The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth)

by Kirsten Weiss

  They took a table near the far corner, Riga and the two bodyguards jostling for the power chair facing the door, its back to the wall. Riga conceded first. Ash and Cesar glared at each other, then Cesar grimaced and took the next least vulnerable seat. Ash nodded and took the chair.

  Riga’s hamburger arrived, drowning in grilled onions, bacon and cheese. Her stomach whined in response.

  Pen unzipped her thick black jacket, exposing a black t-shirt that said “Freedom” in antique white script. A large filigreed gold pendant hung around her neck. She tore into her short stack, her handheld camera on the table by her elbow, while Cesar watched with an amused expression. Ash ignored the women, his eyes roving to the doors, the other diners, the waitresses.

  “Can I ask you a question, Ms. Hayworth?” Cesar asked.

  Riga nodded cautiously.

  “Why did you become a metaphysical detective? Why not a regular P.I.?”

  How could she explain it? That she’d been trying to figure out her own oddities, what had happened to her? It was a road she didn’t want to go down. “Because those aren’t the kind of mysteries I’m interested in,” she said lightly. “And only wonder leads to knowing.”

  Cesar raised an eyebrow, and his scar tissue stretched into new and interesting patterns. “That’s Gregory of Nyssa, isn’t it? But that’s not the entire quote. It’s: Ideas create idols, only wonder leads to knowing. It’s really a warning against ideologies.”

  Riga put her half-eaten burger down, surprised. “I’d forgotten the first part. Were you a theology student?”

  “Masters in religious studies. Thought some philosophy would smarten me up.”

  “How’d that work for you?” Ash said, unsmiling.

  Cesar’s scarred face twisted into a grin. “Hey, at least I’ve got my good looks to fall back on.”

  “Did you specialize in anything?” Riga asked him.

  “Medieval Christian philosophy. The universe was like a giant clockworks to the medieval mind. Everything was connected and so everything had mystical significance. Today nothing means anything. Modern life is depressing.”

  “I’ve been reading some alchemical texts for fun—”

  “Fun?” Cesar raised an eyebrow. “Those old texts will make your head spin.”

  “No kidding. I’m starting to think deciphering the texts is part of the internal alchemical process.”

  “I doubt that.” Cesar used a french fry as a wand to point at her. “You’re talking about the correspondences?”

  “What’s a correspondence?” Pen said.

  “The medieval mind saw symbolic connections between things,” Cesar said. “For example, when plants died in the winter and were reborn in the spring, they saw this as a natural correspondence to man’s resurrection after death. In alchemy, secrets are revealed through symbols and their relationships to each other, for example: the symbolic relationship between sun and moon, king and queen. But the alchemists didn’t have to struggle to figure them out because thinking this way was natural for them. If alchemy works, I don’t think it’s because of the effort required to decipher the symbols. There’s something else going on.”

  Dammit, he was right, Riga realized. She should have thought of that. “Do you think alchemy works?” she asked, curious.

  “There’s a quote by the protestant reformer, Martin Luther, on alchemy. I can’t remember it exactly, but he approved of it – not for the ability to turn lead into gold, but because he thought it was an allegory for the last judgment and that it could transform spiritual lead into gold. I’m a Catholic, but I’ve got to admit, Luther had style.”

  “My turn, Ms. Hayworth,” Ash said. “Why do you drive an old man’s car?”

  “What’s wrong with my Lincoln?”

  “Nothing, if you like driving a sofa,” Ash said.

  “It’s got a smooth ride, crumple room, and trunk space for at least three bodies.”

  Ash nodded, looking thoughtful. “It depends on the size of the bodies, but I get you.”

  Replete, Riga checked her watch. “This is where Cesar and I leave you two. Let’s meet back in two hours.”

  “Come on, Aunt Riga,” Pen said. “Let me come with you. I worked with you on cases before.”

  “No, you haven’t.”

  “Did too!”

  “Did not. Why are you asking now? Did Sam put you up to this?”

  Pen’s brows drew together. “Why would he do that?”

