didn’t like the feeling.