“No. Nothing, thank goddess. Has anything happened to you?”
“I found Lynn Chen’s body yesterday.”
Lily clapped her hands to her mouth, her blue eyes widening with horror. She lowered them slowly to her lap. “What? No. That’s not possible. Tara didn’t say! Did she know?”
“I think she’s having a hard time with it. And I think the same person who killed Sarah, killed Lynn, and I need your help stopping him.”
Lily blinked rapidly, swallowed. “Okay. I get it. I’d rather not, but I get it. What do you need?”
“Tell me everything you know about Lynn.”
Lily coiled a lock of hair around one finger. “Lynn was second generation Chinese. She speaks Mandarin fluently and plays – played – the violin. I think her parents wanted her to be a doctor. She went to med school but dropped out and went to study acupuncture in China instead, then Feng Shui.”
“Was she seeing anyone?” Riga tried to cross her legs and her knee struck a table leg. She winced, put her leg down.
“Yes. He was married. I don’t know his name but he worked as a financial planner or advisor or something at the Truckee Bank. Lynn wouldn’t have told me that much, but I had to get some money from the ATM there once when I was with her, and she made a joke about withdrawals. I think she regretted it afterward. She made me promise not to say anything.”
Lily looked up and to the right, at the drying herbs. “Lynn was sweet. Maybe a little too trusting. I don’t think she should have gotten involved with a married man – I’m not being judgmental. I just don’t think she had the right temperament for it.” She looked directly at Riga. “Lynn believed in him. You know what I mean?”
Riga nodded.
“This is your case now, isn’t it Riga?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m glad, I think. The police here are pretty good, in spite of what you might have heard. But I’ll feel better with someone on the case who gets us, our world.” She looked away, uncomfortable. “Tara told me that she felt you were pushing her last night about the cat, the danger.”
“But she didn’t tell you about Lynn’s death.”
Lily frowned. “No,” she said slowly. “That does seem strange. But I think she was feeling raw after what happened to Pyewacket. And she’s been going through some stuff. Her business has really fallen off since the Reverend’s campaign. It’s all she’s got. She’s not going to abandon it.”
“That explains why my suggestion Tara get out of town went over like a lead balloon. But I think she’s making a mistake. You all need to be careful, not just Tara.”
“Things are very clear cut for you, aren’t they?” Lily said gently. “But we don’t all feel that kind of certainty.”
Riga stood. “Sometimes when you’re in the thick of things, it’s hard to see clearly what’s going on. Maybe I just have an outsider’s perspective. Thanks for the tea.”
The woman didn’t rise as Riga collected her pea coat, slung it on in the cramped room.
There was a gentle knock on the door and it swung inward, bumping Riga from behind. She turned, one arm in her coat.
Donovan’s cousin, Reuben stood in the doorway and in his suit and tie his presence there seemed jarring – a culture clash between corporate and cottage. Though his frame was slight, in that narrow space his tall figure blocked the silvery light. He looked from one woman to the other.
“What are you doing here?” Riga and Reuben said simultaneously.
His face darkened. “Are you following me, Miss Hayworth?” Flakes of snow had settled atop his raven black fair, and he brushed them away with a quick, jerky motion.
“I got here first! How can I be following you?”
“Riga was just helping me plan a memorial service,” Lily said soothingly.
His face twisted in a sneer, making him look less and less like Donovan. “Miss Hayworth is helping herself into all sorts of places.”
Riga shrugged her other arm into the jacket and squared to face him. “What exactly do you mean by that?” She picked up her bag, slung it over one shoulder.
“The penthouse suite, my cousin’s bed… You’re a very helpful woman, aren’t you?”
Riga’s fists clenched. She jammed them into her pockets to keep from slugging him. “Take it up with Donovan. I’m not interested in listening.”
“Be careful, Miss Hayworth. You’re helping yourself to some very dangerous territory.”
