The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  His tall, black clad figure stiffened. “I got business to take care of.”

  She set her boots beside the others, and hung her jacket on a peg. Ash had been unusually antagonistic on this assignment, even for him. “Is it Sal, or is it me?”

  He froze. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re obviously pissed off at one of us. Look, you’re the best person I know for the job, but if you don’t want to be here—”

  “Are you firing me?”

  “I just told you you’re the best guy for the job,” she said, exasperated. “But you don’t seem to want to be here. I thought we’d established that Sal was not in the Japanese mafia. So is it her, or me?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with Sal. She’s a beautiful, classy lady, who just happens to have some problems right now that she doesn’t deserve.”

  “I know. And?”

  He looked away. “I’m not pissed. You’re fine. Sal’s fine. Maybe I’m just not the best guy for the job.”

  “Why?”

  His cheeks darkened. “It’s personal,” he mumbled.

  “Oh.” And then realization dawned. “Wait a minute, you mean you and Sal...?”

  He scowled. “You’re right. I am the best person to protect her. See you tomorrow morning.” Whipping his leather jacket off a coat peg, he stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  “And they say women are hard to understand,” Riga said beneath her breath.

  She found Sal and her family slumped around the fire in the living room, two open bottles of California wine on the coffee table. Riga picked up the Cabernet, and held it to the light of the hanging lamp – enough left for one glass.

  “May I?” she said.

  Sal’s shoulders jerked. “Sure. There’s another bottle in the kitchen, if anyone’s interested.”

  No one was.

  Riga retrieved a goblet from the sleek kitchen, and returned with it to the living room. She poured a glass for herself, took a sip, let the wine linger on her tongue. “Nice,” she said.

  “I’m glad someone’s enjoying it.” Lizzy fingered her pearls.

  “What’s wrong with it?” Riga asked.

  “Nothing’s wrong with it.” Zara tilted her head back, exposing her swanlike neck. “What’s wrong is us. It’s sad to see the business go. I didn’t think I’d feel this way. I was so focused on the money, and what it would mean to lose it, that I’d forgotten about the business itself. It’s been a part of our lives for so long, and even though I wasn’t really involved in it, it’s sad to see it leave the family. You know?”

  “I know,” Sal said heavily.

  Swiftly, Zara rose. She knelt down beside Sal’s perch on the hearth, and hugged her. “I’m sorry, Sal. It’s worst for you.”

  “I’ve been trying to be practical about it,” Sal said. “Dad’s gone. This business was never really meant for me. But it is hard to let it go. Dad put so much into it. Selling feels like I’m finally really letting him go, too.”

  “He was doing it for you, dear,” Lizzy said. “Don’t get me wrong; he did love that business, and it was great fun for him. But he never wanted it to be a millstone around your neck. He wanted it to set you free.”

  Derek snorted. “Can we quit with the estrogen fest, please? Even I’m starting to get depressed.”

  “Where’s Martin?” Riga asked.

  “He said he wanted to give us some family time,” Derek said. “I think he just wanted to get the hell out of here.”

  Abruptly, Sal stood. “You’re right, Derek. We’re being morbid, and I’ve got work to do. Riga, will you come upstairs, and help me with those papers? I’ve been avoiding them all week.”

  Riga nodded. Glass in hand, she followed Sal’s stumbling figure up the steps to her bedroom. The shaman took a sheaf of manila folders off her bed, and nodded to the reading room where Riga slept. “It will be easier to work in there.”

  Riga followed her into the little room. Damn. She was serious about that paperwork.

  The lantern hanging from the ceiling cast rectangles of shadows across the book-lined room. Its high octagonal window framed the fingernail moon, and a single star glittered brightly below it. Was Brigitte outside, soaring over the pines? The gargoyle enjoyed flying at night in the mountains, when there was little chance of being seen.

  Sal took the wooden chair beside the writing desk, and followed Riga’s gaze. “It will be a new moon soon. Then maybe we can get some rest.”

  “I didn’t know shamans followed the moon phases.”

  “There’s a lot you never learned about shamanism, at least not from me. Why didn’t you keep up with it? You had talent.”

