The Hermetic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 7)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “She said you were proficient in lab work but had decided to focus on the spiritual rather than physical element.”

  “How unusually tactful.”

  Jack burped, and Riga blotted his face.

  Pen unhooked Emma from her seat. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean I failed, nearly getting myself killed and burning down my lab.”

  “Oh.”

  “I take it Brigitte didn’t mention that part.”

  “She said you knew the theory.”

  “Lab work is more than theory, and it’s more than chemical reactions. Alchemy will change you.” Riga frowned. Brigitte’s focus on meditation and mysticism made alchemy a natural next step for Pen. Why had the gargoyle steered her niece away from the practice?

  “Where did you go wrong in the lab?” Pen asked. “If I know, maybe I can avoid your mistake.”

  “My lab work was fine. I was the problem. You understand the basics — alchemy tears you down so your higher self can emerge. I didn’t like what I was losing.”

  “But… you weren’t losing anything that mattered. Just your ego, and that’s not your true self.”

  “I liked my ego, thank you very much.” She sniffed, wrinkled her nose. Jack needed changing. “Brigitte wouldn’t warn you off alchemy if she didn’t have a good reason.”

  Pen tickled Emma’s booties.

  The baby kicked, giggling.

  “Brigitte’s original creator was an alchemist, wasn’t he?” Pen asked.

  “He was.” Uneasy, Riga shifted her weight.

  “Is Brigitte an alchemical creation?”

  “I don’t know,” Riga said. “Brigitte doesn’t remember her creation.” Her niece was digging for something, but Riga was damned if she could understand what. Pen had always been a cipher to her — all teenagers were — but Pen had left her teen, drama-queen years behind.

  “But don’t you wonder what she is?” Pen asked.

  “You know what Brigitte is.”

  “No, I don’t, not really. A magician created her, and she is bound to follow magical rules, but in many ways she’s independent. She has a soul. Is she a golem?”

  “I believe her first magician made her like he would a golem, made of earth. Later, he breathed a spirit into her.”

  “A spirit. That implies the spirit pre-existed Brigitte’s current form. Because you can’t create a soul, can you?”

  Riga shook her head. “Why? You’re not planning on trying—”

  “No. No, of course not.”

  “If I find out you’re trying to create a homunculus or—”

  Pen wrinkled her nose. “Ew, gross! No way.”

  Riga’s eyes narrowed. Was Pen protesting too much?

  “I just…” Pen trailed off. Shrugged. “I want to understand her better. What must it be like, to know that you were created, to know your creator, see his strengths and his weaknesses?”

  “I’d think it would be hell.”

  Pen leaned forward. “And she’s not quite a golem either, is she?”

  “No, you’re right. She’s more independent than a golem. She behaves more like a tulpa.”

  “A tulpa? You mean something from the magician’s imagination that becomes real?”

  “Yes, a manifested thought form. Her spirit acts independently but parallel to her magician’s consciousness. But I’ve never heard of a tulpa made of stone.”

  “Then how—?”

  “I don’t know exactly how her creator pulled it off. Have you spoken to Brigitte about this?”

  “No. It didn’t seem right to ask. It’s too personal.”

  “You’re right.” Brigitte had always spoken of her first creator fondly. But what would it be like to always be apart from the world, as Brigitte was? To have a purpose defined by her creator? Would it be a comfort or a curse? Riga didn’t know. She hadn’t asked, because she’d been afraid the asking would be painful for Brigitte. She cleared her throat. “Jack needs changing. I’d better take care of him.” She walked upstairs to the nursery.

  Pen didn’t follow.

  Alchemy, and her twenty-something niece was barreling straight to the hard and dangerous part of the work.

  If Riga gave her lab space.

  And if she didn’t? Would Pen leave?

  If Brigitte refused to monitor her, then Riga would have to be her guide. But there were limits to Riga’s potential aid. Alchemy worked — when it didn’t kill you — because it was a solitary endeavor.

  But it was dangerous.

