“I’m investigating the recent deaths at the hotel,” Riga said. “Dennis, and now Sarah.”
The woman blanched, squeezed her eyes shut. When she opened them, she took a long slow breath, exhaling through pursed lips. “You think there was something wrong with my daughter’s death?”
“I don’t have enough information yet. But we’re looking into the death of a woman under similar circumstances at the hotel three years ago,” Riga said. “And you’ve probably heard of the hotel owner’s murder.”
“Him! He deserved it, if you ask me.”
Riga’s pulse quickened, and she reminded herself that Dennis hadn’t been the prime target. But it was the first time someone hadn’t spoken in glowing terms about Dennis. “Why do you say that?”
“Worked her like a dog, he did. Late hours. She was always doing extra favors for him that had nothing to do with the hotel. He even had her buying gifts for his wife, sent her on all sorts of personal errands, and not during work hours. The sun rose and set by that man, and he took full advantage of it.” She slumped back in her seat, wound down.
“Did she say anything to you about his death?” Donovan asked.
“What was there to say? She grieved for that man, though personally, I don’t think he was worth much. I told her so.” Her face crumpled. “Now I wish I hadn’t. It just hurt her.”
“Sarah didn’t have any opinions on who might have killed Dennis?” Riga asked.
“His wife, of course. The wife always does it, don’t you know? And Mrs. Glasgow just didn’t understand him.” She raised her eyebrows. “How many times have I heard that before? So you’re thinking of buying the hotel? Well, maybe you should have this then.” She rose and walked out of the room, into a dimly lit corridor. “The police didn’t seem to think much of it,” she called over her shoulder. “Far as they’re concerned…” but her voice was lost in the hallway.
Riga and Donovan looked at each other. He lifted his eyebrows.
Sarah’s mother returned and put a cardboard box on the coffee table in front of them. “Here. She brought these home two weeks ago. More work. She was only paid for forty hours, you know, but here she was bringing stuff home. Do you think she got a bonus for it? No. Anyway, it’s hotel work and I don’t want it in here. You take it.”
Donovan rose, scooping up the box. “Thank you. I’ll return it to the hotel.”
“Return it, dump it in the ocean, I don’t care. Sarah’s gone…” She choked on a sob, turned away. “You two can show yourselves out.”
Quietly, Riga and Donovan left.
Donovan put the box in the trunk of the Ferrari. “I’m itching to see what’s in that box. There’s a little restaurant not far from here I’d like to try. How about we stop there for lunch and break it open?”
“Great idea. After what happened with the leiomano, I’d rather not go through this at the hotel.”
The restaurant was a small, wooden building with honey-colored walls that had been slid open to reveal rolling hills and an ocean view. The waitress sat them at a central table. Their napkins fluttered away in the breeze.
Bending to pick them up, the waitress said, “I’ll get you some fresh ones.” She handed them menus, then went to one of the doors and rolled it back into place.
Donovan set the box on the empty chair between them and opened the lid. He pulled out a manila folder and a journal beneath it. “This doesn’t look like it belongs to the hotel.” He handed it to Riga.
She opened it, flipped through the leather-bound book. “No, it’s her journal. Her mother mustn’t have known it was in the box.” It was private, personal. She began reading.
Donovan opened the manila folder.
“Are you ready to order?” the waitress asked.
Riga glanced up. “The pulled pork, and a glass of your house red.”
“Darling,” Donovan remonstrated. He looked over the menu, ordered a bottle of a hellishly expensive Zinfandel.
The waitress nodded, left.
“Two Buck Chuck has never passed your mouth, has it?” Riga asked, shaking her head. But a smile played at the corners of her lips.
“I thought you were going around the South Pacific in martinis.”
“I was,” she said, “but now it’s time to get serious.”
“This is a very serious Zin.”
“A deadly Zin?”
When the waitress returned, they were back to reading. The waitress poured out the wine, and dashed away.
Fifteen minutes later, the waitress put steaming barbeque in front of them. “Would you like anything else?”