Chapter 17: New Dawn
Seething, Riga drove into the lot of a wood-timbered mini-mall, and pulled into a parking spot in front of Audrey’s shop window. The shop was dark and a “Closed” sign hung in the window, partially obscured by a white scrawl of graffiti. She glanced into her rear view mirror and saw Cesar’s SUV glide down the aisle behind her.
From her car, she watched two children in brightly colored parkas race down the walk. They shrieked with laughter, skidding on the ice, and their mother called after them to watch out, her tone weary, her cautions drowned out by their giggles. Riga felt a pang, wondered what her life would have been like if she’d trodden that path. But she’d made her choices.
Her cell phone rang and she fumbled with the earpiece she kept in the cup holder of her car. “Hello?”
“Hi,” Donovan rumbled.
Riga felt herself warm inside. “Where are you?”
“Over Colorado. You’d love the view from thirty thousand feet. The mountains are covered in snow and blue shadows.”
“It sounds beautiful.”
“It would be better with you here. How’s your day going?”
She wouldn’t tell him about Reuben now. She was too angry, and it would only infuriate him. “I’m playing a metaphysical detective today,” she said lightly, “and my next scene is about to begin.”
“I’m not sure I want to know what you’re talking about.”
“Lunch with Audrey, one of the Tea and Tarot ladies.”
“How innocent sounding. Why am I suddenly suspicious?”
Riga laughed. “It is innocent. Really.”
“Riga, when I return, there’s something we need to talk a—”
The line went dead and Riga exclaimed, exasperated. Talk to her about what? Why hadn’t he talked to her about it before he left? She waited, hoping for a call back. Nothing. She tried calling Donovan. There was a click and a beep and the line went dead. She grimaced, then grabbed her bag and put the phone in the side pocket, where she’d be able to grab it quickly.
She checked her watch. She was early for their lunch appointment so she went inside the bookstore next door to kill time. Cesar followed her inside, wandering the aisles, and thumbing through a book about the special forces in Iraq. Riga scanned the back cover of a new hardback by a mystery author Brigitte liked. The writing was too violent for Riga’s tastes, but the gargoyle had no such qualms.
She bought the book, then caught Cesar’s eye and left the store. Audrey’s shop was lit, the sign turned to “Open,” and she walked inside.
A string of bells on the door handle jingled when she entered. Riga wiped her feet on the mat, taking in the industrial beige carpet and stark white walls. The room smelled of burnt sage, the only furniture two metal folding chairs against one wall and an empty glass counter. A crystal swayed in the window, sending rainbows of light around the room. Astrology posters had been tacked to the walls and Riga paused in front of her sign, Taurus, the bull.
Audrey emerged from a hallway behind the counter, head bent as she unzipped her black leather jacket. She looked up, saw Riga, and crossed her arms over her chest. “What do you want?”
“We were going to have an early lunch, remember?”
Audrey tugged the fur-lined aviators hat and goggles from her head and set it on the counter. “That was before you bullied Tara. She told me you tried to scare her into leaving. Everyone’s trying to push us!” She pointed at the graffiti. “Reverend Carver wants us gone, you want us gone. I’m sick of it!”
Riga g
round her teeth in frustration. Audrey had been hit with graffiti and was taking it out on Riga. Fine. She took a deep breath. “That’s not a fair comparison,” Riga said quietly. “I don’t want you gone. I want you safe.”
Audrey snorted. “So you say.”
The muscles in Riga’s face tightened. “Look, I didn’t kill her cat. But someone did, so yes, I suggested she take a vacation. You were the one who drew the connection between the harassment and the killer, remember?” Riga’s gaze flicked to the window, where someone had scrawled the word, “whore.” “I didn’t graffiti your window either. Have you called the police?”
Audrey’s eyes crackled with fury. “The police came this morning.” She pressed her hands against the top of the counter, as if to launch herself over it. “They told me they’d gotten a ‘complaint’ – not from me, about me. Someone told them prostitution was going on here. They looked around, asked me some questions, and left. When I complained about the graffiti, one of them took a picture as evidence, but the way they were acting, I think it’s evidence against me.”