  Riga pointed at the filigreed pendant that dangled from Pen’s neck. “Because you don’t wear jewelry. Even if you did, that antique-looking charm isn’t your style, and even if it was, it doesn’t go with your t-shirt. Also, your camera is on. Sam hinted about using hidden cameras today. So I’m guessing this…” She flipped the pendant with a twist of her finger. “Is a microphone. And those are Angus’s specialty.”

  Pen spluttered. “It’s not…How…? The show is really important!”

  “Et tu, Brutus?” Riga leaned forward, her voice dark and sweet as molasses as she spoke into the mic. “Don’t cross me, Angus.”

  “I can help!” Pen looked away, winced, touched a hand to her ear. “I can’t—”

  Riga wiped her hands with a paper napkin. “They’ve got you wearing an earpiece too? Where are they? Truckee’s in a valley so they must be close to pick up your signal.”

  “In the parking lot across the street,” Pen muttered. “And Angus wants to know if you just threatened him.”

  “Now that’s just dumb. I would never give a target warning. And you can tell Sam it’s time for him to back off. Now. I didn’t agree to be secretly filmed.”

  Pen rolled her eyes. “I don’t have to tell him. He can hear you. Microphone, remember?”

  “Then the van had better be gone by the time I leave this restaurant. Pen, what’s going on with you? I know this show is important, but all of this… deceit is out of character.”

  “You’re one to talk! What about…?” Pen stopped, gnawing her lower lip. “You’ve been sneaking around too,” she finished lamely. “And you have an over-developed sense of privacy. No website, no social media… I don’t know how anybody even finds you to hire you. You’re on a TV show now. If this goes well, you can kiss privacy goodbye.”

  “I doubt the paparazzi are interested in Tahoe Tessie.” Riga held her hand out, palm up. “Give me the pendant.”

  Pen sullenly pulled the necklace over her head and handed it to Riga.

  She dropped it in her iced tea. “Okay, you really want to help? Then see what you can dig up on hauntings in the area. I’m looking for recent activity.”

  “Okaaaay,” Pen said, looking doubtful.

  Riga rose from the table. “Ready, Cesar?”

  “As I’ll ever be.”

  They wound through the tables and left the warmth of the diner. Outside upon the wooden sidewalk, he asked her, “Why are you interested in recent hauntings?”

  “I’m not but it should keep Pen busy. A town this old has got to have some stories.” Riga stopped in front of a historic marker dedicated to the “601.” It read:

  Truckee’s vigilance committee, known as the “601”, was born in response to the rise in crime and “undesirables” which plagued the young railroad town. In late 1874 and early 1875, the 601 carried out a campaign to intimidate and rid the town of those elements. After accidentally shooting one of their own members, the 601 disbanded until August 1889 when they reassembled for one last time. Though their goals were never fully achieved, the 601 did bring a semblance of law and order through their vigilance.

  “Vigilantes,” Cesar said. “Hard to believe.”

  Riga moved off, down the wood plank sidewalk. “People crave stability. If the authorities can’t bring order, others will step into the breach.”

  They paused before a display of cowboy wear, mannequins with lariats, and holsters at their hips.

  “Mr. Mosse told me you’re not a bad shot,” Cesar said. “Are you carrying?”

&n
bsp; “No.”

  “Maybe you should think about it.”

  Riga stopped in front of a stairwell tucked between two dress stores. She double checked the address with one in her black notebook. Lynn Chen’s office was up the stairs. “Mind loitering behind me? I’m going to check out Lynn Chen’s office.”

  “When you say ‘check out,’ I hope you don’t mean B&E.”

  “Breaking and entering? No. I mean talk to her neighbors.”

  “I’ll loiter.”

  At the top of the stairs stretched a long corridor, with brightly lit shops along each side. Their large windows ran waist high to the ceiling, fronting the hallway.

