The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Scared.”

  “You think my family’s not good enough?”

  “I think it’s bad enough I’ve got a death faerie on my tail. I don’t need to add a new set of relatives to the mix.”

  Sal smirked.

  “What?”

  The shaman laughed, a rich, throaty sound that rolled through the car.

  “What?”

  “Fairy tale. You’ve got yourself a fairytale.”

  Riga stared at her. “I can’t believe you went there.”

  “Oh, believe it.” Sal chuckled.

  Riga looked out the window, and propped her head on her fist. Pine trees coated in an icing of snow flashed past. If the shaman’s relatives didn’t kill Sal, Riga just might do the job.

  Chapter 12

  The casino was a fortress, a concrete tower scraping the sky, and the enemy was at the gates. Reporters clustered, buzzing at the front entrance, an angry hive.

  The car roared through the parking lot, slowing to a crawl as Riga and the shaman rounded the corner into the loading bay. Sal piloted the car up the ramp, men in thick parkas pressing their cameras to the windows, lighting the car’s interior with the strobes of their cameras.

  Riga wanted to sink down, curl in a protective ball, but she stared straight ahead, impassive.

  The car glided to a stop, and Sal killed the ignition.

  She turned to Riga. “Where are those security guys?”

  “Don’t know. You ready for this?”

  “Whenever you are.”

  Riga opened the door, stepping into a maelstrom, an incomprehensible jumble of shouted questions, flashes, microphones thrust into her face. Someone knocked her ribs, and she lost her footing, fell back into the Jaguar. The door slammed on her legs and she bit back a yelp of pain.

  And then the door was wrenched open, and Cesar loomed over her, his bulk filling the space. He grabbed her elbow, pulled her out, propelled her through the crowd. A space around her cleared, and she stumbled through the service doors. They clanged shut behind her. With a suddenness that caused her to sway, she was struck by silence and psychic darkness and the scent of burnt flesh.

  Sal clutched the front of Ash’s parka, panting, eyes wide, her arm pressed into his chest. Her furry hat quivered atop her head, brushing the security specialist’s nose.

  Ash turned away and sneezed.

  Riga crouched against the wall, rubbing her shins where the car door had banged her. She wrinkled her nose. “What’s that smell?”

  “I don’t smell anything,” Cesar said. “What happened to your leg?”

  Riga straightened. “Nothing. It’s fine. Thanks for getting us through.” She gestured toward the shaman. “This is Sal.”

  Sal colored, releasing Ash’s jacket, and stepping back. She drew herself up, and adjusted her hat, extended her hand. “Hi.”

  Ash cocked his head. His gaze glided across the gap where her ring finger should have been. “Name’s Ash.”

  Slowly, he drew a hand from the pocket of his parka, and took hers. “I’m the brains.” He jerked his head at his compatriot. “That’s Cesar.”

  Sal arched a brow. “The brawn?”

  “Nope. That’s me too.”

  Cesar’s mouth twisted. “Right. Well, if Mr. Brains is done running his mouth, maybe we can get up to the penthouse.”

  He strode down the hallway, stopping beside a scrap of card on the concrete floor. He reached for it, and Riga had a wild urge to cry out, tell him to leave it, but the words stuck in her throat.

  He picked up the card. “Huh. Cleaning crew’s getting sloppy.”

  He glanced at it, and extended it toward Riga. “It’s for you.”

  It took a moment for her to recognize it as a tarot card. She took it from him, turned it face up.

  Death.

  “You’re a laugh riot,” Riga said.

  “I’ll be here all night.” He strode down the corridor.

  Sal peered at the card over Riga’s shoulder. “Well, I don’t think it’s funny.”

  “The death card rarely means someone’s going to die.” Riga pocketed the card, followed Cesar’s bulky form down the hall. “It usually refers to a significant change in one’s life, the end of one phase and beginning of another.” And sometimes it meant just what it said.

  The ghost janitor trundled her cart down the narrow hallway toward them, and the fluorescent ceiling lights flickered.

  Sal stepped through the ghost, shivering. “Ugh. I just got the ooga boogas.”

