Riga slid off the bed. “Wait. How did you get in here?” The doors were closed, the windows intact, and Brigitte’s talons had never been good with handles or locks.
The gargoyle ducked her head. “That is neither here nor there, and if you do not open ze door I shall fly through ze window again.”
Hastily, Riga complied, and a blast of chill air flowed into the room. The gargoyle sprang through the doorway and into the darkening sky.
Riga stood, and watched the gargoyle fly low over the lake, her figure soon lost against the mountains. The setting sun hid, sullen behind the clouds. Her flesh twitched from the cold, but she didn’t move, thinking.
She needed time to learn a new magical system.
Time was in short supply.
Chapter 18
“Darling!” Mr. Mosse greeted Riga at the door to the penthouse study, and kissed her forehead. He wore a black tuxedo, his raven black hair swept to one side, and Riga felt a pang of loss. Donovan looked damn good in tuxedos.
The raven head on the totem pole stared out of one eye, disapproving.
“My assistant is here,” Mr. Mosse said loudly. “You remember her?”
“Of course.” Riga edged into the book-lined study, her stride hampered by the long silver gown she wore. Low lights warmed the room, and firelight flickered across the oriental carpets, leather chairs and couches.
Donovan’s assistant stood at the desk, putting papers into a leather portfolio. She looked up, brushing a lock of dark hair from her face, and smiled. “Hello, Miss Hayworth. I’ll just get out of your way.”
“No need,” Riga said. “Was I interrupting something?”
“Not at all.” Donovan’s father helped Riga out of her short black cape. “We just finished.”
His assistant bustled past. “Have a nice dinner.”
“Thanks,” Riga said. Then, when the woman disappeared in the elevator: “You’re really taking charge around here, aren’t you?”
He strode to the bar, and poured a shot of brandy into a cut-crystal glass. “It’s the least I can do. Fortunately, I remember a thing or two about casino management, though I admit, times have changed. Drink?”
“Sure. Donovan usually keeps some Zinfandel back there.”
“I never was much for wine.” He poured a glass, looking wistful. “Though my wife did enjoy pink champagne.”
She trailed her fingers along the back of the couch. “Why have you stayed here, haunted the casino?”
“Just not ready to go, though it would be nice to see my wife again. I miss her.” He cleared his throat. “We had pink champagne at our wedding. She insisted. Strong willed, like you.”
“It’s coming back in vogue now. Pink sparkling wine.”
He walked to her, glass extended. “Everything old is new again, eh?”
“Something like that.” She took the glass and they toasted. “I’m sorry,” she said abruptly. “I was hard on you earlier. It wasn’t fair.”
“You’re protective of my son. It’s sweet. Though I doubt he’d appreciate it – being protected, I mean. We like to think we can take care of ourselves.”
“You’re right. And Donovan can take care of himself. Where is he, by the way?”
“He went to see his wife. I mean the photographer’s wife.”
Her chest tightened. “The photographer’s wife?” She put the glass down on an end table. “Why?” she asked in an even voice.
“Because Donovan’s coming to the party tonight. Looking like Cam, he thought it would be cruel to surprise her there, in front of everyone.”
Her head throbbed. “To the… Why?!”
“Because there’s a lot at stake. He won’t hide from it.”
“But… What’s he going to tell her? He’s not going to—”
“No, of course not. She’d never believe the truth. I’m not sure what his plan is.”
“Oh, God.” She picked up the wine, drank. Donovan was as pigheaded as… she was.
“You look lovely, by the way. It’s remarkable how much you look like her – Rita Hayworth, I mean. In that gown you could have stepped out of one of her films.”
She smiled tightly, and returned the glass to the table. “You don’t look so bad yourself. Shall we face the music?”
He held out his arm. “After you.”
*****
Wood plank floors, faux stone walls, white linens and candlelight. The restaurant was elite, overpriced, and on the floor beneath the penthouse, so Donovan hadn’t had any trouble closing it for their party.
“Nice place,” Mr. Mosse said.
Mr. Smith, behind them, snorted. “Admire yourself much?”