  Riga peered through Lynn’s window; the office hadn’t been ransacked. Unfortunately, she couldn’t sneak in without everyone on the floor seeing. Riga slowly walked past Lynn’s windows, checking her office from various angles. A pile of mail lay beneath the slot in the door. It was an open, airy space, and Riga saw bamboo plants in water – was it possible to kill bamboo, Riga wondered? A screen sheltered a desk and chair – a consultation corner, perhaps. A bookcase with a shelf full of Feng Shui themed items for sale stood against the far wall. Well, what had she expected to find? A note from the killer jammed beneath the door? She checked, hopeful. Nope, nothing.

  An apothecary shop stood opposite Lynn’s office and Riga went inside. A bell tinkled to announce her entrance; another angel had earned its wings.

  A woman behind the counter looked up at the sound and smiled broadly. She wore a name tag that said: Jan. “Hi! Can I help you?” she asked.

  Riga looked around before answering. The owner had played up Truckee’s old west theme and lined shelves with antique-looking hand labeled glass jars and bottles. A mortar and pestle sat on the counter, beside a lit candle in a rough ceramic jar. Riga leaned forward, inhaling. It smelled of sugar cookies.

  “Do you like it?” Jan said. “It’s soy and one hundred percent natural. Here, dip your finger in it. You can use the melted soy as moisturizer.”

  Riga took off her gloves and immersed the tip of one finger in the melting pool on top. It was soothingly warm, silkily decadent.

  When Jan named the price, Riga blinked. It was a lot for a candle and she couldn’t afford to be frivolous. On the other hand, the TV show was paying her well, so maybe she could. Besides, she needed to build some goodwill with the storekeeper. In that light, it was practically a business expense. “I’ll take two,” Riga said.

  Jan wrapped the candles in butcher’s paper. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

  “I hope so,” Riga said. She pulled a business card out of her wallet. “I’m investigating the murder of your neighbor, Lynn Chen.”

  Jan’s hands froze, then slid across the paper. She blinked rapidly. “Oh!” She turned away, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Sorry.” She cleared her throat. “I just wasn’t expecting… You’re a detective?”

  “I’m a licensed private investigator in California,” Riga said.

  Jan picked up the card, looked at it. “Metaphysical?” Doubt crept into her voice.

  “Lynn and I had that in common.” Riga drew her P.I. license from her wallet and offered it to Jan, who examined it curiously.

  “I’ve never heard of a metaphysical detective before. What do you want to know?”

  Riga returned the license to her wallet. “Anything you can tell me about Lynn. When was the last time you saw her?”

  “I don’t remember exactly, but she stopped opening her office three weeks ago. She was great. We used to pick up coffees for each other, gossip when things were slow.”

  “What sort of gossip?”

  Jan picked up a candle and wrapped butcher paper around it. “The usual stuff. Who was getting married, divorced, how business was doing.”

  “How was her business doing?”

  “Okay, as far as I could see. She never complained. She didn’t have a constant stream of clients, but there seemed to be at least four or five a day there.”

  “Was she seeing anyone?” Riga knew the answer but wondered if it was widely known.

  Jan carefully taped the paper around the candle shut. “I don’t know. She didn’t say, but there was this guy at the bank. He seemed to hang around her a lot.”

  “Was there any vandalism at her store?”

  Jan looked up, startled. “How did you know? Someone splashed white paint across her windows. I got here early and saw it, then called her. I helped her clean it up.”

  So Lynn was being harassed as well. The theory that the two were linked seemed more and more likely. “Did Lynn seem upset by it?”

  Jan placed the wrapped candles in an elegant black paper bag and slid it across the counter towards Riga. “Not really. It was just a splash of paint – nothing personal. I wanted her to report it to the police but she said it was probably just kids. Does it have something to do with her murder?”

  Riga just shook her head. If only she knew.

  Chapter 19:Coagulation

  She stepped out of the office building, Cesar joining her on the wood-plank walk.

  “Learn anything interesting?” he asked.

  “The two victims were being harassed before they were killed – broken windows, graffiti, that sort of thing. But it doesn’t make much sense to me. Why would a killer give his victims warning?”

  “Stalkers do that shit all the time. They might not plan to kill, but things escalate.”

