“You can bet he's sorry now. He'll be sorrier later.”
She shook her head and immediately regretted it. Flaming missiles rampaged through her skull.
“Careful,” the EMT said. “You don't have a concussion, but you got your bells rung.” He patted her shoulder and walked to the ambulance.
“Want me to call your husband?” King asked.
She frowned. “No.” She didn't want to disturb Donovan at the casino. He'd be disturbed enough later. She imagined him there now, prowling like a great cat through the Dionysian revelry he stage-managed. “I can–” But she couldn't call a cab. Her purse was in the smoldering car, along with her wallet, her phone. “Damn.”
“I'll take you home.”
She nodded and rose unsteadily to her feet. He kept his hand under her elbow all the way to his Sheriff's SUV, and she didn't argue. She didn't argue when he helped her inside either.
“You sure you're okay?” he asked.
“I feel fine.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that. Why don't I believe it?”
She kept saying it? Lightly, she bit her bottom lip. When had she said it before?
He maneuvered his SUV around the emergency vehicles. The sheriff eased the car onto the highway that looped Lake Tahoe.
“So.” He cleared his throat. “That was quite the sequence of events. Reminds me of what happened outside your office yesterday. Coincidence?”
“No. The same person was responsible.”
His meaty hands tightened on the wheel. Sheriff King said nothing as they rounded a tight bend. In the pickup ahead, a German Shepherd leaned out the window and panted happily. “You didn't tell me Acton was a client,” he finally said.
She sighed. “He wasn't. Gabe Acton decided not to hire me in the end.”
His jaw shifted sideways and back. “So, he came to you about a problem... the kind that you specialize in.”
“Yes.” She patted her pockets and was relieved to discover she still had her notebook. She blotted at its pages with the blanket. The papers’ edges were inky and smeared, but her case notes were still legible.
He breathed noisily, his barrel-chest heaving. “I think it's time you explain.”
“Gabe Acton thought the accidents at Acton Industries weren't accidents. He couldn't prove it, though he tried. Hard. So he came to me.”
“What accidents?”
“Exactly. You know who his company contracts for?”
“The feds.” He cursed. “But Acton’s death was an accident. I mean, there's no way something like that could have been anything but.”
She didn't respond.
“Riga, I don't care who you're married to, if you're withholding evidence—”
“I don't have any evidence.” Hey, he'd called her Riga. Was that a first? He must be warming to her.
“You must, if someone tried to kill you.”
“If you investigate,” she said, “you'll find that it was an accident.” Pines flashed past, dizzying. She closed her eyes, feeling sick.
“But Gabe Acton's death was murder?”
“It's complicated.”
“Simplify.”
Good luck with that. “You know why people come to me?”
“Same reason I did once,” he said. “Because they think there's an occult angle to a crime. Acton thought occultists were after his company?”
She winced. “I don’t know what he believed. He was desperate and couldn't think of any other explanation for the accidents. Donovan suggested he talk to me. We talked. I told him about the possibilities. And... I got the feeling he figured out who was behind it all. Acton decided he didn't need me, so he left. And then he was murdered.”
“Okay. Let's say it was murder. How?”
Riga rubbed her forehead, fingering the edges of the bandage the medic had placed there. “Think of a Rube Goldberg device.”
“Like one of those chutes a marble runs down and sets off a mousetrap?”
“Yeah. Gabe's death, my accident, were both the mousetraps being sprung. These were elaborate, real-world, real-time, Rube Goldberg devices.”
“But, that's not possible.”
She didn't respond.
He darted a glance at her. “It isn't. I mean, there's no way. That naked biker, he was a tourist. He didn't plan to be on that trail at that moment. Okay, he could have lied about the chipmunk to save his ass, but we checked him out. He's exactly the idiot he seems to be. Are you saying the trucker was in on the hit?”
“No, I'm saying none of them were in on it. They're all innocent pawns, like that poor sap who's about to lose his job as a crane operator.” Maybe Donovan could find something for him at one of his casinos.