Riga tucked her arm in Mr. Mosse’s, ignored Smith. “One of the best-rated restaurants on the lake.”
“Only one of them?” Donovan’s father asked.
“Don’t be greedy,” she said.
A narrow-faced man with eyes like Donovan’s headed toward them. His mouth was set, a tight thread, his green eyes narrowed. Donovan’s cousin, and the Chief Operating Officer of the casino, Reuben. On his arm was a comfortably padded blond with laugh lines in all the right places.
Out of the corner of her mouth, Riga said, “The woman with Reuben is his wife, Marsha,”
Mr. Mosse nodded, straightening his tuxedo jacket.
“Doesn’t he know his own cousin’s wife?” Mr. Smith tugged on the collar of his own tuxedo, and stepped to her side.
“Of course,” Riga said. “I just wanted to make sure he noticed them.” She relaxed her gaze, scanned the agent. The dark cord was gone. Smith had used the bath salts. Another one down.
“Hard not to see them the way they’re barreling down on us,” Smith said.
Reuben’s lips curled in a snarl. “Donovan. What the hell? We agreed to—”
“Reuben!” Marsha put a hand on his arm. “Do you have to talk about this now?”
Reuben shook her off.
She looked away, cheeks flushing.
“Since he’s been avoiding me all day,” Reuben said, “yes.”
“Sorry about that,” Donovan’s father said smoothly. “The wedding is consuming more of my time than expected.”
“That’s what our event planners are for,” Reuben said. He jerked his head toward Mr. Smith. “What’s the Treasury Department doing here?”
Mr. Smith’s mouth parted, shark-like. “Keeping an eye on my assets, Mr. Mosse.”
Marsha rolled her eyes. “Please forgive my husband, Riga. Are you sure you want to marry into this family?” Her laugh was brittle. “It’s not too late to back out.”
A high-pitched cackle exploded from the far side of the room. “I’m fairly certain I’m getting the better end of the deal,” Riga said. “Excuse me.”
She pressed through the crowd to her aunts. They pointed, exclaiming over something outside the restaurant’s picture windows. Before them, the lake was a black pool, sparks of light glittering around its distant shore.
The two women laughed again, and Peregrine spilled her drink on her sister. Dot wiped ineffectually at the blot on her baggy black dress.
“I’m glad to see someone’s having a good time,” Riga said.
Dot blinked up at her through her thick spectacles. “Aren’t we supposed to? It is your wedding party.”
“A wedding to my future father-in-law, unless you fix Donovan’s problem.”
“That makes no sense.”Peregrine tugged absently at her new, bluntly-cut hair.
“New hairstyle?” Riga asked.
Peregrine’s nostrils pinched. “That damned candle.”
“What’s the status on Donovan?” Riga asked. “I thought you were supposed to be working on that?”
“We were,” Peregrine said. “I’m not a vain woman, but something had to be done about my scorched hair.”
“And I’m a whiz with scissors,” Dot said. “You know Riga, you’re looking a little peaky. Perhaps you should spend some time at the salon?”
“I have
n’t been getting much sleep.”
“Why not?” Dot asked.
“Why…” Riga shook her head in disbelief.
“A girl needs her beauty rest,” Dot said, sipping her wine. “Why Peregrine, do you remember the time—”
“Oh, for the love of…” Riga jammed her hands on her hips. “What about Donovan?”
“We all needed a break and Peregrine needed a haircut. You can’t expect us to work for days on end. You have no idea how challenging this sort of necromancy can be.”
“I hope you both have terrible headaches tomorrow,” Riga said, looking pointedly at the wine.
“We won’t,” Peregrine said. “We never get hangovers.”
Dammit. Riga never got them either.
Dot giggled. “Do you remember that time in Paris with the two Colonels? At that bar with the telephones at every table?”
“That was Munich,” Peregrine said. “And they were Majors.”
Dot clasped her hands. “I do miss the Cold War.”
Pen entered the room, head forward, shoulders hunched. She tugged on the skirt of her new black dress.
“All right,” Riga said, backing away before she could get sucked into another one of her aunts’ byzantine stories. “Let me know if you need any help with the...” She wiggled her fingers and fled.