  “I took another path.” Riga lowered herself to the edge of the divan. A dried bunch of spiky, yellowing flowers lay beside the bookshelf next to the bed. She picked them up, sniffed, sneezed. “What are these?”

  “Agrimony. Now that you’re attracting the fae, you may attract other nasties as well, goblins and such. Agrimony is a ward.”

  Riga dropped them upon the shelf. “Agrimony for the aggravating? And speaking of which, a friend suggested I put a protection spell on you. Would you be open to it?”

  The shaman’s nostrils flared. “No!”

  “You didn’t take long to think about it,” Riga said, expressionless.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound like that. It’s just... Since that last time we met in San Francisco, your magic’s altered. I can feel it, and I’m not sure I like it. Besides, I’ve got my own protection spells.”

  “Fair enough.” But it stung. Her enchantments were off, but Riga could still manage the basics of her craft.

  Carefully, Riga placed her wine glass upon the Oriental rug, extended her hand toward the shaman. “Let’s see the files.”

  Sal handed them to her. “I saw on the news that Donovan’s free.”

  “For now.” Riga opened the folder, tucking her legs beneath her. She sighed, running her fingertips down a column of numbers. Finance had never been her strong suit. She was the cliché – a girl who hated math.

  “Ash didn’t think you’d show tonight,” Sal said.

  She turned a page, frowning. Profits had been down the last nine months. “I told him I would.”

  “Yeah. Well. Ash wasn’t sure.”

  “Ash doesn’t know me very well.”

  “He’s a difficult man to get to know. He’s had it rough, hasn’t he?”

  Riga glanced up. Sal’s moonlike face was creased with concern. The shaman turned away, busied herself with the papers on the desk.

  “He’s a mercenary, Sal.” For Riga, that carried all sorts of negative connotations, not because she thought it was a bad job, but because mercenaries tended to be hardened, damaged men, and she didn’t believe the power of love could change someone.

  “He was a mercenary,” Sal corrected. “Now he’s private security.”

  Riga changed the subject. “What’s with the recent drop in income? Your sales have remained stable, but the expenses are increasing. Do you have a detail on these?”

  “Somewhere in here...” Sal fumbled with the files, and extracted one with a flourish. “Here. But it’s all accounted for. The costs of some of our raw materials have gone up. In this poor economy, we didn’t feel we could pass the costs on to the customers.”

  “Hm.” Riga bent her head to the files. “What can you tell me about Ankou’s friends?”

  “Ankou’s friends? He’s a death fae. He doesn’t have friends.”

  “Those three creepy kids and the baby carriage that follow him around.”

  “What kids? I’ve never seen them.”

  Riga put the files down, frowning. “They appeared to me twice when I was with Ankou.” But they’d also appeared without him.

  “Describe them.”

  “They look like little kids dressed in old fashioned woolen coats that are too big for them. Their upper bodies seem unusually large, but that could be because of the coats. They’re dark,
almost shadows, with glowing white eyes. And they’re trailed by a baby carriage with squeaky wheels.”

  “Are you sure they’re not ghosts?”

  “These are something else.”

  “I don’t claim to know every fae in fairyland, but those three don’t sound like faeries.”

  “Four. I’m pretty sure there’s a baby in the carriage.” And Riga really didn’t want to see what it looked like.

  “And they first showed up with Ankou?” Sal gnawed her lower lip. “They could be from lower world. Perhaps when he opened up the passage to find you, they took advantage of it, tagged along. Something similar happened to me once, something that wanted out, wanted to find me.” Sal shuddered. “If they’re from lower world, they’re here for a reason. It isn’t random.”

  “No,” Riga said unhappily. “It never is.”

  “Knock, knock!” Zara called from the bedroom.

  “In here,” Sal shouted back.

  Zara drifted into the little room, carrying a bottle of wine in one hand and a box of chocolates in the other. “Is this a private party?”

  “How are your accounting skills?” Riga asked.

  “I’m an artist for a reason, honey.” She extended the box to Sal. “Want one?”