“Ah.” The sheriff waved a hand. “Don’t start getting sympathetic on me. His union will take care of him. But what you're saying… the only way it could work is if someone or all of them were in on it. And there's no way someone could arrange all that. Who knew that Acton was going to be at your office that day, at that time? Or that you'd be on that road by the construction site today? What were you doing there, by the way?”
“Talking to a witness. He attended a recruiting party Gabe Acton mentioned. And right after he mentioned it, Gabe seemed to figure things out.”
“Seemed to figure things out,” he said accusingly. “He didn't tell you he'd figured things out?”
“No, and I know, it's not admissible in court, it's not evidence, it's all conjecture. And I called thirty-minutes ahead to Murdoch. Murdoch Montgomery. He's the guy I was interviewing before all this happened.”
He scratched his bristly jaw. “So, what you're saying is, someone arranged all that. Got you to stop on the bridge, for the crane operator to take out your car, within what? An hour? How long were you at this guy's house?”
“Not long. Fifteen minutes, tops.”
“He'd have to be some sort of Moriarty, with agents everywhere, ready to leap into action. Either that, or he was able to bribe an innocent crane operator in under thirty minutes to attempt murder.” His shoulders slumped forward. “No, it just won't work.” He pulled in front of Riga's gate.
A uniformed guard stepped from the wooden guardhouse and tipped his cap to Riga.
“I know,” she said, depressed. “Thanks for the lift.”
“If you think of anything useful, let me know.”
“Sure.” She and the guard trudged down the long driveway. He let her into the house.
“Is there anything I can get for you, Ms. Hayworth?”
“No, thanks.” She closed the door on him and leaned against the thick wood.
Brigitte crouched on the bannister upstairs. “I told you that you would have to kill him.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
Riga’s head was splitting. She wished it would get it over with, crack in two, and leave her in peace. Or pieces.
Soft afternoon sunlight drifted through her bedroom’s picture windows. It was too bright. Light glinted off the polished wood floors. Light reflected off the cream-colored chairs. Light shimmered on the stone fireplace. But Riga hadn’t the will to draw the curtains or even change out of her wet clothes. Instead, she pulled off her sodden jacket and flopped, facedown, onto the king-sized bed.
“What happened?” A scraping, the sound of stone on wood. Brigitte had landed on her armoire again.
“If you have to ask, why did you pretend to know what happened?” Riga mumbled into the pillow.
“You came home without your car, bruised, and covered in mud and water. And your hair! It does not take a genius to know something happened.”
Riga told her.
“Remarkable,” Brigitte said.
“I know. My everyday personal ward kept me alive. If I’d warded the car, the beam might have missed me entirely.” Her magic was getting stronger.
“I did not mean you are remarkable. This magician, however, is. His was a perfect magical attack. All four elements
were in play.”
Riga raised her head. Bracing her elbows beneath her, she squinted at the gargoyle. “What?”
“Earth – a steel beam. Air – the crane lifted your car into the air and dropped you into–”
“Water,” Riga said. “My head hurts.” This was one of those times when servants - or at least a familiar with opposable thumbs - might have been nice. Someone to fetch her an aspirin.
“And then there was fire. I would say that was overkill, but he did not kill you at all. So, perhaps it was not such a perfect attack. But what symmetry! It would have been a masterful death for a metaphysical detective.”
“Thanks,” Riga said dryly.
“And you really should have warded your car.”
Riga groaned and buried her head deeper into the pillow. “It wasn’t mine. It was one of Donovan’s. My Lincoln’s in the shop.” And was she a bad person for being thankful her car was alright?
“Does Monsieur Mosse know?”
“Not–” Riga raised her head and cursed. Of course. Of course!
“What? What is wrong?”
She swung her legs off the now-damp bed and stood. “We need to get to the wife. Now.” If her head hadn't been so rattled, she would have thought of it sooner.