Donovan grunted a negative, and she left them alone.
He slapped the folder shut and put it on an empty chair, bit into the sandwich. “What did you find?”
Riga grimaced. “Sarah was in love with Dennis. So far, it doesn’t look like either of them acted on it.”
“Either of them? What makes you think Dennis was interested in her?”
“She seemed to think he was, but this is just a journal. It could have been all fantasy on her part,” she said, trying to be fair. But sadness hung on her like a fifty pound kettlebell. “She says he was estranged from his wife, and suspected Deidre was seeing someone as well, but she doesn’t say who. I vote for Paul. What did you find?”
His eyes narrowed. “A second set of books.”
“You’re kidding.” She put the sandwich down and wiped her hands. Cooking the books opened up all sorts of possibilities. And Riga had been hoping to narrow them. Had Dennis known about the fraud?
“Someone was trying to cheat me,” Donovan said. “The hotel isn’t doing as well as Paul and Dennis presented it. The labor disputes have taken a toll, and the hotel’s been running at a loss for nearly two years. The trend is worsening.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
His look turned predatory. “I’m not. I know the truth now. This property is a turnaround situation. The price just dropped.”
“Are you sure you still want it?” she asked. The hotel seemed more trouble than it was worth, and the deaths had darkened her memories of the place.
“My decision has nearly been made. Nearly.” He tossed the folder into the box. “For all I know, these are fakes, and they’re trying to salt the mine.”
She leaned back in her chair. “I had no idea the resort business was so cutthroat.”
He grinned. “That’s part of the allure.”
Chapter 25
Hand in hand, they walked across the hotel lobby’s tiled floor, the box of Sarah’s papers under Donovan’s arm.
“Donovan,” a man called to them.
Paul hurried across the lobby, a kukui nut necklace bouncing beneath the collar of his denim hotel shirt. His face was coated in a sheen of sweat. “I’m glad I found you.”
“Is something wrong?” Donovan asked.
“No,” he said. “I just wanted to apologize for this morning. We’ve all been on edge, and I guess I feel protective about Deidre. She’s been through a lot. We both have.”
Donovan glanced at Riga. She nodded.
“Apology accepted,” Donovan said.
“Good.” He crammed his hands into the pockets of his khakis. “When can we talk about the hotel? Have you reached a decision?”
Donovan’s eyes gleamed, hard and cold. “No time like the present.”
“Oh. Okay. Sure. Why not now? My office?”
Donovan handed Riga the box. “You don’t mind, do you? It shouldn’t take long.”
“Of course not.” She brushed her lips across his cheek. “I’m going to go back to our rooms.”
“Lead the way.” Donovan strode after Paul.
She sighed and shifted the box on her hip. Between her work and Donovan’s, it hadn’t been much of a honeymoon. Or had it? She remembered the boat ride, the helicopter, and their time on the Big Island. And even when things had been horrible, his presence had strengthened her.
At the bungalow, she balanced the box on her
knee and dug for the key card. The box fell, spilling its contents, and she cursed under her breath. She should have just put the damn thing on the ground. A smattering of rain dotted the bricks as Riga bent and shoved the paper haphazardly into the file, then jammed file and journal into the box.
The rain came down harder and she slipped inside, closed the door behind her. She dropped the box on the low coffee table in the living area, and opened one of the sliding glass doors. The sound of the rain on the pavement, on the pool, soothed her mind. Riga leaned against the door frame and gazed past the patio to the ocean beyond. A ship’s silhouette broke the horizon, a dark blip against a pale gray sky and sea.
She found a sheaf of hotel stationary in one of the desk drawers, and sat at the table, her notebook open before her. The executive assistant knew this hotel inside and out – enough to keep a second set of books, real or fake. Did that mean Dennis had trusted Sarah to manage fake books? Or had she taken the real books as evidence against him? She bit the inside of her cheek, doubtful. No, this was about the seals, not the hotel. But she opened Sarah’s journal, found the point she’d left off, and resumed reading.
