The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth)

by Kirsten Weiss

  A flush of pride spread from the collar of Angus’ polo shirt to the roots of his curly red hair, darkening his freckles.

  Sam glanced around the room and nodded with satisfaction. Riga didn’t get it. The cabin still looked like a dump. Was that the effect they were going for, she wondered?

  “So how did you and Mr. Mosse meet?” Sam said.

  “In a bar.”

  “Ah. Okay. So when we get started, you’ll need to be a bit more talkative. Don’t worry about being concise; that’s what editing is for. We want the story, and storytelling means you’ll need to give us some emotion, some context we can understand. For example, how did you feel when you first met him? What was he wearing? What were you thinking?”

  Another cameraman, Griff Lee, shifted the camera on his shoulder impatiently. He was thin and angular, with blond hair and a beak-like nose. “Can we get a move on? I’d like to start shooting while we’ve still got light coming through those windows.” He shot an annoyed look at a taciturn black man helping Pen splice two cables together, Pen’s bodyguard, Ash. Sam had accepted Donovan’s request to place him on the crew, incognito, though Riga wasn’t sure how he’d explained his presence to the others. The bodyguard was tall, with the long, lean musculature one saw in basketball players and Masai warriors. He nodded imperceptibly to Riga, his toffee-colored eyes cold and impersonal.

  Electricity crackled and Pen yelped, dropping the cable.

  “Amateurs,” Griff muttered, fixing his pale blue eye to his camera’s viewfinder.

  Pen flushed.

  “Cool your jets,” Wolfe said. He peered through his own camera, set upon a tripod, and furrowed his dark brows. “We’re on schedule and I, for one, don’t mind the extra help.”

  Griff glanced up from the camera, scowling, but Sam interjected before he could respond. “Guys, we’re on the same team and I think we’re ready to begin. Riga? Are you good to go?”

  She nodded, tense. Riga told herself she was being ridiculous, the show was a means to an end. Why should she care about how she actually did on it? The butterflies in her stomach did a tango. “Ask away.”

  He led her through the same questions he’d asked at Donovan’s and she began to relax. Then, he said, “So what are your thoughts on Tessie?”

  “When I first heard about a monster in Lake Tahoe, I assumed the story had been dreamed up for tourists. But Tahoe makes an ideal home for a lake monster. A researcher named Michel Meurger conducted a cross-cultural analysis of lake monster sightings and they tend to have certain things in common. First, where lake monsters are sighted, the lake is typically believed to be bottomless. Tahoe isn’t bottomless but it is one of the deepest Alpine lakes in the world. ‘Monster’ lakes are also believed to connect to other lakes or to the sea, and to have caves. Tahoe has a cave system and water from one of its rivers meets up with the Pacific.” Riga winced inwardly. God, she sounded pompous. But she didn’t know how to turn it off. “It’s also big enough to have currents and eddies and squalls – all associated with lake monsters. And there’s something otherworldly about the Lake Tahoe Basin, so it doesn’t surprise me that people have been seeing lake monsters here.” There was something different about Tahoe, she thought. Riga had felt the first stirrings of her own magic as a child on summer vacation at the lake, exploring these woods.

  “So you believe in Tessie?” Sam said.

  “I don’t take the paranormal on faith. I need evidence or experience. There may well be a Tahoe Tessie, but a lot depends on how we define her.”

  “So what is Tessie?”

  The lights had heated the small cabin and a rivulet of sweat trickled between Riga’s shoulder blades. “There are lots of theories, but we can break them into four categories. Either the lake monster is real, it’s a delusion, or it’s a fake. If it’s a real, physical creature, the two most popular theories are that it’s some sort of prehistoric creature or a really big sturgeon. If it’s a delusion, then we may be able to put it down to the power of suggestion; people see a floating branch and think it’s a monster. Third, it could be a fake, a joke, a fraud.”

  “You said four categories,” Sam said.

  Riga leaned back in her chair. “Fourth: it’s a real creature of the imagination, a moment in time when something shifts and a branch reveals itself as a monster. Carl Jung explored this in his writings on UFOs, theorizing UFOs were either objects manifested or projected by our unconscious or real objects that people projected their unconscious content upon.”