  “It’s a ghost.” Riga edged to one side to let the dead woman pass. “You must be a sensitive.”

  “Of course I’m a sensitive. I’m a shaman. Is that what the death card meant? That there’s a ghost here?”

  “Maybe.” But Riga didn’t believe it.

  “So, do you actually see them?” Sal removed her hat, shook out her dreads.

  Ash stepped closer to the shaman, head cocked.

  “Yeah.” Riga glanced at him sidelong. “They’re all over the casino.”

  “Then why don’t you help them cross over?” Sal asked.

  “I do, when they approach me, when they’re ready.”

  “What about the ghosts who don’t approach you?”

  “You ever try to help someone make a change when they’re not ready?”

  When Sal didn’t respond, Riga continued, “Ghosts are just dead people. And like live people, they don’t like change. If they’re not ready, there’s not much sense trying to talk to them.”

  They rode the elevator to the penthouse in silence, Sal darting covert glances at Ash. He faced the doors with his back to them, his shoulders set.

  The doors slid open, and he stepped out, his eyes scanning the high-ceilinged foyer, the totem pole against one wall, the elk horn chandelier.

  Sal whistled. “I feel like I’ve just stepped up in the world – fifteen floors up. You got a view?”

  Riga nodded. “Balcony’s that way. Go ahead and enjoy. I need a minute with Cesar and Ash.”

  “Pinch me. I’m in heaven.” Sal wandered off in the direction Riga had pointed.

  “Do you mind?” Riga tilted her head towards the door to Donovan’s study.

  Cesar shrugged. “It’s your dime.”

  They followed her inside.

  A fire had been lit, crackling in the grate. There was something phantomlike about the efficiency of Donovan’s staff. Riga rarely saw them, but her clothing was always magically laundered the next morning, the sheets turned down before they went to bed at night.

  Cesar spoke first. “Your pockets are inside out.”

  “Oh. Yeah.” Her cheeks warming, Riga stuffed the pockets back into her coat.

  “What did you want to talk to us about?” he asked.

  “Sal. She’s been receiving threatening letters. This morning, someone tried to kill her. They strung fishing wire across the top of the steps to her bedroom.”

  “So you went running to help her instead of staying put, like you promised.” Ash’s gaze raked her with contempt. “Good to know where your priorities lie.”

  Her voice hardened. “That’s unfair. There was nothing I could do for Donovan last night. But yeah, managing Sal’s case is going to conflict with what I need to do for him. That’s why I’d like to hire you.”

  Ash crossed his arms, leaned back against the stone fireplace. “We work for Mr. Mosse.”

  Cesar’s expression flickered.

  “But you’ve moonlighted before,” she argued. “And let’s face it, with Donovan in jail, there’s not a whole lot of use for your skills.”

  Cesar shifted in his chair. “What did you have in mind?”

  “What Sal needs is a bodyguard, a real bodyguard, until we can figure out who’s gunning for her. Ash, I’d like to hire you for the job. Cesar, I need you to help me on this end.” She liked Cesar, wanted to trust him. But she’d feel better if he was where she could watch him.

  He gave her a skeptical look. “You haven’t met
the other P.I. yet, have you?” Cesar picked a beer coaster off the end table beside his chair, turned it in one hand. “He was sniffing around this morning, and he wants to talk to you.”

  “He can get in line. Ash, what do you think?”

  Ash pursed his lips. “Why is someone trying to kill her?”

  “The letters indicated they don’t want her to sell her sportswear company. If she dies before the sale, her relatives win big. There’s also a man staying at her rental cabin who’s organizing the employees to buy the place themselves, but I can’t figure a motive for him.”

  “Is she clean?”

  “I’ve never had any reason to think otherwise,” Riga said slowly. She didn’t know Ash well. He’d always been brusque, stand-offish, and she hadn’t tried to penetrate that shell, figured what was going on in his head wasn’t any of her business. But he’d struck her as pure mercenary – good at his job, and ruthless. Qualms about Sal’s character surprised her.

  He nodded. “Okay. But I won’t take less than I’m being paid now by Mr. Mosse.”

  “That’s fair,” she said. “Can you start today?”

