The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Of course it’s your company,” Lizzy said, soothing. “But your father set the trust up this way for a reason. Don’t you want to honor his wishes?”

  “I am honoring his wishes. He wanted me to have the power to sell it, and that’s what I’m doing.”

  “It’s Sal’s choice,” Zara said. “Her parents started the company, and it’s hers, not ours. We’ve had a good run, but it’s over. Now we need to act like adults and move on.”

  “We?” Derek snarled. “You mean me, don’t you? Why don’t you just say what you’re thinking, Sis?”

  “Look,” Sal said, “I understand this will be a change for all of you, financially. So I’m offering each of you an additional year’s income as compensation, to help with the adjustment.”

  The sound of a fist striking the table, glasses rattling. “I was counting on that money for at least the next three years,” Derek said.

  “I think one year’s income is very generous,” Lizzy said.

  Zara tapped her fingernails on the table. “I agree.”

  “You said you’ve found a buyer?” Martin cleared his throat.

  “Yes, but I don’t think the new buyer is going to make many changes.”

  “You don’t think?” He cracked his knuckles, and Riga winced at the sound.

  The plant manager continued, “You know odds are the new buyer will offshore to Vietnam. Just give me another sixty days to get the financing together. I’m sure we can make it worth your while.”

  “I already gave you ninety,” Sal said.

  “The men need more time!”

  “I expect to ink a deal by the end of the month. If you can come up with something before then, I’ll consider it.”

  “There’s no way we can get the financing together by then! There are over two hundred employees at the California plant and it’s a down economy. What are they going to do if the business moves offshore?”

  “I have no reason to believe that will happen.”

  A chair scraped back, and Riga opened her eyes. Zara rose to her feet, one hand braced on the wooden table, her torso twisted in Riga’s direction. She and Riga locked gazes.

  Zara’s full lips bent in a sardonic smile. “I need a drink. And some fresh air. Lizzy, you coming?”

  “That little bar on the corner?” Lizzy walked into the living room, caught sight of Riga, and halted, swaying in her high-heeled shoes. “Oh! How long have you been there?”

  “Not long.”

  “What happened to Ash?” Zara tucked the edges of her turban in at the nape of her neck. “No offense, but I liked him better.”

  “None taken. He’s around here somewhere.”

  “Here.” Ash emerged from the kitchen, a half-eaten bagel in one hand.

  More chairs scraped back.

  “I’m in for that drink,” Derek said.

  “Mind if I come along?” Martin asked.

  Sal walked heavily up the stairs to her room, her blue tie-dyed caftan flowing around her bare feet. Riga glanced at Ash and shook her head, followed the shaman.

  She tapped lightly on the closed bedroom door. “Sal?”

  Hearing no answer, she went inside.

  The shaman sat on the edge of the bed, close to the night table, shoulders slumped.

  Riga shut the door behind her, and leaned against the wall, arms crossed. Through the door seeped sounds of the others, rummaging through the cabin for purses, coats, arguing about whether they should walk or drive. Finally, the slam of the front door, and they were gone.

  “Rough meeting,” Riga said.

  Dark circles lined the shaman’s eyes. “Zara and Lizzy kept things calm. And at least no one threatened to kill me, though I think Derek wanted to.”

  “Cheer up, at least we know Martin has a motive – maybe the person who sent those letters wasn’t a family member after all.”

  The shaman removed the lid from the box of chocolates on the table, and peered inside. “What motive?”

  “If you sell, the jobs may go to Vietnam, and the plant be shut down.”

  “Come on.” She put the lid back on the box, chocolates untouched. “Do you really think Martin would kill for that? He’s a skilled manager. He’ll land on his feet whatever happens.”

  Riga shrugged. “You’re probably right. Statistically speaking, it’s usually a family member.”

  “That makes me feel better,” Sal snapped.

  “Of course, you can always cancel this delightful family vacation, send everyone home.”

  “I still think I can repair things with Derek. Zara was always good with him. She’ll bring him around.”