When she finished studying Sarah’s last entry, Riga closed the journal, sadder but no wiser. Sarah’d had no idea her life would soon end, and Riga wondered if perhaps she could have been wrong, if perhaps the young woman’s death had been an accident.
Her lips tightened. No, Riga didn’t believe in coincidence.
The light faded and she stood, stretched, turned on the overhead lamp. Riga went back to the table, and went back to work.
It came down to three questions. Who could have killed Sarah? Who knew about the hotel ghost? And who knew about Mana and the leiomano? The answers pointed toward one person.
But the why of it confounded her. What the hell did the necromancer have to gain from this? On the other hand, did a necromancer need a good reason for murder? Riga put her head in her hands. She was a necromancer by birth, if not by desire. Her aunts were practitioners, and they were nuts… though in a sort-of delightful way. Would she go mad too?
She dug her hands into her hair, and made an exasperated sound. Brigitte had been right. She was losing her edge. But she’d known that for a while, fumbling to find her own way, fighting this new magic inside her, fighting the blood desire…
She had thought that by following her calling, seeking justice for the dead, she could escape madness. But her magic only seemed to work well when she used blood, and the delicious pull it had on her… Riga shivered with longing. She wanted that dark drug. And the wanting terrified her.
A crack of thunder startled her from her musings. She glanced at the clock. It was nearly six o’clock, and Donovan hadn’t returned. Unease lodged just below her throat, and Riga shifted in her chair. He’d said he wouldn’t be long, but several hours had slipped past.
She grabbed her cell phone, dialed.
Donovan’s phone rang twice, three times, and then, “Hello?” a woman’s voice answered.
“Hello.” Riga stood. “This is Riga. I’m trying to reach Donovan.”
“Hi, Riga, this is Ellen. Donovan’s in a meeting right now. I’m answering his phone because he asked not to be disturbed. But if you’d like me to, I can go get him.”
“No.” Riga touched the base of her neck, frowning. “No, that’s all right. I don’t want to disturb him.”
“Would you like me to leave him a message?”
A gust of wind scattered the stationary on the table. Riga hurried to close the doors. “Yes. Will you please tell him I’m headed to the hotel bar?”
“Of course. Enjoy your evening, Riga.”
“You too.”
Slowly, Riga pocketed her phone. Then she nodded, made a decision, and picked up the room key. A drink was definitely in order.
She grabbed a jacket from the closet, and strode outside. Shrugging into its sleeves, the wind caught it, fought her, teasing the light fabric this way and that.
“Damn it!”
She ran, rain pelting her, half in and half out of her jacket, holding it over her head as a shield.
Dripping, Riga skidded into the hotel lobby. She looked around, stopped to catch her breath, and realized with a dash of shame she was hoping to see Donovan.
Shaking the water from her hands, Riga strode to the hotel bar and restaurant. The overhead fans weren’t turning tonight. The sliding glass doors were shut. Small mason jars had been turned into oil lamps, and they flickered on the tables. She turned from the dining room, and walked into the sleek bar, neutral-colored with pale slate tiles. Outside the windows, the bay was a black sheet.
A familiar figure sat hunched on a barstool beside two broad-shouldered men, and she stepped up beside Kimo.
“Mind if I join you?”
He looked around, as if unsure whom she was talking to. Then, “Sure. It’s a free country.”
The two men leaned across the bar, staring past Kimo at her. She recognized one as the guy who’d brandished a bat when he’d caught her and Donovan outside the laundry service. She winked at him, and sat.
A bartender approached her. “What can I get you?”
“A glass of your best Cabernet.”
“Our best Cab doesn’t come by the glass.”
“Then a glass of whatever Cab or Zinfandel you can pour me.”
He nodded and wandered to the other end of the bar.
“You following me?” Kimo asked.
“Not tonight.”
“I hear you were parked outside my laundry the other night.”
She raised her eyebrows. “Your laundry? You own a laundry and a fishing boat and a restaurant? Color me impressed.”
“Then you’re easily impressed. I also own a chain of pizza parlors.”