  “I suppose. I don’t think this is the normal crazed stalker though. He transfers his affections awfully quickly.” She gazed across the street at a brick bank. “There’s someone I need to see at the bank,” Riga said, starting across the street.

  Cesar followed. “I’ll wait for you outside.”

  Puddles formed beneath Riga’s boots as she crossed the threshold. The bank’s fans blasted stifling waves of heat. She sniffed inelegantly, and dug through her bag for a tissue, surveying the building. At the teller desk, an elderly woman with blue tinted hair filled out a deposit slip. Two men in cowboy hats waited patiently in line behind her.

  She walked toward the two desks opposite the teller area, and came to a halt in front of the second desk. The name plate atop it read: “James Yacinski, Financial Advisor.”

  The man behind the desk looked up at her through round glasses and smiled. He was nice looking in a wholesome sort of way, with freckles, sandy colored hair, a little bit of a gut and a lopsided green tie. Riga guessed he was in his early thirties, depressingly young to run around on his wife. A photo on his desk, angled so visitors could admire it, showed a smiling woman and two gap-toothed children.

  “Hello,” he said, standing. “How can I help you?”

  Riga sat down in the chair opposite him. She sunk low into the cushions, and steepled her fingers. Since she had no appointment, Riga had already decided on the blitzkrieg approach. It was a rough way to conduct an interview, but James was a salesman and if he was any good at it, he’d control the conversation unless she derailed him up front.

  “I’m a private investigator and I’d like to ask you about Lynn Chen. I understand the two of you had a relationship?”

  A quick paling of the skin, a blink, a polite smile. “No, I’m sorry,” he said. “You must be mistaken.”

  “I must be? You say that as if you’re not sure.”

  “I’m sure,” James said. “You’re mistaken. I don’t know of any Lynn Chen.”

  “I’m sure, too, and I’m not mistaken. We could talk about your affair here or we could speak somewhere more private.” Riga rose to her feet. “Perhaps one of the bank’s conference rooms?”

  He sagged, crumpling in on himself, and for a moment, Riga felt sorry for him. Then he stood and silently motioned for her to follow. He led her into a small, windowed conference room. A round wooden table stood in the center and a whiteboard hung on one wall. He closed the door behind them and she took a chair. After a brief hesitation, he drew the blinds and sat across the polished tabl
e from her.

  He rolled a ballpoint pen in one hand. Clicked it on, off. “Okay. I knew Lynn. But it isn’t like you think.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She was warm, vibrant, exciting. Lynn was so alive.” He looked down, cleared his throat, and continued, “She’d inherited some money from one of her grandparents and came to me for investment advice. Her business was struggling. She was paying the bills but not much more and she wanted to grow the money somewhere safe.”

  “And you discovered you had things in common.”

  “No.” He laughed, a harsh, barking sound. “We had nothing in common! I’m tied to my job, my family. Lynn was a free spirit. She went where the wind took her. One day she blew into Truckee and she could leave just as easily. When she disappeared, that’s what I thought she’d done, just chucked it all.”

  Riga said nothing, waited.

  He clicked the pen. “We started meeting for lunch, coffee. She worked right across the street, it was easy. She was someone I could talk to.”

  Riga felt a flicker of irritation. She’d heard this story before. Next, he’d tell her that his wife didn’t understand him.

  Click. “Look,” he said, fiddling with the pen, “my wife and I were high school sweethearts. We’ve grown up, and apart. Ever since we had kids, things have changed, she’s changed. We’re just going through the motions and she knows it. But we have kids, so it’s difficult. I love my family, of course–”

  Riga cut him off. “I didn’t come here to counsel you. Your relationship with your wife is your business. When was the last time you saw Lynn?”

  “Three weeks ago. She stopped by the bank to make a deposit.”

  “Do you know if she was afraid of anyone?”

  He clinched his jaw. “No, though maybe she should have been. She was getting threatening phone calls.”

  “How threatening?”

  “A man would call and then when Lynn picked up, he wouldn’t say anything. It happened a lot and it freaked her out.”