5 The Elemental Detective

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Have a peppermint,” a male voice said, close by.

  She turned, bewildered, saw only beach and the far off policemen and Donovan.

  A laugh, rich, rolling. “Here.”

  Riga looked down. Beside her stood an elderly man, his chubby arm upraised, offering a candy wrapped in pink foil. He was waist-high to Riga, and his red and white Hawaiian shirt fluttered in the strengthening breeze. She assumed there were pants or shorts beneath the shirt, but from her high angle, his beach ball stomach hid whatever came below. His fisherman’s hat threatened to blow away, and he clutched it to his shock of white hair, hair that accentuated the deep bronze of his skin.

  “Thank you.” She took the candy and unwrapped it slowly, popped it in her mouth. It was a buttery peppermint, recalling the candy bowl her father had kept at his office when she was a child.

  They watched the remnants of waves edge toward their feet. She drew in her energetic center and then blew it outward with her breath, extending her psychic senses. A ripple feathered across the edge of her perception, and her skin twitched in response. The man was magic, or he had magic, but it was like nothing she’d ever encountered.

  When it was clear he wouldn’t say anything more, Riga spoke. “Did you see what happened here?”

  “I didn’t need to see it happen. I can see what has happened. And it’s clear what will happen.”

  “Oh?”

  “Sacrifice has returned to Kauai.”

  “Returned?”

  “It came to this island long ago. The old kings used it to increase their power, their mana.”

  “And did it work?” she asked.

  He nodded. “For a time, but there was a terrible price. It’s bad magic. Your kind of magic, sorceress.”

  “I don’t kill people,” she said sharply. “Or animals.” At least, not intentionally. And not for magic.

  “But the creature who did this is one of your kind. Which, I believe, makes you responsible.”

  She drew breath to argue, but he was right. She was responsible – not because whoever had done this was her kind, but because she could stop him. “Who are you?”

  “Just a humble kupua.”

  “What’s that?”

  “You would call me a shaman. You would be wrong, but shaman is close enough.”

  “What do you know about this?” She motioned toward the bodies on the beach.

  He clucked his tongue. “Big trouble is coming. Big trouble for your kind. Big trouble for mine.”

  She pressed her lips together. Why, why, why did magicians insist on being cryptic? She suspected it was because it made them seem wise and mysterious.

  Across the bay, the sun broke the mountaintops, sent shadows slanting across the dry sand.

  “I don’t suppose you can be more specific?” she asked.

  He didn’t reply, and she looked down. The little man had vanished.

  “Damn, he’s good.”

  A uniformed policeman labored through the white sand toward her, flipping the pages of a leather-bound notepad. “Mrs. Mosse?”

  She didn’t bother asking if he’d seen the kupua. “Technically, my last name is still Hayworth. Riga Hayworth.”

  “I know who you are.” Impassive, he scrawled notes in his pad, too young to recognize the closeness to the name of the silver screen goddess, Rita Hayworth, born too late to acknowledge the strange resemblance between the two women. Riga answered his questions, and he dismissed her, just an unlucky tourist who’d stumbled upon a body.

  She rejoined Donovan, and they walked slowly back down the beach.

  He cleared his throat. “There’s something I need to tell you. I wanted it to be a surprise, partly because I wasn’t sure if he was going to go through with it.”

  “Tell me you’re not a suspect.”

  He arched a brow. “No. Why would you think that?”

  She didn’t respond, and he smiled. “Fair enough. But one of the reasons we came here was because the hotel might be for sale. I was thinking of buying it.”

  She tugged at his hand to stop. “Buying it? But it’s not a casino.”

  “I’ve decided to diversify, but I want to stick to an industry I know. And I know resorts. And if we owned this place—”

  “We’d have lots of excuses to return,” she finished for him. “So that’s why you wanted to know what I thought of the hotel. But that doesn’t make you a suspect, does it? Dennis Glasgow’s death doesn’t benefit you.”

  One corner of his mouth tugged upward. “No, Riga. I’m not a suspect. Dennis and his brother both own the hotel, and both were interested in selling, though the younger brother is more eager. Dennis’s death doesn’t change anything for me.”