Riga hurried through to her niece. “Hi, Pen. You look great.” She scanned the crowd. The bodyguard was notably absent. “Where’s Ash?”
“He dropped me off and left. Donovan – I mean, Mr. Mosse told Ash he could have the rest of the evening off.”
“He what?” What was Donovan’s father thinking?
Clutching her beaded black purse in both hands, Pen craned her neck, looking past Riga. Her cheeks were flushed, her skin dewy. “Have you seen Madison?”
“Uh…” Riga peered through the swirling mass of Donovan’s relatives – cousins, nieces, nephews. Madison stood beside Briian. She flipped her hair. He leaned forward, said something to her, and flipped it back. She broke into laughter.
“There.” Riga pointed.
“Cool. See ya.” With a backward wave of her hand, Pen slipped into the crowd.
Riga relaxed her gaze. Dark cords still clung to Briian and Madison. Dammit. If they didn’t use those salts soon, she’d have to crawl up those cords and detach them herself. She chewed her lower lip, not liking the idea.
Outside the window, a cigarette tip glowed in the darkness. The newspaper editor, Dora, her paisley shawl wrapped tight about her shoulders, flicked ash off the cig. Reuben’s wife joined her on the balcony. They spoke, and Dora rummaged in her purse, handed her a cigarette, lit it.
Marsha inhaled, her features relaxing.
Riga went to the sliding glass door that led to the balcony, and stepped outside, joined the women. “Hi.”
Marsha sent a stream of smoke jetting over the balcony rail. “Want one?”
“No thanks.”
Marsha studied the end of her cigarette. “I stopped smoking for Reuben. He didn’t like it.”
“Didn’t?”
She removed the cigarette with one hand, dropped her gaze. “We’re getting a divorce.” She raised her chin. “I didn’t want to say anything until after the wedding. But keeping up the pretense is too painful.”
Riga felt curiously flattened by the news. She’d known there was trouble in that marriage. But Riga’s relationship with Reuben was tricky at best, and she knew his wife hardly at all.
“I’m sorry,” Riga said.
Marsha quirked a brow. “But not surprised?”
“I overheard the two of you arguing once.” Riga shifted, uncomfortable. “On the phone.”
“Ah.” Marsha toed a clump of snow off the edge of the balcony. “Yeah. That’s been happening a lot lately.”
“What happened?” Dora asked, shameless.
“I don’t know. Maybe we got married too young. We loved each other once. Now we hate each other. We tried to stick it out for the kids, but it’s become unbearable. It happens.” Marsha ground out her cigarette on the metal railing. “I’m sorry.” Her voice cracked. “I’ve got to go.”
The two women watched in silence as she left, sliding the door shut behind her.
Dora cleared her throat. “I heard Reuben’s cheating on her.”
“How did you…?” Riga shook her head. “Never mind. Is there any gossip you don’t know?”
Dora’s laugh turned into a cough. “Lots.”
A light strobed from inside and they turned to look. Donovan, in the guise of Cam, snapped a photo. Terry trailed behind him, her eyes puffy and red, her expression slack. And worse news was yet to come – her husband was dead. Something heavy formed at the back of her throat, and Riga swallowed her guilt. Terry was still on the suspect list.
“There’s another pair for the books,” Dora said.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s gay.”
“Who? Cam? No way. He’s married. They’ve got a kid on the way.”
Dora snorted. “You can’t be that naïve.”
“But it’s the twenty-first century. Who cares if he’s gay? He doesn’t need a wife for a beard.”
“Doesn’t he?” Dora took another drag on the cigarette. “Funny though, being gay didn’t stop him from slapping me with a sexual harassment suit. How the hell can a straight woman sexually harass a gay man? It doesn’t fit! It’s two things going in opposite directions! And I’m old enough to be his mother.”
Riga figured there were plenty of ways to harass someone, regardless of sexual orientation, but kept her mouth shut. “Why did he think you were harassing him?” She studied Dora. Her cord had also vanished.