  Riga straightened from the wall, stretched. The Velcro in her pants made a tearing sound. “In that case, I’m going to that bar.”

  Sal snorted. “You don’t need to get them drunk to know what they’re thinking.” She folded her arms across her ample chest, frowning. “But you might want to take off those stripper pants before you go.”

  “They’re not stripper pants.” Riga felt her cheeks warm. “They’re part of my disguise to get past the press.”

  “As a stripper?”

  “As a security guard.”

  “Huh.” Sal raised an eyebrow. “They sure look like stripper pants to me.”

  Riga made a face, and strode into her little room, where she changed out of her security costume and into a pair of wide legged navy slacks, a white blouse, and boots. She pulled a blue cable knit scarf from her bag, and looped it around her neck. At least Sal could still bust her chops – a good sign.

  But when she emerged from her room, Sal hadn’t moved. A bad sign.

  “Or I’ll stay,” Riga said, “if you like.”

  “I want to be alone.”

  Riga nodded, trotted downstairs.

  Ash waited for her in the entry.

  “We need to talk.” His voice was a low growl.

  She shrugged into her thick pea coat. “What’s wrong?”

  He jerked his head toward the stairs. “You told me she was on the up and up.”

  “I told you I had no reason to believe otherwise.” She began to button the coat, realized the buttons were in the wrong holes, and started over.

  “Then what happened to her hand? Ring fingers don’t accidentally get lopped off without taking another finger with it.”

  “Yeah, I think I read that in a Sherlock Holmes story.”

  “I’m not joking,” he snarled.

  She looked up at him, startled. “So... What? You think the Japanese mafia cut it off for failing an assignment?”

  “What happened to her hand?”

  “Have you asked her?”

  “She wouldn’t tell me.”

  Riga undid the scarf around her throat and retied the knot. Sal had a right to privacy. But Riga needed to keep Ash on board if she was going to keep the shaman safe. “How much do you know about shamans?”

  Ash blinked, surprised. “Shamans? Nothing. They’re something magical, I guess, like witch doctors.”

  “A shaman’s magic has to do with their ability to cross between worlds, from ordinary reality into other realities. But in order to become a shaman, most first undergo some sort of dismemberment.”

  “Are you telling me Sal’s a shaman? And she lost the finger because of it?”

  “Shaman’s don’t usually lose actual body parts; it’s a spiritual dismemberment. I never got the whole story from Sal, didn’t think it was my business.”

  His voice hardened. “And you’re telling me it’s not mine?”

  “I’m telling you she didn’t lose the finger because of anything criminal. Anything else?”

  “Yeah.” His brows drew together in an angry slash. “You’re too cozy with the cops.”

  She tipped her head to one side. “I’ve barely spoken with them since this began.”

  “But you’ve got a history with King,” he said. “You trust him. Don’t. They’ve got a leak. Someone knew the accountant was being moved, laid in wait.”


  She knew it, and the thought terrified her, suggesting conspiracies, forces bigger than her, out of her control.

  “You can’t trust cops,” Ash said.

  She couldn’t trust anyone. Not even herself.

  Chapter 16

  Riga’s boots crunched on the hard-packed snow, a backbeat to the trickling water flowing down the left side of the path. She passed cabins, beacons blazing with warmth and light. The night had a golden tone beneath the amber-colored street lamps, beneath the moon glowing, sullen, through clouds masking the stars.

  She jammed her hands in the pockets of her pea coat, her breath steaming the air. A silver BMW drove slowly past, its tires whooshing. Then it was gone, and she was alone again.

  Though all her suspects were in the bar, Ash had agreed to stay longer with Sal, until Riga got back. She’d be paying overtime.

  The shadows beneath the pines shifted in the gloom.

  Her footsteps picked up speed as she closed on a streetlamp, the cones of light cast by its quadrangle of lights an island of safety. The lights splintered the lamp pole’s shadow, fracturing it across the snow. One of the shadows lengthened, grew darker.

  Her flesh crawled.