“I can help you remove it if you like.” Riga reached for her bag, hoping to make peace. “I’ve got a razor blade in my first aid kit.”
“Oh, I’m not taking it down,” Audrey snapped. “I want everyone to see how we’re being persecuted!”
“The thing about graffiti is, if you leave it up, it tends to attract more,” Riga warned. “And not just to your shop, to others in the area.”
“So now you’re an expert on petty crimes too? You didn’t know Lynn and you didn’t know Sarah. There’s no reason for you to be involved. You’re a metaphysical detective. Do you really think you can do something the police can’t?”
“Maybe.”
“Stop helping!”
It was the second time that morning someone had accused her of being overly helpful. She tilted her head, considering. “Technically, I’m meddling.”
Audrey stared at her, then burst into laughter. “Damn it. I’m sorry.” She massaged the bridge of her nose, then dropped her hands to her sides and sighed. It’s been a rotten couple of days and I took it out on you. Peace?”
“Sure.”
A dog barked outside, drawing Audrey’s attention to the window. She straightened from the counter, her pulse beating in her jaw. Riga turned, following her gaze. The dog from last night sat outside the window, staring in, a stream of drool hanging from its mouth. In the light of day she saw it was indeed a Caucasian Sheepdog and remarkably ugly, a cross between a Saint Bernard and a mangy bear. Behind the dog, a dark green van was being unloaded in the parking lot by a dozen or so people bundled in parkas and leather jackets. An angular male figure jumped from the van, carrying placards beneath one arm. He handed them off to another man then slid the door shut, revealing a rising sun painted on the side.
Audrey swore, and moved swiftly from behind the counter. “What next?”
“Is that Reverend Carver?”
“Naturally. His crew must have painted the graffiti on my window,” Audrey said. “Dammit, I can’t deal with them now. I have a client arriving any minute.”
Riga gave her a long look. If she had a client, then she’d never planned on meeting with Riga. “Mind if I talk to them?”
“Be my guest.”
Riga nodded and strode outside, the chill air bringing a flush of rose to her cheeks. The dog fell into step beside her, looking up at Riga with a hopeful expression.
The Reverend saw her and broke off his conversation with another man, staring.
She waded through the crowd. “Hello, Reverend. What are you doing here?”
The reverend pulled a plaid hunter’s cap from his pocket and clapped it on his head, covering the thinning hair. “We’re here because no one else is; no one else is prepared to fight the evil in our midst. You’ve danced with the devil, but not even you are lost. Are you prepared? The evil is upon us. You’ve seen it. Now, will you fight it?”
“Uh, thanks. I’m glad to hear I’m not beyond redemption.”
“Deputy Night explained your role,” he said stiffly. “Though you are walking close to the edge.”
“So are you. Do you really think Audrey Laine is a prostitute?” Riga said.
“They all are,” he bellowed, playing to the gleeful crowd. “Seducing the credulous, sapping their will, their senses, pulling them from reality, from their duties, from the one way. All because of the many harlotries of the harlot. The charming one, the mistress of sorceries, who sells nations by her harlotries and families by her sorceries.”
“I see,” Riga said. He was quoting from a Hebrew text now, and she wracked her mental file cabinet to remember which one. “So which one of you painted the word ‘whore’ on her window?”
The crowd buzzed.
Cesar made his way through the cars toward them.
“Since she’s not involved in prostitution, the word ‘whore’ implies a certain Biblical point of view, and one you applied to me when we first met,” Riga continued.
The Reverend took a step toward her. “You accuse us? We are being persecuted for our faith, my brothers and sisters,” he roared. “You are blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom.”
The little group cheered.
Riga arched a brow. “Matthew, isn’t it? And that earlier quote, was it Nablus? He’s a minor Hebrew prophet. It seems esoteric study for a church.”
The reverend jammed his hands into his coat pockets. “The police think you know who killed that girl.”
There were gasps from the crowd. The men moved in closer.
Riga tensed. She hated crowds. Almost all had an undercurrent of anger; the jostling, the petty frustrations, seemed to magnify in groups. Cesar pushed through the tightening circle towards her.