  “Which was killed?”

  “The older brother.”

  The one less enthusiastic about selling.

  Riga furrowed her brows. So to an investigator, it might look like Donovan had a motive, that he’d cleared a path to buying the hotel.

  He chuckled. “Don’t look so worried. I’m not a suspect. But I don’t like the timing.”

  “Donovan, there’s something I need to tell you,” she said. “I was right – there was magic involved in the murder. While you were talking to the police, I was approached by a local kupua, a sort of shaman. He told me the murder had been committed by one of my kind.”

  “And I assume by ‘your kind’ he didn’t mean mainlander.”

  “I don’t know what’s more disturbing – that magical people can see what I am so easily, or that we’ve only been in the islands a week before finding a body.”

  “This wasn’t your fault,” he said.

  She bit her lip. “No, but it’s my responsibility. This is magic. The police may not be able to take care of this.” Unwelcome, a memory popped into Riga’s mind. Tangled white hair, wild eyes. A woman she’d met, who had the same powers. And like Riga, she’d attracted violent deaths, magical deaths. But she had ignored the calls of the dead and gone mad.

  “What are you thinking?”

  Her jaw tightened. Why did this have to happen to them now? So much had come between them before the wedding, and she’d hoped… “And I don’t think I can ignore this, not a magical death, not necromancy.”

  “The police have the crime scene and will interview the people at the hotel who knew Dennis, as well as anyone on the beach who might have seen something. We can’t do anything for now.”

  “We?” She felt suddenly lighter. He was with her on this. He understood.

  “If Dennis was killed by someone for magical reasons, as you say, it’s unlikely the police will be able to manage it.” He squeezed her hand. “Besides, I have a stake in this.”

  “The hotel.” She gnawed her lower lip. The hotel purchase would both ease and complicate things. “But Donovan, we’re more likely to hear truths when people are off balance. We should talk to the victim’s wife and brother as soon as possible.”

  “And if they’re innocent, we’ll be harassing them for no reason.”

  And making it harder for him to buy the hotel, she thought cynically. “Donovan—”

  “If I was your client, would you do things my way?”

  “No.”

  He barked a laugh.

  “Okay,” she relented, “for you and only you, yes. But you’re not my client. Besides, how would you pay me?”

  “I think I can afford your rates.”

  “You said when we got married that what’s yours is mine and what’s mine is yours – it would be like paying myself.”

  He cocked his head, his dark brows drawing together. “What if I told you I hadn’t actually meant that?”

  “No take backs!” In spite of the situation, she almost laughed.

  He rubbed his chin. “Well, I do believe a wedding present is traditional, and you still haven’t gotten me one.”

  “Oh.” She’d wanted to get him something, but it had been one of those man-who-has-everything conundrums. “I suppose that would work.”r />
  “Then I suggest we go on with our plans for the day, and use your celebrity status to gossip with the locals.”

  “What celebrity status? You’re the one in the business pages. I’m just an afterthought.”

  “That’s what you think. Did you see the tabloid pictures of our wedding?”

  “Wait a minute.” Her eyes narrowed. “If you’re trying to buy the hotel… Is our honeymoon a tax deduction?”

  “No.” He darted a glance at her. “Not all of it.”

  “You rat!”

  “Not our time on the last island, and only part of our stay here. You did say it was a lovely hotel. You’re not angry, are you?”

  “No. But don’t think you’re off the hook just because I’m madly in love with you.”

  “Madly?”

  Riga’s mouth twitched. “Maybe.”

  Chapter 3

  The catamaran powered atop the crystalline waters, bouncing against the waves. Riga sat on Donovan’s lap, beside the captain, in swivel chairs beneath a blue awning. The warm wind streamed through her hair, and she knotted it at the nape of her neck. Strands flew out, striking her skin. Riga’s hand drifted to her stomach, glad she’d taken the motion sickness pills. Perhaps she should take them every day to ward off these random bouts of dark magic nausea.

  She itched to be back on land, investigating the murder. But Donovan had been right – for now, the police were in charge, and there was nothing to be done. And she was on an island paradise, and Donovan was beside her and God, oh God she loved him.