Grabbing her ruined jacket from the floor, Riga hurried down the carpeted stairs and to the garage. Two black SUVs, identical to the one she'd wrecked, waited inside. She grabbed keys off the board, hit the garage door opener, and jumped inside one.
She reached for her bag, realized it wasn't there, and glanced toward the ceiling, and her bedroom above. Her driver’s license was gone. But should she grab other tools of her trade?
No time. Riga shook her head, her sense of urgency growing.
She roared up the drive, pausing for the gate to open, then darted onto the highway.
Like Riga, the Actons lived on the Nevada side of Tahoe. Unlike Riga, they lived high on a hill, giving them easier access to the highway that took them into Carson City. She knew this from her online research, completed the evening after Gabe’s death.
A shadow crossed the hood of the SUV, and she smiled. Brigitte was following. She only hoped the gargoyle had the sense to stay out of sight. But as Brigitte was fond of saying, humans rarely paid attention. They only noticed what they expected.
Twilight had fallen when Riga drifted to a halt in front of the Acton's massive home, built in log-cabin style. No guards. No gates. A cherry-red Miata sat in front of the garage.
The lack of security seemed strange for a man who did top secret work. She'd have thought his employer would have insisted on more home protection.
Relaxing her gaze, she scanned the lot. No cords. No signs of magic.
Riga's neck hurt, and other aches and pains had begun calling attention to themselves. She gritted her teeth, exited the SUV, and strode to the front door, knocked.
Something landed hard on the roof of the house. Pine needles showered Riga. “Brigitte,” she hissed.
A pinecone tumbled from the roof, and she nimbly dodged aside.
The door opened.
Deepika's eyes widened, then narrowed. The deep brown orbs seemed slightly sunken, dark circles carved in the skin beneath. “Good God. What happened?” She wore a silk, navy blouse over slacks of a matching color. She touched her blue-black hair, cascading in a ponytail down her back. The pug squirmed in one arm. “And your hair!”
Riga reached up to touch her frayed locks, dropped her hand. “It’s fine. You're in danger. And not from me.”
“Why would you—?” The chemist’s knuckles whitened on the edge of the door. “Is that a threat?”
Riga carved a hand through her hair and wrenched it into a tail. A handful – the section she’d cut, cascaded from her fingers. “I said not from me.” Brigitte was right. People only saw and heard what they expected. She jammed her hands in the pockets of her slacks. “Someone is behind all the accidents at your lab and your husband's death.”
“Have you told the police?”
“Should I? I thought your goal was to keep a lid on things?” The military wouldn’t want exposure. And what the military didn’t want…
Deepika’s delicate nostrils flared. “Why have you come to me?” She released her grip on the door and pulled the dog closer.
“I want to stop this. I want to make sure no one else is hurt.”
“As do I.” Her expression relaxed. “Mrs. Mosse, you seem truly unwell. May I call someone for you?”
“I’m fine. But the man who's causing the accidents is unpredictable, chaotic.”
Did Riga imagine that Deepika's cheeks paled at the last word?
“The only way to stop the killer is for the person who's paying him to stop.” Riga willed Deepika to get the picture. “Call it off.”
“Someone hired a saboteur?” Deepika touched the base of her neck.
The pug wriggled, and she put the dog down. He raced into the house.
Riga’s jaw hardened. With her husband’s death, Deepika got control of the company and the respect she craved. And then there was the Chinese connection. Was she in their pay? Would the Chinese get whatever the hell Acton was working on? Would the military be left thinking the project had failed or been destroyed?
But Deepika didn’t know she had a tiger by the tail. The magician would turn on her. “Yes,” Riga said, “and this saboteur is unique.”
“How unique? Our team, our... employers, investigated each and every accident. There was no sabotage.”
“It won't be easy to call him off. The saboteur may have threatened his employer.” Riga’s gaze bored into the woman. “And given what he can do, I can easily believe whoever hired him is scared. But I can protect them.”