  “So we’re back to seeing a log and thinking it’s a monster.”

  “No, we’re back to seeing a log and gaining a new and very real view of the world.”

  “Great. Let’s do it again.”

  Riga blinked. “Again?”

  “You were a little stiff. This is a conversation, not a lecture.” He gave her a tight smile. “Don’t worry about it. This was your first time out. I’d have been shocked if you’d nailed it.”

  Riga nodded, glum.

  They did it again.

  And again.

  By the fifth take, Sam was genuinely smiling. “Terrific! Think you can give us a quick history of Tessie?”

  “Sure.” Riga’s jitters had been replaced by annoyance. She didn’t understand why the fifth take had been any better than the first one. She forced a smile and reminded herself that the client was always right. Usually.

  “Great,” Sam said. “Where’s the map?”

  Pen raced forward, nearly tripping over a cable in her excitement. “I’ve got it!”

  “Thanks, Pen,” Sam said absently. He unrolled the map on the square, wooden kitchen table, lifted a hand and the map rolled back. “We’ll need some paperweights,” he said.

  “What about this?” Wolfe hefted Brigitte onto the table, the muscles in his arms swelling to Pen’s unabashed admiration. “If we shoot from this angle like so,” he made a box with his thumbs and forefingers, “the camera will just catch the edge of the claw.”

  Riga inhaled sharply. Brigitte’s talons lay flat now but they’d been curled upon the mantel.

  Sam laughed. “You’re going to get that gargoyle into every shot, aren’t you?”

  “It could be a great running gag,” Wolfe said, his hazel-colored eyes intent. “Something for the Internet discussion boards.”

  Sam nodded, considering.

  “But impractical,” Riga said. “Aren’t we going into the field? She’s heavy.” She heaved the gargoyle off the table and placed it on the counter, turning Brigitte so her tail faced the living room. Brigitte’s claws made vengeful scraping sounds upon the countertop.

  “Point taken,” Sam said. “No more gargoyle, Wolfe.”

  When Pen and Ash had arranged the lights to Griff’s satisfaction, Riga began, bending over the map. “The first recorded sighting of Tessie was in the 1950s, when two off-duty police officers reported seeing a large, black hump rise out of the water, here.” She pointed with a sharpened pencil. “They claimed the object kept pace with their speedboat. Since that time, there have been fairly regular reports, at least once a decade, of a long, serpent-like creature seen in the lake. In the 1980s, two fishermen spotted it near Cave Rock, here.” She pointed. “A few weeks later, divers reported a serpent shooting out of an underwater cave, and finding fin-prints left in the silt. And then, of course, there have been the recent sightings in the last month.” Riga was inclined to discount these. The uptick in sightings when a TV crew was in pre-production for a show on Tessie was most likely due to the power of suggestion, or to attention seeking.

  “Where were those sightings?” Sam said.

  “The first was just north of Cave Rock, here. The second…” Riga trailed off. Good God, the recent sighting wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. The last sighting was three days ago, Tuesday.

  “You were saying about the second sighting?” Sam said, patient.

  Riga hesitated. She’d planned to use the TV show to investigate the murder. She just hadn’t
really believed there was a link between the two. “The second sighting was in this cove, where the body of a local palm reader was just found, decapitated.”

  Chapter 8: The Fortuneteller’s Cafe

  Riga and Sam stood by the open cabin door, on the front porch. The light had switched on automatically, though it wasn’t quite dark enough to make a difference. The crew bundled up their cables and lights, clearing the cabin.

  “Here’s some homework.” Sam handed Riga a DVD. “A couple interviews we did in pre-production, Tessie witnesses. We plan to use the footage as is, you probably won’t need to re-interview this group but there are still plenty of people we haven’t met with yet.”

  “Sam, there’s something else I should tell you. The Sheriff’s asked me not to leave town.”

  His spectacles glinted. “Not to leave town? You make it sound as if you’re a suspect.”

  “I’m not sure what he’s thinking, or if this will affect my ability to do this job.”

  Pen brushed past them, unsmiling, a heavy light in both hands.