  “I can start right now.”

  “What about you, Cesar?”

  “I’ll help.”

  “Great.” Riga rose. “I’ll talk to Sal, let her know.”

  Riga stopped in the kitchen. Locating a jar of sea salt in one of the polished wooden cabinets, she poured a measure into a zip-up plastic bag, and tucked it in her pocket. As faerie-repellant went, carrying sea salt was more stylish than walking around with turned-out pockets. She hesitated, then left the kitchen with the entire container.

  Sal was on the deck, leaning over the railing, gazing at the lake. It glittered, a sapphire beneath the snow-covered mountains.

  She turned as Riga pulled open the glass door. “Hey,” Sal said, “you may be able to help me. Do you know a local herbalist named Lily Reynolds?”

  Riga sat on the cold rim of the stone fire pit. Inside, melting snow turned the ash to gray sludge.

  “The palm reader?” Riga asked. “She works out of a converted photo shack with a red palm on the side, between the casino and the Sheriff’s station.” It depressed Riga that the Sheriff’s station had become a landmark for her. “Any other tourist sites on your list?”

  “This whole place is a tourist site.” Sal flung her arms wide. “What a view. You gonna live here when you and Mosse get married?”

  Riga balanced the jar of salt on one knee. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”

  “So what’s the word on my bodyguard?”

  Riga put the salt container on the stone edge of the fire pit. “First, Ash doesn’t like the word bodyguard. These days, all the cool kids are saying ‘personal protection.’ Second, he’s agreed to act as your personal protection part time. He’ll take days; I’ll take nights.”

  Sal arched a brow. “You’ll take nights? Are you protecting my virtue from the bodyguard?”

  “From the personal protection.”

  Sal unzipped her cream-colored jacket, and looked pointedly at the canister on the fire pit. “Salt? Really?”

  “Really.” Riga joined her at the railing. There was a sweetness to the air, drifting upwards from the pines.

  “Can you manage two investigations at once?”

  “With Ash’s help, yes. You sure you’re okay with him?”

  “He’s not exactly Mr. Personality, but… yeah. I get good vibes from him.”

  Riga got tall, dark, and scary vibes from him, but there was no accounting for taste.

  “So what’s next?” Sal asked.

  “On your case? I check the backgrounds of the people in your cabin. What can you tell me about them?”

  Sal chewed on her lip. “Zara and I are probably the closest, but lately we haven’t been able to do much more than an occasional e-mail. I went to an art showing of hers about a year ago. She does weaving – a modern African sort of style. She’s the only one in the family who gets me – the shamanism, I mean. My parents thought it was nonsense, but she was always there for me.”

  “Is she successful?”

  She smiled. “Define success. Sometimes I get the feeling she doesn’t really want to sell any of her work.”

  “And the others? What about Derek?”

  “I went to the opening of his latest restaurant. That was maybe six or eight months ago? He had a good crowd. The service was poor and my guest’s veal had to be sent back – it wasn’t cooked enough. But that was opening day. The staff was new.”

  A breeze ruffled Riga’s hair, set the snowy treetops below swaying.

  “Their parents?”

  “Gone. And Lizzy and Art don’t have any kids. They’re all the family I’ve got.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  She sighed. “Come on, Sal. Give me something.”

  “Give you some dirt, you mean.” Sal’s eyes flashed.

  “Yes, that’s exactly what I mean. Someone in your cabin wants to kill you. What about your aunt? The plant manager, Martin?”

  “Lizzy’s a bit of a character, good sense of humor. Every time I see her I think I should spend more time with her and Art, but then... life gets in the way.”

  “What’s Art like?”

  “He was great to me when I was little – always had a joke, or a magic trick, or some candy. I remember going over to their house, and Lizzy fretting about the latest car engine he was taking apart on the dining room table, and he’d just grin and wink and help us get our hands dirty. But they didn’t come to Thanksgiving or Christmas this year. I think he’s gotten a bit homebound, doesn’t want us to see him failing.”

  “And Martin? Why is he really staying at the cabin?”