  She changed Jack and propped pillows around him on the carpet. Riga set his favorite toy, a jack-in-the-box, in front of him. Awkward, his chubby hand clutched the crank, unable to turn it. Riga hurried across the hall to her bedroom and grabbed her satchel off the chair, returning with it to the nursery.

  She guided his hand on the crank, round and round. The jack-in-the-box popped, and Jack shrieked with laughter, banging the palm of his hand on the clown. Riga put the clown back in its place and closed the lid. Jack grabbed the crank, pulling the box closer.

  The solstice was in three days. Tanhauser would make his move then. And she couldn’t harass suspects or snoop at the facility for lack of a babysitter.

  Digging in her satchel, Riga extracted her wallet, found Angie Messenger’s card. Riga might be homebound today, but there was always the phone and the Internet. She called the social worker.

  “Angie Messenger here, Senior Advocate.”

  “Hi, Angie. This is Riga Hayworth. We met the other day at the Sunset Towers. I returned Mrs. Norton to the facility.”

  “Oh, hello, Riga. I hope everything is all right?”

  “I visited Mrs. Norton yesterday. They had her strapped to her bed.”

  The advocate sighed. “I was afraid of that. I’m sorry to say it isn’t an atypical protection for someone who wanders. Either the facility will attempt to control them with restraints or with drugs.”

  “I suppose it’s not unreasonable,” Riga said, doubtful. That poor man who’d jumped – should he have been restrained?

  “There are other methods!” The advocate drew a long breath. “Sorry. Of course you wouldn’t be aware of them. It’s just so frustrating, in this day and age, that restraints are the first resort. Treatments do exist, you know. They don’t work for everyone, but they work for many. The problem is, they take time and resources.”

  “And restraints are more cost effective,” Riga said. ROI. Was that what it boiled down to?

  “I’m afraid so. But there are alternatives. Music therapy, for example, has been effective in helping some people remember themselves.” She paused. “But as you say, strapping someone to a bed is cheaper. I will check into this. Thank you for bringing it to my attention.”

  “You said there are other alternatives, plural?”

  Riga sat behind Jack and helped him turn the jack-in-the-box.

  The clown popped up, and Jack clapped his hands, laughing. Riga kissed the top of his head.

  “They could watch her, but that requires nurses. The Sunset Towers is rather short staffed at the moment, but that is their problem, not Mrs. Norton’s,” she said tartly. “I visited her as well, after you brought her in. It’s hard to believe she was able to speak with you. And it’s hard to see someone who was once so vibrant brought to this, but that’s the cycle of life.”

  “You knew her before?”

  “I knew both Mrs. Norton and her husband. She was a real firecracker, but I confess I enjoyed speaking with her husband more. He had a sort of quiet dynamism.”

  So did Angie Messenger, Riga thought. “How did he die?”

  “In his sleep. They found him curled up like a child, smiling. His wife’s deterioration hurt him terribly, but he knew she would be cared for after he was gone. That must have given him some comfort.”

  “Do you work in other facilities, or just the Towers?”

  “Oh, yes, I work in several.”

  “And how do they compare?” Riga asked

>   “I can’t discuss that. It’s not my role.”

  “I looked at its government rating on—”

  “Those ratings are useless,” Angie snapped.

  Was the rating system a sore spot, or was Angie trying to send her a message about the Sunset Towers? “I’m worried.”

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. “So am I. Thank you for all you’ve done, Mrs. Hayworth. I’m afraid I need to go now.”

  “Sure. Bye.”

  Riga hung up, dissatisfied.

  Jack collapsed onto his stomach.

  Riga sat on the floor beside him and settled him between her legs. Rummaging in her satchel, she pulled out a piece of lined yellow paper – a list of Gerrie Tanhausers. One or none of them might be Gold Watch’s ex-wife. She dialed.

  The first woman matter-of-factly told Riga she had the wrong Gerrie.

  Riga believed her.

  She dialed the second number.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi, my name is Riga Hayworth. I’m calling for the Gerrie Tanhauser who was once married to Connor Tanhauser?”

  Silence.

  “Mr. Tanhauser once had an insurance policy on his ex-wife,” Riga lied, “and it was never canceled. There may be a tax event if—”

  “Who is this?” The woman’s voice trembled.