  “Hey, Riga, don’t worry about it,” Sam said. He clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m a whiz at thinking up new storylines on the fly.”

  She watched them depart, uneasy, the tail lights of the crew’s van disappearing around a bend in the road, then shut the door on the night.

  Riga did a ritual cleansing of the cabin and reset her wards. She was going on faith and habit now, unable to sense the familiar buzz of magical energy and unsure if her rituals had any effect. Brigitte assured her they worked, but Riga’s faith was dimming.

  She checked her watch, shrugged into her thick pea coat, and drove to The Fortuneteller’s Café. It was an unassuming coffee shop located in a strip mall, with red Christmas lights rimming the windows. Riga found a parking place in front of the door, the lights from her car rudely illuminating the three women, huddling around a table inside.

  Riga opened the glass door and a bell jangled, announcing her presence. A long glass pastry counter, depressingly empty of food and swagged with plastic garlands, stood near one wall. Behind the counter was a chalkboard menu of coffee drinks and divination packages: $60 for an hour’s consultation, $30 for twenty minutes, $10 for fifteen. Opposite, oversized paperback books on the occult tumbled across a squat bookshelf.

  The women fell silent, watching Riga wend through the maze of tables.

  Tara was the owner, a short, voluptuous woman with graying hair worn in a loose braid. She made as if to stand and the tabby on her lap leaped to the floor, its tail bristling. Then the woman recognized Riga and relaxed onto the chair, rearranging her ankle-length flowered skirt.

  Offended, the cat stalked behind the counter.

  “Hello, Tara, Lily, Audrey,” Riga said, nodding to each. “The Sheriff told me about Lady Moonstone, I mean, Sarah. I’m sorry.” She didn’t know the women well, but suspected the hint about the Sheriff would be an effective means of entrée if the expression of sympathy fell short.

  Tara’s round shoulders slumped, curling inward. She reached behind her and grabbed a wooden chair from another table set up, dragging it to their own. Its legs bounced on the cheap beige linoleum. “Have a seat,” she said. “I was just going to make myself more chamomile tea. Would you like some?” She didn’t wait for an answer, standing and going behind the counter, making a clatter of mugs and plates. The scent of patchouli lingered in her wake.

  Riga lowered herself into the chair, leaned her elbows on the table.

  “I knew something was wrong.” Audrey fiddled with one of her earrings. A line of studs and rings ran around each ear. Riga thought the piercings must have hurt like hell. She dropped her hand, twisting restlessly, then ran it through her flaming red hair, making it stand up in short spikes. “I should have done something.”

  Lily sniffed, delicately blotting her nose with a tissue. “What could you have done?” Her white-blond hair flowed in waves past her shoulders, and with her eyes pink from crying, she reminded Riga of the White Rabbit.

  Audrey stood abruptly, knocking over her chair. “Gone to her house, checked up on her. Something.” She righted the chair and, grasping the back of it with her hands, leaned heavily upon it, her head lowered. The coppery buttons on her vest gleamed beneath the fluorescent lights of the café.

  “She was found by the lake,” Riga said. “I don’t think you could have done anything.”

  “Sit down,” Lily said gently.

  Audrey sat, and pulled a burnished metal lighter from her vest pocket. She flipped its hinged cap open and closed, open and closed. “Shit.”

  “I can’t believe she’s gone.” Lily tucked her hair behind her ears. They were faintly pointed, giving the slender woman an elfin air. “The last time I saw her, we talked about… nothing. She asked me for some passion tea. I was going to give it to her at the next meeting. It was all so superficial. Of course, I didn’t think someone would…” She bit her lip.

  Riga asked Lily, “Passion tea? Is that passion fruit?”

  She smiled wanly. “No. Passion, sex, romance.”

  Ah. A magical tea, then. “Was Sarah in a relationship?”

  “I don’t think so,” Lily said. “She never mentioned anyone. Did she say anything to you, Audrey?”

  “No.” Audrey snapped the lighter shut. “It must have been unrequited.”

  “Why?” Riga said.

  Audrey raised an eyebrow. “She would have told us otherwise.”