  Sal colored. “I guess I felt sorry for him. He knows the odds are low I’ll sell to his group – they just don’t have the money. But he’s tenacious. I knew he’d be spending his own money to stay at Tahoe, and I thought I’d give him a break. We had the extra room.”

  Riga pushed away from the railing. “Let’s talk to Ash about logistics.” She picked up the salt.

  Gently, Sal placed a hand on her arm. “It’s going to be okay. I feel it.”

  But it wasn’t okay. Not by a long shot.

  Chapter 13

  Ash and Sal left to find the herbalist. Cesar claimed the study, and Riga retreated to the bedroom she and Donovan shared. Brigitte lay sprawled upon the oak dresser, her head propped in her talons, the zombie book lying flat between her elbows.

  Ignoring the gargoyle, Riga thrust the container of salt into her satchel, then fell onto the bed. She sank into the down comforter, ran her hands over the silky caramel-colored cotton duvet.

  Sunlight streamed through the picture windows, warming her face. She rolled over and closed her eyes. Someone had lit a fire, and it snapped and popped soothingly. Sleep tugged at her. She drifted downward.

  “Have you ever encountered a zombie, Riga?”

  Riga started, her eyes flying open. “Yes.”

  “What was it like?”

  “Alive.”

  Silence fell, and Riga retreated into the fringes of sleep.

  “I spied, as you asked,” Brigitte grated. “Ze smaller, angry Monsieur Mosse was here.”

  “Reuben? He’s been treating Donovan’s study as his office.”

  “No. Here, in ze bedroom.”

  Riga sat up on her elbows. “What was he doing?”

  The gargoyle didn’t look up from her book. “Searching for something. But whatever it was, he did not find it. And he was careful to put everything back ze way it was.”

  This was Donovan’s private residence. What the hell was Reuben doing, prowling around Donovan’s bedroom?

  Brigitte snickered. “And then his wife called. I could hear her shouting over ze telephone.”

  “No wonder he’s such a crank.” Riga fell back upon the bed, and stared at the wood-beamed ceiling, imagined faces in its knots and whorls.

  “B
ut ze zombies, are they real, do you think?”

  “You worked for necromancers,” Riga said. “You tell me.”

  “Zombies are not of ze European tradition. But yes, it is within ze bounds of necromancy. Ze Ice Queen was here last night also.” Brigitte turned the page, and it ripped from the spine.

  Riga winced, hoping Sal wouldn’t want the novel back. The gargoyle was rough on books.

  “The Ice Queen?”

  “Monsieur Mosse’s tall, blond assistant.”

  Riga’s eyebrows rose. “Isabelle? What was she doing?”

  “She searched ze closets, then lay upon ze bed, taking deep breaths and weeping.”

  “Maybe she was getting a change of clothing for Donovan.”

  “Yes, she did take some of his things. But it was more than that, ze way she looked at Monsieur Donovan’s clothing, ze way she touched them.”

  “Isabelle’s worked for Donovan for a long time. It’s natural she’d be upset,” she said slowly. Riga had never really questioned Donovan’s relationship with Isabelle, had known he relied on his assistant, but trusted him enough not to worry about it.

  And she still trusted him. Donovan had an honor code, and had proven what kind of man he was.

  The gargoyle twitched her stone-feathered shoulders. “I think she should be upset in her own bed, no?”

  Trust but verify, a voice whispered in Riga’s mind.

  Brigitte shifted upon the dresser, and it creaked beneath her. “Ze tall, dark fae returned, too.”

  Riga bolted upright. “Ankou? What did he want?”

  “He wanted to know about you and Donovan. Oh, he tried to be clever, but I saw through him.”

  “About me and Donovan?” Riga’s gaze clouded. “Do you mean, about our relationship?”

  The gargoyle bobbed her head. “He asked who’s dwelling this was, and said you must be quite close to share it.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  “I was silent as stone.” The gargoyle laughed, the sound of rocks tumbling together.

  “This place was a regular Grand Central Station while I was out.” Ankou’s return visit unnerved her. That kind of fae didn’t wander into her world for casual gossip. He’d come for a reason. “That’s not good news. Do you think it’s you he’s interested in?”