The dog beside her growled and she looked down at it, surprised. “Hey now, there’s no call for that,” she said.
The dog hung its head.
One of the women in the crowd laughed, a strange half-gasping sound.
“I don’t know who killed her,” Riga said, more loudly. “But he needs to be stopped. On that, I hope we agree. I found the body on the beach when we were filming and the police questioned me about it. You should know, there were signs at the site of an occult ceremony.” She was glad now that the police department hadn’t hired her, binding her with secrecy.
The Reverend’s gaze was caught by movement across the parking lot. A police cruiser had pulled up. Night and King got out of the car and headed toward them.
“Signs?” the Reverend asked. “What kind of signs?”
“I don’t think this is the time or place for that discussion.” Riga shifted the bag slung across her shoulder. It certainly wasn’t a discussion she’d like to have with Sheriff King looming over her. “But I would like to talk to you about it.”
The Reverend leaned towards her, quivering like an arrow strung in a bow. And then the tension released. “The church. Eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” he rapped out.
“Hello, Reverend,” the Sheriff boomed. “I see you’re exercising your First Amendment rights again. Please ask your crowd not to block the street or parking lot.”
Carver nodded briefly, then turned on his heel and marched toward Audrey’s shop.
The group picked up their placards, mobilizing to follow him.
“And Miss Hayworth,” King continued. “Fancy seeing you here.”
“Hello, Sheriff.”
He looked her up and down. “How nice to see you exercising your First Amendment rights as well. Or are you interfering in a police investigation?”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.”
The dog growled low in its throat and the Sheriff took a quick step back. “What the— Isn’t that your dog, Night?”
“Absolutely not.” The Deputy shook his head. “I saw it at Miss Hayworth’s last night.” He grinned at her. “She saved me from the beast.”
“Y
ou mean there’s more than one of those monsters?” He knelt down, peered at it. “I don’t see a collar on it. Better call it in to animal control.”
“It’s mine,” Cesar said, materializing by Riga’s side.
King squinted at him. “Huh. You work at the casino, don’t you?”
“Yeah. Dog must have busted out of my yard. Come on boy.” Cesar whistled and headed away. The dog followed.
Riga felt an uncomfortable prickling at the back of her neck. She turned. The Reverend’s wife stood, watching her. Her eyes burned with hate.
Riga shivered, and hurried after Cesar. She caught up with him, loading the dog into his SUV. “That’s your dog?”
“Nah.” He closed the car door and the dog pressed his nose against the window, leaving a gooey looking print. “But the thing tried to eat my car outside your place last night, so I think that gives me some ownership rights. Did you know it’s a Caucasian Sheepdog? They’re really smart and deadly tough, which is why the Russian military uses them.”
“Yeah. I know. But it must belong to somebody.”
“It’s a small town. I’ll find out who he belongs to. But I can’t let this guy go to jail. No dog deserves that. So what’s next?”
“My lunch date bailed and I’m starving. I was thinking of heading over to Truckee, grabbing a bite, checking on some leads there.” Riga’s phone rang. She checked the number, it was Pen. “Just a second.” She pressed the phone to her ear.
“Hi, Riga. The police just finished with me. Want to get some lunch?”
“Sure. Where are you?”
“At the station with Ash. Can you pick us up?”
Riga consulted with Cesar. “We’ll be there in five.”
Chapter 18: Putrefaction
The ghosts of Truckee were entirely in Riga’s imagination: frontier cowboys walked its wood plank sidewalks, thirties athletes clunked past with long skis slung over their shoulders, fifties greasers worked in the gas station. It was a funny little town, she thought, laid out in a wavering line, along the railroad tracks and the river. Snow drifted downward, fat white flakes that stuck to their eyelashes, hair and clothing, and the four hurried into a diner, blowing on their hands and stamping their feet for warmth as they waited to be seated. A waitress led them past red Naugahyde booths, a snarling, stuffed bear, and walls lined with antlers and arrowheads.
The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) Page 13