  Riga straightened, ears pricking. “My name is Riga Hayworth. Were you once married to—”

  “Don’t. Please.” The woman hung up.

  Frowning, Riga stared at the phone. She redialed the number.

  “Listen,” the woman said, “I asked you not to call—”

  “I lied about the insurance policy, but not my name. I’m afraid Connor is going to hurt a friend of mine.”

  A long silence.

  “If you can tell me anything that can help her… She’s very vulnerable.”

  “If she’s involved with my ex-husband, you’ll only be able to help her if she wants help.”

  Involved with her? Romantically? That implied domestic abuse. Jack clutched at the phone. Gently, Riga pulled away. He tried to crawl atop her. “Is that how you got away?” Riga asked.

  Gerrie’s laugh was harsh. “Who says I did?” She hung up.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Riga watched, hawklike, as the doctor placed Emma on the scale. He seemed too young to be a doctor, but then nearly everyone seemed too young these days.

  Jack kicked, squirming in her arms.

  “Fourteen pounds, six ounces. Perfect.”

  Tension leaked from her shoulders. Perfect. She’d received so many warnings when she’d been pregnant — she was older than was safe, things could go wrong. It had been hard to ignore them all.

  Smiling, the doctor picked Emma up, and they exchanged babies. The doctor weighed her son. “Sixteen pounds exactly. How are you and your, er, husband doing managing the twins?” His left eyelid twitched.

  “They’re keeping us busy.” Donovan had come to the twins’ first doctor’s visit. When the bloodletting and screaming began, Donovan had leapt out of his seat and threatened the nurse.

  After that disaster, the doctor had suggested they do no more than two vaccinations per visit. Riga had agreed. It meant more doctor’s visits, but the thought of watching twelve needle jabs in one go was too much.

  The doctor cleared his throat. “The children seem to be doing well. Are they rolling over?”

  They discussed development and vaccines, and the doctor laid Jack on the table. “Ready?”

  She returned Emma to the stroller and went to the end of the table, holding Jack’s hands at his chest. Riga forced a smile, gazing into Jack’s eyes, preparing for what would come next. “Go ahead.”

  The doctor braced his forearm across Jack’s knees and swiftly stabbed his thigh with a needle.

  Jack’s eyes widened with shock and pain. He howled, the full force of his mother’s betrayal scrawled across his face.

  Emma’s head jerked, and she burst into tears.

  Riga clenched her jaw, her pulse quickening. The vaccine would protect her son. This had to be done. But it was all she could do not to beat the doctor senseless. One well-placed punch to the doctor’s neck, and he’d be writhing on the floor gasping.

  And maybe dying from a crushed windpipe.

  Most juries would consider that excessive. A crotch kick would be as effective and slightly more rational.

  The doctor glanced up at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Fine.”

  In a smooth motion, the doctor grabbed the next needle, flicked the cap off with his thumb, and drove it into Jack’s other thigh. He released his pressure on Jack’s tiny legs. Riga swooped up her son, rubbed his back, made soothing noises.

  Jack wailed, kicking, having none of it.

  The doctor lifted Emma from the stroller and placed her, struggling, on the table.

  Riga kissed Jack’s head.

  He yanked away, furious.

  She put him in the stroller and took her place at Emma’s head, holding her daughter’s hands to her chest and trying to breathe in calm. But her inhalations came short and fast as the doctor stabbed her daughter’s thighs.

  “There now,” he said, “that wasn’t so bad.”

  Riga soothed her daughter, trying to cuddle Jack in his seat at the same time and wishing Donovan were here to help. But after his outburst at their first appointment, they’d agreed it best if Riga went alone. She was more likely to keep her fantasies about punching the doctor in the face where they belonged — as fantasies.

  The doctor helped Riga load the children into the double baby carriage, and he straightened, smiling down at them. “Twins are certainly magical, aren’t they?”

  Riga hissed an indrawn breath. God, she hoped not, but the odds in her favor were dimming. Children with magic, unable or unwilling to control their powers? She shuddered.