“The ones listed in my hotel brochure?”
He grinned. “Nepotism. It’s a wonderful thing. So why were you following me?”
“I wasn’t. I was following Paul.”
“Aw, leave him alone.”
“Can’t. He’s been lying to me. When people lie to me, I have to find out why. Sometimes it has nothing to do with the investigation, but I can’t leave it until I know. Sometimes it’s something that’s embarrassing, or innocent, or private. Like being in love with your brother’s wife.”
Kimo sighed, stared down at his beer. “Paul never was particularly subtle.”
“Did his brother know?”
“And Dennis never was particularly aware. I doubt it. He was too busy empire building.”
“Mm. So what about you? How’d you build your empire?”
The waiter appeared with her wine, placed it before her.
“Piece by piece,” Kimo said. “I started with the boat. People liked my catch, and I liked to cook, so I opened the restaurant. It was a success, and a friend asked me to go in with him on a pizza parlor. He had the recipes, I knew how to run the business. We did well. We opened more. And then I found out the owner of the laundry was selling. I knew how much business he did with the local hotels – it seemed like a good opportunity. I bought it, promoted one of the lower managers who seemed to know what he was doing to run the place. Made more money. Life’s been good to me.”
“It sounds more like you’ve been good to life.”
“Well. Here’s to life.” He raised his beer, and they clinked glasses. She nodded to Kimo’s two large friends. They ignored her.
“What about you?” he asked.
She sipped the wine. It was rich, peppery. “I used to own a PR company, but I got sick of it and became a metaphysical detective instead. I needed a P.I. license to be taken seriously – and not just by my clients. Cops like to see it, too, when you’re nosing around.”
“Metaphysical? It that a good business?”
She laughed. “It’s a rotten business. But I get by.”
“Looks like you more than get by.”
“Well, Donovan does. I’m just along for the ride. How—”
The world tilted si
deways. A wave, dark and sweet, aching with desire, roared through her. She resisted, and her stomach turned, but something beckoned, and she followed it, an opiate she didn’t want to kick. Blood, flowing, rich and metallic.
She gasped, the pulse of her own blood humming in her veins, rode the surge of magic. Another necromantic spell, here, on the island. If she could follow the trail of magic now… She stopped resisting, opened her senses. The tower rose before her. Lightning struck it and stones crumbled, fell, alongside two figures, plummeting headfirst to the rocks below.
A hand grabbed her arm, rough. “Get down.”
She shook her head to clear it and was back in the real world. Screams. Shouts. A bottle flew past her, shattering behind the bar, sending other bottles tumbling to the floor.
Kimo was shaking her, his face contorted. “Get behind the bar!” He shoved her, and she stumbled against a woman who had the same idea.
The woman turned and clawed at Riga. “Get away from me!”
Riga blocked the blow and took a quick step back.
A fight, a brawl. Kimo’s friends were in the thick of it, men and women tumbling, tables overturning, glass breaking.
She climbed onto her barstool and vaulted over the bar, landing beside a crouching waitress. Riga ducked down beside her.
“What the hell happened?” the waitress shouted.
Riga grasped her head, as if to keep it from flying apart. Another necromantic spell. Another death. Human? Mermaid? Did it matter? A chair flew over the bar, sending more bottles crashing to the floor.
Riga shielded her face from the flying glass. The waitress shrieked.
Two men, struggling, stumbled behind the counter.
“We need to get out of here,” Riga said, duck walking away from the men.
“And go where?” the waitress asked.
And that was the question. Was the fight only here? Or had it spread? Was Donovan safe? Riga’s chest hollowed. God, Donovan. She’d have to tell him about her reaction to the spell. It had pulled at her like a drug, and she’d responded. She’d wanted to respond. Riga told herself it was because she had to follow it to the end, find the person doing this, but the blood was a narcotic to her, and she understood now how certain necromancers became addicted. Riga’s skin tightened. She pressed her hands against her twisting stomach.
5 The Elemental Detective Page 22