  “I’m trying to cut back.”

  Zara put the bottle on the desk and gave her cousin a sly look. “Oh, really? Is there anyone special you’re trying to cut back for?”

  Spots of color appeared high on Sal’s cheekbones. “I’m doing it for myself.”

  Zara snorted with laughter. “You keep telling yourself that, cuz.” Sobering, she put a hand on Sal’s shoulder. “It’s okay. It’s time to heal.”

  Sal looked away. “Yeah. Well. I’m trying.”

  “Well, whatever your reason, I am here to support you… by eating your candy.”

  She popped a chocolate into her mouth, and extended the box to Riga. “Want to help me save...”

  Zara’s face twisted. The box slipped from her hand, chocolates bouncing across the rug, rolling beneath the divan. She clutched her heart, doubled over.

  “Zara!” Sal cried out. “What’s wrong?”

  Riga leapt to her feet, catching Zara around the waist, knees buckling beneath the taller woman’s weight, more breaking her fall than lowering her to the floor. “Call 9-1-1.” Riga pressed two fingers against Zara’s neck.

  Zara’s pulse beat beneath her fingers, a frantic butterfly. Her breathing was light and fast, her chest rose and fell in short bursts.

  Riga glanced up at the unmoving shaman. “Call 9-1-1!”

  Sal stood, wide-eyed, staring. “Snakes. Snakes.” She pointed a shaky finger at Zara. “Can’t you see them? They’re all over her.”

  Riga looked down at Zara. “There are no snakes, Sal. Call 9-1-1, or give me the phone.”

  The phone slipped from Sal’s hand, and fell to the carpeted floor.

  Riga grabbed it, dialed. “Pull it together, Sal. Are you hysterical, or having a shamanic vision?”

  Sal dropped to her knees beside her cousin. “It just...” She took a shuddering breath. “It’s my parallel sight – shamanic. There are snakes in her. She’s been poisoned.” She swept her hands above Zara’s arms, legs, torso, head.

  As the phone rang, Riga checked Zara’s breathing, her pulse. Both were unchanged.

  “9-1-1,” a man droned. “What is your emergency?”

  Hurriedly, Riga explained what had happened, where they were.

  Sal placed her hands upon Zara’s chest and abdomen. She closed her eyes and sang, a tuneless chant, the words low and incomprehensible.

  In the corners of her vision, Riga saw lights gather, swirl around the shaman. Faeries.

  She shuddered, returned her attention to the emergency operator, who was repeating her address back to her.

  “Yes, that’s right.” She hung up the phone, and knelt beside Sal.

  Power built in the room, a pressure that made Riga’s skin buzz. A feather of heat brushed her cheek, and she flinched away from the faerie. Her insides quivered, her senses spiraling out of control.

  “I’m going to let the others know,” Riga said, “make sure the paramedics can get in.”

  On her knees, Sal swayed, didn’t respond.

  Riga took that as an okay, and brushed through a cloud of faeries, her flesh twitching from the contact.

  Downstairs, she ran into Martin, taking off his parka in the entryway. “Hi, Riga. Something wrong?”

  “Zara’s collapsed upstairs. I’ve called 9-1-1. An ambulance is on the way.”

  He paled, struggling back into his parka. “I’ll go wait outside for them. The street numbers are hard to see with this snow piled up.”

  “Thanks.” She hurried to Lizzy’s room, and knocked gently on the door.

  “Yes?” The older woman’s voice quavered.

  Riga pushed the door open, stepped inside. Two hard shelled suitcases were stacked neatly beneath a window, black against the night. In the bed, Lizzy raised herself on one elbow.

  “Riga. Is something wrong?”

  “Zara’s collapsed. She’s upstairs, in Sal’s room. We’ve called an ambulance. They should be here soon.”

  “An ambulance!” Her eyes widened, and she clutched the lace collar of her nightgown. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. Does she have any illnesses you know of?”

  “No. Does her brother know?”

  “I thought it would be helpful if you were there.”

  Lizzy struggled from beneath the heavy duvet. “You go tell him. I’ll be right there.”