  They chatted about what to expect from the twins — sitting up, rolling over, more sleep. No more magic. A review of the next appointment, and she was out of the office.

  A nurse opened the door for her, and she wheeled the twins into the reception area, pausing at the desk to pay the bill.

  Ash set aside a family magazine and rose. In silence, he helped her wheel the fussing babies from the office, out of the low, wooden building, into the SUV.

  Riga’s phone vibrated.

  Donovan.

  Her heart skipped, and she answered, smiling. “Good morning.”

  “How did it go at the doctor’s?” Donovan asked.

  “Smooth as silk.”

  “Really?”

  “No. They’re super pissed, and I had to restrain myself from punching the doctor.”

  Donovan laughed. “Have I told you lately how much I love you?”

  “You have, but keep saying it. I thought fewer vaccinations per visit would be easier. Now I wonder if we should just get them over with.”

  “The doctor said it wouldn’t hurt them to keep the vaccinations to two per visit.”

  “I know, you’re right.” But would the twins forgive her? “On the positive side,” she said, “Jack and Emma are the right size and shape. They’re perfectly healthy.” Tucking the phone between her ear and shoulder, she wrestled with the strap on Jack’s car seat.

  He kicked her in the head, and she dropped the phone.

  Giving her son a warning glance, she found the phone on the floor of the SUV and picked it up. A bead of sweat trickled down her back. It was another glorious alpine summer day – cloudless sky, sun reflecting off the snow-capped peaks. The beaches would be packed. She wished she could be on one.

  “Sorry, Donovan. I dropped the phone. What did you say?”

  He chuckled. “The twins giving you a hard time?”

  “Like I said, vaccinated and angry.” They’d fuss all night.

  “It’s nearly lunch. Why don’t you bring them by the casino? We can order in.” Wistfulness threaded his voice, and she smiled, suddenly missing him. It was foolish. T
hey’d been together that morning. But he still had that effect on her.

  “We’ll be there in fifteen minutes,” she said.

  Ash stopped tightening Emma’s car seat and glanced at her, inquiring.

  They said their goodbyes, and Riga hung up.

  “Where to?” Ash asked.

  “The casino.”

  “Right.” With its cameras and keen-eyed guards, the casino was safe. And at this hour of day, it shouldn’t be crowded.

  Ash drove, Riga glancing over her shoulder at the twins. As usual, driving seemed to soothe them. Their faces creased in frowns of outrage, but they weren’t crying. For now, that was enough.

  Fifteen minutes later, they pulled beneath the casino’s wood-beamed awning. The building cast a long shadow, towering over the parking lot, blocking the lake view. But Donovan had softened the effect, updating the exterior to give it more of a National Park-style look. A great pine tree rose beside the entrance, its roots splitting the macadam.

  A valet in a forest-green uniform hurried to them, unfolding the baby carriage from the trunk. She and Ash unloaded the twins, strapped them into their doublewide.

  Ash tossed the valet the keys. “Somewhere secure,” he said.

  “Yes, sir.” The valet slid into the front seat.

  Riga doubted the man needed reminding. She handed Jack his teething ring, tucking a soft, pink blanket around Emma.

  Ash faced away from the casino, scanning the parking lot.

  “See anything?” she asked.

  “Nothing here, nothing at the doctor’s office either.”

  “That’s a relief.” She pushed the stroller to the double doors, and a bellhop leapt to open them.

  Ash whisked inside before her and surveyed the casino.

  She’d been wrong. Lines of guests piled at the reception counter while a smiling waitress walked amidst them with trays of juice and water.

  Riga hunched her shoulders, not liking the press of humanity, and veered left, skirting the slot machines. They rang and clattered, coins pinging into metal trays.

  Jack dropped his teething ring, a thin line of drool cascading from his mouth.

  Kneeling, she pocketed the slimy ring, wiped the drool from his chin with her thumb. Bringing the twins here had been a good idea. They loved the casino — the colorful lights, the sounds. Not a fan of gambling, Riga had never cared much for the place. But if it kept the twins entertained, she was all for adult gaming. She stroked Emma’s cheek and straightened.