  But a trickle of unease leaked past, and she wondered how long this could last. Necromancy had nearly taken Donovan from her once, and she was now a necromancer, whether she liked it or not. And while she wanted to believe she could make necromantic magic her own, create a system for herself she could use for good, that sort of thing was years in the making. She had a feeling she’d need magical help a whole lot sooner. For her, there was no vacation from the supernatural.

  Donovan’s arm tightened around her waist, and she leaned into him.

  “There it is.” The captain, bronzed and bare-chested, shouted over the roar of the motor. “Na Pali.”

  Fingers of mountain, red earth and green, cascaded into turquoise water that grew dark as it edged away from the island. They rounded the bend, and a deep cleft appeared in the dagger-like cliffs, a call to Shangri-La.

  Donovan’s grip tightened. A dozen inadequate platitudes about the beauty of the place poised on Riga’s lips, and she said nothing, laid her hand on his bare knee.

  “Those are called ‘Pali.’” The captain scratched his beard. “The cliffs are carved by waterfalls at the top, and shaped by the sea at the bottom. According to legend, Pele, the volcano goddess, came to Na Pali coast searching for a home. But her angry sister, the goddess of the sea, Namakaokaha'i, drove her away. The elements are still battling here. Fire, earth, air and water are still shaping these islands. The volcanoes grow the islands and the water chips them away. We’ll visit a lava tube later.”

  “Are there any other legends about Kauai?” Donovan asked.

  “Lots. Ever heard of the menehunes? They’re our little people. According to legend, they built the sacred sites, the heiau, overnight. There’s also a cave near the Na Pali coast trailhead that’s believed to be menehune.”

  Riga made a face. Menehunes. That would be a cave she’d be steering clear of.

  Donovan glanced at her, his emerald eyes dancing.

  Grudgingly, she broke into a smile.

  “And now this trip is research,” Donovan said.

  “Research?” The captain asked. “What are you researching?”

  “She’s a writer,” Donovan lied. “Very interested in local magic and legends. Especially about – what did you call them? Menehunes?”

  “Well in that case…” The captain droned on about gods and ghosts as they traveled up the coast.

  He turned the boat in a wide arc, and pointed. “Spinners.” Suddenly they were racing a pod of dolphins, flashing mercury in the waves.

  Riga gasped with delight and hurried to the side. Donovan followed, steadying her against the rail. The dolphins slipped in and out of the water, effortless grace and muscle. One leapt from the water, twisting its body and exposing the white patch on its belly, then splashing onto its side. Riga could almost feel the water streaming across her skin, the freedom of skimming through the waves.

  “They’re magnificent.” Donovan’s voice was a low rumble. He turned to the captain: “How fast are we going?”

  “Fifteen knots. That’s roughly seventeen miles per hour.”

  Donovan braced one hand on the rail and studied them, as if to learn their secrets.

  “We’re coming up on our snorkel spot. Looks like we may be in luck,” the captain said.

  He navigated into a crescent-shaped bay, and to more shallow waters. They shimmered cerulean, clear enough to see patterns in the white sand below. The captain cut the engine and Riga’s ears rang in the abrupt quiet, broken only by the lap of water against the boat. The captain dropped anchor, and Riga and Donovan went down below and changed – Donovan into a pair of black trunks, and Riga into a white two-piece.

  Sunlight shimmered off the water, inviting. Riga ran to the back of the boat and dove. The water was a cool shock to her skin, and she broke the surface with a yelp.

  Donovan stood on the platform at the rear of the boat. “Cold?”

  But Riga was already growing used to the temperature. “Not anymore.”

  He twisted behind him and picked up a mask, tossed it to her. It plopped into the water. “You forgot this.”

  She reached for it and a shadow slipped beneath Riga. A dolphin popped up beside her, and she gasped, startled, then laughed. “Well, hello.”

  The dolphin chattered, bobbing its head, and swam in a circle around her. She watched, entranced.

  The captain appeared beside Donovan. “I think it likes you,” he shouted to her.

  “The feeling is mutual,” she said.

  The dolphin brushed her leg, its skin soft and slick.

  “He might even let you go for a ride,” the captain said. “See if he’ll let you touch him.”

