Riga cleared her throat, and Sal started. Ash’s shoulders twitched, but he didn’t turn around.
Sal pushed away from the counter, a near-empty glass of orange juice in her hands. “The police think it was Martin.” The glass slipped, and she spilled drops across the sleeve of her white knit sweater, before catching it. She hurried to the sink, where Ash was doing the dishes. Wordlessly, he wet a towel and handed it to her.
She brushed the juice off her sleeve, intent upon the task. “I’m so relieved it wasn’t family,” she said in a low voice. “But damn, I trust the wrong people.”
“You couldn’t have known,” Riga said.
Ash folded the dish towel and hung it from the stove handle. He nodded to Riga and left the kitchen, rubbing Sal’s lower back in passing.
“The Sheriff told me there was an APB out on Martin,” Riga said. “What happened last night?”
Sal told her about Martin’s departure – to the local bar, he’d said – the arrival of the Sheriff, the search of his room, the questions. Riga nodded, grateful this, at least, was over, and wondering when it would be enough for Ankou, when Brigitte would be returned.
The shaman leaned against the black granite counter. “The police think Martin might return. Do you?”
“No. Not if he’s smart. Besides, his brother has been on the run for years – eco-terrorism. I wouldn’t be surprised if Martin’s learned a few tricks from him.”
“That’s what Ash said.” She went to the chrome refrigerator, and poured herself more orange juice. Her back to Riga, she said, “Ash is a good man.”
“He’d better be.”
Sal closed the door, turning. “And something else. I’ve decided not to sell the company.”
“What about your foundation?”
“That was the problem. It was going to be my foundation. I was doing it out of ego, not because it was the right thing to do. But my family needs me. Uncle Art needs me. Lizzy doesn’t have the money to keep him in that home, and I’ll be damned if I’ll see him go into some state facility.”
Riga lingered at the cabin, staying for a lunch of tomato lentil soup and salad that they ordered in. Feeling like an interloper, she finally went up stairs and collected her things. The police were here to protect Sal now. There was no point to her staying.
Sal saw her to the door. “Hey, you ever want to go on a journey—”
“I’ll know who to call. Thanks, Sal.”
“You can do it you know, on your own. You could be a great shaman.”
Riga shook her head. Being able to journey and being a shaman were two different concepts, two different levels of commitment. And she was no shaman.
She walked back to her car, her leather satchel bulging. Unceremoniously, she dumped it into the back seat.
Her cell phone buzzed.
It lay sprawled open, stuck in that position, just beneath the clothing she’d jammed into her bag. At least the phone was easy to find, though it no longer fit in her pocket.
“This is Riga.”
“Oh. Uh. Hi. This is Jeff. Donovan’s friend?”
“Jeff.” Her heart picked up speed. If she was wrong... she wasn’t sure she could take the disappointment. “Do you have anything?”
“Yeah. The account was in the Cayman Islands. Can you believe it? I mean, what a cliché.”
Riga’s head spun, her legs folding beneath her. She squatted with her back against the car, elbow on her knee, head in her hand. The car was filthy with dripping gray ice and mud, but she didn’t care, didn’t care that Thor was staring from his parked car.
She’d been right. She’d cleared him. Donovan was free.
“You still there?” he asked.
“Yeah.” Riga’s voice cracked. “Yeah. Can you e-mail or fax the account information to me?”
“Neither are secure.”
“Then send it directly to Sheriff King at Stateline. I don’t care who else sees it, as long as he does.”
“Uh, you realize I didn’t get this legally.”
Slowly, Riga smiled. “Then send it to Donovan’s lawyer, Sharon Williamson, with my regards.” If that didn’t get Sharon off the sidelines, nothing would.
He exhaled heavily. “This is an awfully big favor.”
She thought of Ankou, Sal, Donovan. “I pay my debts.”
Hanging up, she slid into the front seat of the Lincoln, and called Donovan.
“Riga. How are you?”
She told him all of it.
“And he’s sending the documents to Sharon?”
“Yes. I think it’s over, Donovan.”
“No.” His voice was hard.