  The shadows shifted like smoke, and Riga hissed, a quick indrawn breath, pulling energies from the above and below. She slipped left and turned, arms raised in a combative position, fingers curled like claws to rip, to tear.

  A cowled figure loomed above her.

  “Why have you left my servant unprotected?” Ankou asked.

  She dropped her hands by her sides, willed her heartbeat to slow. That damned fae. “Your servant isn’t unprotected. She’s guarded by a colleague, while I investigate.”

  “A colleague.”

  “She’s safer with him than with me. He’s more deadly than I.”

  “No, he’s not.”

  She adjusted the leather bag hanging from her shoulder. “What are you doing here?”

  “I wished to know your progress.”

  “Slowed by interruptions.”

  “You should not allow yourself to be distracted.” Displeasure flowed from him in a dark surge.

  Riga’s chest tightened. “Sal...” Hell, what was her magical name again? “I mean, Darkwoods is protected. I’m gathering information on those who may wish to harm her.”

  “And then you will kill them.”

  Shadows gathered, slid across the snow toward her, silhouettes of misshapen children. Awkwardly, the shadows congealed, growing form, rising to standing, their eyes glowing milky white. A dark baby carriage rolled behind them, its wheels rattling.

  Beads of sweat popped out on her brow. Whispers carried to her ears, and Riga desperately did not want to understand what they said. “No.” Her voice broke. “Then I’ll turn them over to the authorities in this world.”

  “You will kill them, and I will take them.”

  The air grew thicker. She struggled for breath against his magic. And then she remembered – she had her own magic, felt its warmth spread from her core.

  “I’ll protect your servant, but I’ll do it my way. It’s what Darkwoods would want.”

  “You should concern yourself with what I want.”

  “You have no say over how I fulfill my part of our agreement. And you may as well drop the threats. I know you can’t kill me.”

  Ankou sighed.

  The shadows fled.

  “How did you know?” the fae asked.

  “You just told me. You’re a vulture, scavenging souls without killing the bodies yourself. You need me to do that for you, don’t you? I was never in any real danger from you. But I fell for the threats, the pain, the magic act.” She’d been a sucker. But no longer.

  Ankou was silent.

  She turned her back on him, strode away. Ankou had power, but he still needed her on this side of the veil, just as he needed Sal.

  Behind her, a sigh, then a chill rush of air, and that strange snapping of reality.

  The wind rustled in the trees.

  She didn’t turn around. She could feel he was gone.

  Riga opened the wooden door to the bar, colliding with a rush of warmth and voices. Light from a central fireplace flickered on the log cabin-style walls, coloring the faces of the people huddled around, ski jackets hanging open, scarves undone, hats stuffed into their pockets. Antlers and antique skis hung on the walls.

  She wound through a labyrinth of square tables to the packed bar. Between the shoulders of two men built like linebackers, she caught the bartender’s eye, and ordered the house red. A TV was on above the bar, and Donovan’s face appeared, looking sleek and arrogant and rich. One of the linebackers nudged the other, nodded at the TV, snarled something unintelligible. Then a shot of Riga, pale, pushing through a crowd of reporters. The other linebacker’s lip curled. He pointed at her flickering image, said something crude. Laughed.

  Riga took her glass and tossed some bills on the bar, not bothering to wait for change. She hated herself for the discomfort that flared in her belly. Who cared what a stranger said about her?

  Sliding through the crowd, she took a sip of the wine, her expectations low. They were fulfilled. She searched for Sal’s group in the throng, finding them in a high booth in a narrow back room. Judging by the number of empty bottles in front of cousin Derek, the drinking had gotten off to a roaring start.

  She stopped beside their table. “May I join you?”

  In unison, they turned their heads toward her – all except Derek, who pushed the base of his beer bottle in a circle with one finger.

  One of these things was not like the other.

  “What are you doing here?” Zara softened the question with a lopsided smile.

  “Couldn’t sleep.”

  “Then you may as well sit down,” Zara said dryly. “Your ears must have been burning. We were just talking about you.”