  Riga nodded, and ducked from the room. She braced herself, ran to the second floor, knocked on Derek’s door.

  “What?”

  Dammit. She hated doing this through a door. “Derek, your sister’s sick.”

  “Tell her to take an aspirin.”

  “She’s unconscious. We’ve called an ambulance.”

  Two feet hit the floor with a thud.

  Derek yanked it open. He was bare-chested, and in striped pajama bottoms. “Unconscious?”

  “She’s in Sal’s room, upstairs.”

  Derek pushed past her and leapt up the steps, two at a time. “Zara?”

  Lizzy climbed past her, one knotted hand gripping the rail, the other holding her robe tight about her thighs.

  The minutes crawled. Derek’s sobs drifted downstairs, the family’s fear and anger rolling through the cabin. Riga stayed below, knowing she had no aid to give, allowing them their privacy, feeling like an intruder, and waiting, waiting, waiting.

  A siren wailed outside, grew louder. She ran down to the front door, threw it open. Red lights splashed across the snow. Two men in heavy black jackets hurried down the drive, a stretcher between them. Martin walked beside them, gesturing toward the cabin.

  They clomped up the stairs, and Riga motioned them past. The metal stretcher banged against the doorframe.

  “She’s at the top.” Riga followed them through the narrow entry.

  “She allergic to anything?”

  Yeah, poison. “Not that I know of. I’m a private investigator. You might want to check for indications of poison. She collapsed just after eating a chocolate.”

  The EMT didn’t look at her as he twisted the stretcher onto the vertical for his partner, higher up on the stairs. “She on drugs or something?”

  Riga didn’t respond, watched them ascend the steps. They didn’t believe her, weren’t listening, but she might have planted a seed. She hoped she was wrong, hoped she’d just made a fool of herself.

  A man cleared his throat behind her, and she whirled.

  “Poison?” A weedy young police officer regarded her, his brows raised. “What happened here?”

  Riga explained everything – the fishing wire, the threats, Zara’s collapse. It sounded thin even to her.

  “And you’re a private investigator?”

  “In California.”

  “Ma’am, you’re not in Califor
nia anymore.”

  Chapter 23

  “So we meet again.” Sheriff King lowered himself into a chair in Sal’s dining nook, his meaty paws pressing into the table for support. The wooden chair creaked beneath his bulk.

  Riga’s brow creased. He’d chosen the seat with his back to the sunlight shining through the pines, forcing her to squint at him. She knew the interview tricks, the power plays, were second nature to him. They still bugged her.

  He sniffed the air, and unzipped his jacket. “Any chance I could get some coffee? I can smell the caffeine. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Sure.” Riga trudged into the kitchen, relieved to escape King’s piercing gaze. Lack of sleep had made her muzzy, out of sorts, and she wasn’t in top form for an interview. Her back hurt from a night catnapping in a hospital waiting room. But what the hell, she had nothing to hide, and things had moved beyond her ability to protect Sal. It was past time for police involvement – perhaps too late for Zara, who lay still and small and comatose in a hospital bed.

  She returned to the breakfast nook with a steaming mug in her hand. “Here you go.”

  He took the cup from her. “You look rough.”

  “Thanks.” Riga rubbed her face. “So it was poison?”

  “What makes you say that?”

  “You’re here,” she said.

  “My deputy told me you were here last night. What’s your involvement in all this?”

  “Sal’s an old friend. She rented this cabin for her family. She’s selling the family business, wanted to soften the blow. The company’s in trust, she’s in control, and the other family members get an income stream from it as long as it’s in her hands. Once she sells, the family is cut off.”

  The Sheriff wrote in his notepad. “What’s the name of the business?”

  “Hermes Sports or Sportswear. It’s based in San Francisco. Since she started the sales process, she’s been receiving threatening letters.” Riga drew a gallon sized Ziploc bag from her purse, slid it across the table to him.

  He held it in one hand, and squinted at the portion of the letter visible through the plastic. “Who bagged ‘em?”

  “I did. Sal’s prints are already on them, but maybe you’ll find something I didn’t.”