“Like you protected my husband?”
Riga's head rocked back. “I'm sorry about Gabe. I didn't understand–”
“No, and you still don't understand, do you?” she asked gently. “I’m sorry, but I don't know what you're talking about. If you know who this saboteur is, simply tell me. I can see it’s taken care of.”
“I'm not certain,” Riga admitted. “Not a hundred percent. But I believe you met him at a recent recruiting event.”
Her brow wrinkled. “The party you mentioned? Who? Who was he?”
Riga hesitated. Was Deepika testing her? Or was Riga wrong?
Her shoulders sagged. Of course she was wrong. She'd come here in a panic, and panic never led her anywhere she wanted to go.
Things were happening too fast. She'd had a vague idea that if she bulled her way through, she'd shake loose the truth. That Deepika had motive and had spoken with Murdoch about chaos. That she'd been on the scene but conveniently out of the lab when the bees had attacked.
“Not Tod,” the widow said. “He would never hurt the company. Not with his condition.”
“What condition?”
She colored. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“I believe your husband was murdered. Please, if you know something, tell me.”
Deepika looked past Riga’s shoulder and bit her bottom lip. “Tod has Parkinson’s. He’s been managing well. It will be years before he has to stop working. But knowing what’s coming… It’s been tough on him and his family. Now please, tell me what you know.”
“I can't, not right now.” Riga reached for her satchel, remembered again it was gone. “And if you don't know, you're probably safer.” If, then...
“Mrs. Mosse–”
“No, listen,” she said, tension edging her voice. “You know something is wrong. You have to know. Either you're behind it, or you've calculated the odds. You’ve got a degree in mathematics. You know the probabilities of all these accidents occurring are astronomically small. If you're behind it, there are mechanisms to bring you to justice, and I will pursue them. If you're not, then take a vacation. Get out of town. Pull back. Make it look like you've given up. That's the only way you'll be safe.�
��
“You are hurt. You aren’t making sense. Surely your husband—”
“I’m hurt, because he came after me today. A seeming accident I barely survived. If there's any hint that someone's attention is turning to him, he'll attack.”
“Did you hit your head? You did, didn’t you? You should be in hospital.”
“Earlier, you blamed me for your husband's death.”
“I should not have. It was an accident.”
“No. A part of you knows someone is to blame, that it wasn't an accident. Play possum, or call off your magician.”
Riga waited for a response. When none came, she turned to go.
“I can't.”
Riga faced her. “You can't...?”
Deepika braced one hand on the door, the other on the frame. She sagged between them. Deepika opened her mouth as if to speak, sighed and looked away. “Today’s lab test was successful. I just signed the contract for the third tranche of payments. We're going forward. We have to go forward.”
“Who knows?”
“No one but the other signatories.”
“Who are they?”
Deepika gave Riga a look.
“All right.” Riga studied the pinecone at her feet. “With your permission, I'll set protection around your house.”
“What kind of protection? Guards?”
“After a fashion,” Riga hedged.
“What fashion?” Deepika's hands dropped. Her full lips twisted in disgust. “My God. It's true. You think you're a witch.”
“No. I'm a detective. A metaphysical detective–”
“I don't know who the bigger fool is.” Deepika’s gaze turned cold. “You, with your delusions, or me for wasting time with a lunatic.”
“Okay, you don't believe me. But what can it hurt for me to–”
“No. There were poor, pathetic women who believed themselves witches in my home country. I will not feed your delusion. I am sorry for… whatever it is that has happened to you. But no protection. Goodbye, Mrs. Mosse.” She slammed shut the door. “I am calling your husband,” she shouted through the door.
The gargoyle peered over the ledge. “That went well.”
“Sarcasm is the lowest form of humor,” Riga snapped.
The Gargoyle Chronicles: A Riga Hayworth Mystery (Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery Book 8) Page 6