“I don’t know. I was blindsided. He said my humor was inappropriate. Maybe it was, sometimes. But that’s the newspaper business. And I would never… I don’t date on the job. Never had. Strict policy. Can’t manage that way. I had no interest in him, sexual or otherwise. The whole thing was absurd and everyone knew it. But it didn’t stop me from losing…” She jammed the cigarette back in her mouth, and drew sharply on it.
“From losing what?”
“Just from losing. The slimy bastard won the case. Insurance covered it. But that’s nothing compared to the number he did on Madison Henna.”
“What number?” Riga asked.
“Last year he did a photo shoot of her. Arty. Gorgeous, really. The magazine couldn’t not print it.”
“So what was the problem?”
“It was black and white, and he used a sort of metallic effect that highlighted every wrinkle. He said he was trying to show true beauty is ageless. Maybe he meant it. But Madison went ballistic. She’s been having a tough time getting parts lately, blames that photo spread.”
“Is that why Briian punched him?”
Dora laughed. “Nah. Briian became Madison’s boy toy after that spread was published. He’s just a hothead who likes punching photographers and autograph hounds who get too close.”
“But how do you know Cam’s gay?” Riga asked.
“Gaydar. You mean you can’t see it?”
But Riga hadn’t had much interaction with Cam, not when he was alive, at least. “What do you know about his wife, Terry?”
The shawl slipped off Dora’s shoulder, exposing a white silk blouse. “Never worked with her. But I’ve read her stuff. She’s good. Published a biography of some weirdo occultist a few years back. What’s his name? Oh yeah, Crowley. Don’t think it did very well.”
“She told me she’s working on a biography of Barbara Yaganovich. Yaganovich has some occult connections too, doesn’t she?”
Dora lifted her eyebrows. “The model, dash landscape designer, dash hermit? Hadn’t heard that. But back then, everyone was into the occult. It was a new age, doncha know?”
Riga’s smile was lopsided. “That’s what they keep telling me.” But human nature never changed. She rubbed her shoulders. “It’s freezing. I’m headed in.”
“I’ll follow whe
n I finish my smoke. By the way. Those bath salts Pen delivered were terrific. You make ‘em?”
“My recipe. Someone else’s labor.”
Dora winked. “You could start a sideline.”
Riga returned inside, and mingled with the crowd, kissing cheeks and wearing a false smile. Donovan’s family overwhelmed her, and for a moment she wished she had more family of her own there to balance them out. But Pen’s parents wouldn’t arrive until the day before the wedding, and in this crowd they wouldn’t make a dent. Her family just didn’t have the mass of Donovan’s cousins and in-laws and nieces and nephews.
She felt him across the room, an invisible tug on her heart, but resisted the temptation to speak with him. He was Cam tonight. And when he passed by, camera flashing, she smiled brilliantly, then pretended to ignore him.
But covertly, she watched him photograph the country team, Jordan and Annabelle, beaming in each other’s arms. Annabelle’s attachment was gone, and some of the tension left Riga. At least she was making progress.
Donovan turned and Jordan grabbed his arm, spoke. Donovan shook his head, and moved on, left Jordan scowling. Laughing, Annabelle dug her elbow into her husband’s side, and Jordan’s expression lightened. He picked her up and swung her in a tight circle.
Waiters in black and white cut through the crowd, carrying silver trays with pink champagne. Donovan hated pink wine. Her future father-in-law’s doing?
A young waiter stopped in front of her. “Champagne for the toast?”
“Thanks.” She took a glass, unsure what toast he was talking about, and unwilling to admit ignorance. She examined the drink, more burgundy-colored than rose.
Reuben walked to a dias at the end of the room, and tapped a microphone, clearing his throat. “Welcome, everybody.” The crowd quieted, and he continued. “Antoine de Saint-Exupéry said that love does not consist of gazing at each other, but in looking outward together in the same direction. And though I haven’t known Riga long, I must say that I have rarely met two people whose vision of the world lies in such sympathy as hers and my cousin, Donovan. I am very pleased, Riga, that you’re joining our family. And I’m only sorry that our parents – Donovan’s, and my own, and yours as well – can’t be here. But I know they would have approved.”
4 The Infernal Detective Page 14