  Slowly, she swept her hand across the animal’s silky back. It continued to circle.

  “Take his fin,” the captain said. “Gently.”

  Carefully, she took hold and the dolphin moved forward slowly, then with increasing speed, pulling Riga in its wake. For a moment she was flying, free, powerful. Then she let go, uncertain if the dolphin was trying to escape her, but it circled back toward her with two more members of its pod.

  The captain leaned close to Donovan and said something. Donovan looked startled, and grinned, shaking his head.

  More dolphins appeared, some chattering at her urgently, others circling.

  Donovan dove into the water, his body arcing through the air, and swam toward them, his strokes smooth, powerful. A dolphin blocked him, chirping, and he stopped, treading water.

  “It looks like they’re protecting you,” he said.

  She arched a brow. “They can sense your intent. Do I need protecting from you?”

  He swam more slowly toward her but another dolphin cut in front of him. Donovan’s lips turned down.

  And Riga was suddenly aware of how large the dolphins were. She looked toward the boat. The captain had disappeared.

  Riga shook her head. She was being ridiculous. The dolphins were playing, and there was nothing wrong.

  The air pressure changed, pressing on her. She shivered in the rapidly cooling water. The dolphins darted around her, silvery blurs, their circle closing. And suddenly, she wanted out.

  “Swim toward me, Riga.” Donovan’s voice was rough, commanding.

  She had the sense of doors sliding open, reality shifting. Blood drained from her face. Magic. Cold, menacing. They needed to get out of the water. “Dono—”

  Something jerked him beneath the waves.

&nbs
p; Riga stared for a moment, stunned, waiting for him to reappear. He didn’t. “Donovan!” She took a deep breath, and dove. The dolphins flashed around her, parted before her. Salt stung her eyes.

  Coils of deep pink bloomed in the water. Her chest tightened; her stomach turned to stone. No, no, God, no. Not Donovan. She swam through a rose-colored tide. Blood everywhere, and where was he, where was he?

  She swam toward the surface, thinking she might see him there, and touched sand. Her heart thundered against her ribs. Disoriented, Riga pushed off from the bottom, her vision obscured by the coiling pink clouds.

  Fire burned her lungs. Blindly, she reached out for Donovan. But she couldn’t find him, couldn’t find the surface. Air, she needed air.

  And then her fingers brushed the sandy bottom again and her senses lurched, twisted.

  Riga stood on a beach, alone. She staggered, confused by the sudden shift in reality. A wave, as tall as a lighthouse, raced toward her. Fear clubbed her, a leaden weight from above weakening her knees. Someone grasped her wrist and she turned, gasped. She was choking, blinded.

  “Riga!”

  Donovan. She grabbed for him, tears welling behind her eyelids. His arms went around her, and he towed her roughly toward the boat. She coughed, spitting water, twisted, determined to see, to know how he’d been hurt.

  But he gripped her firmly. “Don’t struggle. You’re safe.”

  She coughed, kicked out. “I’m okay. Donovan, are you hurt?”

  He relaxed his hold, and turned her in his arms. His green eyes darkened with worry. “Something—”

  “Hey, you two!” The captain leaned over the side of the boat. “What’s going on out there?”

  “Riga got a cramp,” Donovan said loudly. “We’re coming in.”

  Riga pushed the hair out of her eyes. The dolphins had vanished. The water was clear and still. And on the beach stood a diminutive, pot-bellied figure in a Hawaiian shirt. He beckoned to her.

  She turned to Donovan. “On the beach, do you see him?” She looked back. The figure was gone.

  “See who?”

  “I thought I saw someone. From a distance, he looked like the shaman I met near Dennis’s body.”

  On the hill above the beach, something twinkled. Magic tugged her gaze upward, toward a cut in the hillside, a trail. She extended her senses and felt that odd prickling of magic. Riga probed deeper, but all she could sense that magic was there, not what was causing it. She ground her teeth in frustration. There had been a time when she could have sent her senses flying and seen, known, acted. But now her magic limped, and she was back at beginner’s level. Sensing without understanding. Relying on the crutches of candles and cards, sigils and stones to cast her spells.