  Tara returned, carefully setting two mismatched, delicate-looking teacups on the table. She slid one toward Riga and the yellowish liquid slopped over the rim. “No, she wasn’t seeing anyone. Sarah was single and happy. I wish I had her joie de vive.”

  “It might have been part of a spell for someone else,” Lily said. “She was so insistent about having to have it soon, but I was out. I had to make more.”

  Riga sank a spoon full of sugar into the tea, disturbing the flecks of chamomile at the bottom of the cup. “I didn’t realize Sarah was a spell worker.”

  Audrey and Tara darted glances at each other.

  “We all are, to some extent. Sarah and I are Wiccan.” Lily colored, realizing what she’d just said. Sarah wasn’t part of the present tense anymore.

  “Part of a local coven?” Riga asked.

  “Solo practitioners,” Lily said. “Sometimes we worked together but two don’t exactly make a coven. You?”

  Riga shook her head. “I’m not a Wiccan and I work alone.” Too many magicians had top gun complexes, wanting to prove themselves better than their peers, often with deadly results. She imagined it was a bit like being a gun fighter, with other fighters out to make a name for themselves by bumping you off.

  Tara shifted, her bulk settling into the wooden chair. “You said you spoke to the Sheriff?”

  “He seemed to think Sarah was killed in a ritual involving black magic.” Riga stirred her cup, the teaspoon clinking gently. Her stomach rumbled, and she glanced again towards the glass counter. It had not magically filled with baked goods since her arrival.

  Tara slammed her palm down upon the table, making the teacups rattle. “No way,” she sputtered. “That’s ridiculous! Sarah? She was a Wiccan, not a Satanist!”

  “I don’t think that was what the Sheriff was suggesting,” Riga said.

  “She was a victim of black magic, you mean,” Lily said. “He doesn’t think she was a practitioner?”

  Riga shrugged.

  “But there’s no such thing as black magic,” Audrey said. “Black magic implies evil magic, and good and evil don’t exist. Good and evil are subjective, human constructs.”

  “Evil becomes much less subjective when you’re its victim,” Riga said dryly.

  Audrey folded herself into a cross-legged position atop her chair, flipped the lighter open and shut. “The point is, the Sheriff is wrong.”

  “When did you see Sarah last?” Riga asked.

  “I saw her about a week ago,” Lily said. “I ran into her outside
the hardware store. She was getting new locks.”

  Audrey gave her a sharp look.

  “New locks?” Riga said.

  Lily looked away. “I think she believed someone was harassing her.”

  “Someone’s been harassing all of us!” Aubrey snapped. “At least, all but you, Lily.”

  “Is that how her window got broken?” Riga said.

  Lily nodded. “Sarah thought so.”

  “What do you mean, she thought so?” Audrey said. “Just because nothing’s happened to you, doesn’t mean nothing’s happening.”

  Tara cleared her throat. “We don’t know—”

  Audrey threw the lighter upon the table. It bounced and skittered to the floor. “Sarah’s dead! Isn’t that proof enough? Someone was harassing her and now she’s dead. Any one of us could be next.”

  “But… It doesn’t make any sense,” Tara said helplessly.

  “Who do you think might be harassing you?” Riga said, looking to Audrey.

  “It’s that damned church.”

  “What church?” Riga asked.

  Tara sighed heavily, her breasts heaving. “Church of the New Dawn. Reverend Carver. I guess you haven’t been here long enough to catch one of his Sunday demonstrations in front of Tea and Tarot. It’s quite a show. Fortunately, Sunday afternoons aren’t my best time, but it really—” Tara took a deep breath and tried to smile. “It makes it difficult to stay centered when people are picketing with signs about not whoring after mediums or allowing a sorceress to live.”

  Riga frowned. It also made it difficult to stay profitable. And while the phrases were biblical, they were threatening. “What do the police have to say about this?”

  “The protestors don’t block the entry or the street and so far they haven’t actually done anything.” Tara waved her hand dismissively. “The cops have bigger fish to fry.”

  Audrey flicked open the lighter and a tall jet of flame shot out. She snapped the top down, extinguishing it. “I’ll bet they killed Sarah. There’s some dark energy around that church.”