  Riga tsked, and slid into the booth beside Martin. “Come to any conclusions?”

  “Just trying to figure out your story,” she said.

  Derek tapped his bottle on the table in a monotonous rhythm. “We know you’re the girlfriend of Donovan Mosse, money launderer and terrorist financier—”

  “Alleged,” Riga said sharply. “Just because he was arrested, doesn’t mean he’s guilty.”

  Zara tugged on a piece of fabric from her turban, tucked it in. “Derek’s in a mood. Ignore him.”

  “Don’t belittle me, Zara!”

  “Then don’t be rude,” she snapped. “Besides, I plan on getting good and drunk tonight, and you’re ruining the vibe.”

  “Why?” Derek took a swig of his beer. “What do you have to get drunk about?”

  “I’m celebrating my liberty.” She braced her elbows on the table, bending toward him. “Don’t you see, Derek? That sportswear company has been a chain around our necks. We’ve been too dependent on it, and now here we are, tearing up each other and Sal over it. Get rid of the damn thing, I say.”

  “Doesn’t matter what you or any of us say, looks like,” Derek said.

  Martin leaned closer to Riga. His leg bounced beneath the table, vibrating the bench. “So what is your story, Riga? How do you know Sal? What do you do?”

  “Those are a lot of questions.”

  “Pick the one that’s least offensive,” Zara said.

  “I’m a metaphysical detective.”

  Derek rolled his eyes. “That explains the connection with our cuz.”

  “I don’t get it.” Martin shifted restlessly. “What’s a metaphysical detective?”

  “I investigate first causes – why things happen, what is their fundamental nature – though most of my cases are paranormal. Haunted real estate is my bread and butter.”

  Lizzy held her glass up to the light of the hanging lamp, and she turned it, watched the movement of the amber-colored liquid. “I’d like to believe in ghosts, because that would mean there’s something after... Well, at my age, you think about that sort of thing.”

>   Derek grunted. “At my age too. The restaurant business is killing me.”

  “Then why do it?” Riga asked.

  He laughed hollowly. “I can’t get out now. I’ve put everything into it. It’s a risky business, and it takes time to turn a profit. That’s why Sal...” He took a swig of his beer, looked away.

  “For heaven’s sake,” Zara drawled, “there’s no need to be circumspect. She heard us earlier. You need the money, and I have a love/hate relationship with the money.” She regarded Riga with amusement. “Oh yes, I talk a good game about looking on the bright side, but if Sal wasn’t considering selling, I’d be quite happy to continue with my company allowance. And as for Aunt Lizzy...” Zara cocked her head. “What do you need it for?”

  Lizzy ran her hand along her pearl necklace. “At our age, Art and I don’t need much. Our home’s paid for, our traveling days are over.”

  “When did your traveling days start?” Derek said. “Uncle Art had his own garage. Entrepreneurs don’t get time off.”

  Lizzy smiled. “Oh, we found the time.”

  “Shame he couldn’t come to Tahoe.” Derek took another gulp. “It’s been ages since I’ve seen him. He taught me everything I know about cars. Too bad I’ve forgotten most of it.”

  “Lizzy,” Riga said, “I meant to ask... That night I arrived, after you and Zara returned from the bar, did you see anyone messing around outside Sal’s door?”

  Lizzy shifted back in her seat. “Messing around? What do you mean?”

  “Someone put some fishing wire across the top step. That’s what caused my fall.”

  Zara frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “I checked the steps. I’m sure.”

  “A practical joke?” Derek asked.

  “As jokes go, that’s a shitty one,” Zara said hotly. “Sal or Riga could have been killed! Derek, you didn’t...?”

  “Of course not!”

  “Could the last renters have left it there?” Martin said. “Maybe some kid put it up there and it just kept getting stepped over until you tripped on it.”

  Riga nodded, noncommittal. “Did any of you hear any movement upstairs that night?”

  “Yeah.” Derek glared at his sister. “I did.”

  Zara put her glass down with a bang. “What? Why didn’t you say anything?”