A clot of melting snow crawled down her windshield, leaving a dirty trail.
“June’s dead,” he said. “Sandra. Vogelberg. They were my people, they worked for me. They died because of me. This nearly destroyed everything, my family, you, me, my business...” His voice darkened with anger. “I may still lose the casino. I’m going to be there. We’re all going to be there. I’ll call you back.” He hung up.
She lay the phone on the seat beside her.
A squirrel bounded across the street and scrambled over the snow bank. She watched its path across the snow field. A shadow fell, and the animal froze. A golden eagle swooped down, caught it, squirming, in its talons. The bird winged away.
Riga tapped the steering wheel.
She was not superstitious.
But she didn’t like it. They didn’t need a grand, Agatha Christie style reveal in the library – or in the conservatory with the candlestick for that matter. The Sheriff would have all the evidence he needed to make the arrest. They didn’t need a confession. She understood Donovan’s rage at the betrayal, his need for closure. But this didn’t feel right.
The Sheriff would never go for it, she told herself. He was a sensible man.
The phone buzzed.
“Donovan?”
“We’re set. Four o’clock at the penthouse. Riga—”
“I’ll be there,” she said quickly.
She had to be.
Chapter 33
Restlessly, Reuben paced before the fire, its light flickering off the dark fabric of his slacks. “Do you know what’s going on?” he asked Finn.
“I’m right here, Mr. Mosse.” The Sheriff, beside the open study door, folded his arms across his nylon jacket, making a scrunching, plastic-like sound. “You can ask me.”
Reuben strode to the bar and poured himself a shot of brandy from a cut crystal decanter. “I did ask you. You weren’t forthcoming.”
“Then that’s your answer,” King said.
From the couch, Finn snorted a laugh. He opened his arms in a pacifying gesture, his glasses dangling from one hand. “Sorry, Reuben. But I’ve got no clue.”
“Riga?” Reuben said.
She tore her gaze from the fire, startled. It was the first time he’d used her given name. “I’m sure we’ll all find out soon enough.”
She rose from her leather chair, and walked to the window. The sun limned the mountain tops, a final gasp of gold.
Riga checked her watch. Almost four o’clock. Leave it to Donovan to make an entrance at four, on the nose. He believed in punctuality.
She joined the Sheriff by the door. “Any word on Martin yet?”
King shook his head. “No. We’ll get him. Don’t worry.”
“Who’s Martin?” Reuben demanded.
Riga explained about Sal, Martin, and Finn’s role in untangling the financial statements.
“Very public spirited of you, Finn.” Reuben sneered. “Too bad you didn’t catch the fraud at our own company.”
Finn’s jaw clenched.
Abruptly, Reuben put his glass down on the bar, his expression rueful. “Sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“No, it wasn’t,” Finn said.
Isabelle strode into the room, her steps mincing. She wore a narrow green skirt and jacket, and shot the cuffs of her white silk blouse. “Sorry, everyone. Donova
n asked me to tell you he’s going to be late. Something about a business meeting.”
Riga went cold inside. Donovan was never late, and he damned sure wouldn’t be late for this moment. She’d known this was a bad idea, known something would go wrong, known the danger wasn’t over.
A tide of red obscured her vision. Isabelle. She had done this, betrayed him, done God knew what. Riga launched herself. “What have you done?”
She felt her fingers around Isabelle’s throat, hands dragging her away, lifting her into the air.
Sheriff King bellowed. “Cool it, Hayworth!”
“Get that fucking bitch away from me!” Isabelle shrieked.
The wash of red faded. Finn’s arms were wrapped around her chest. He dragged her backward.
She relaxed against him, panting. “It’s okay. I’m fine. It’s okay.” But she was trembling.
“You sure?” Finn said.
“I’m okay.”
He loosened his hold. Riga hugged herself, unsure if she really was okay. Donovan knew what Isabelle had done. He wouldn’t have called Isabelle and asked her to make excuses for him.
Isabelle thrashed in the Sheriff’s grip. He turned her against the wall, wrenched her arms behind her, flipped cuffs onto her wrists. “Isabelle Locke, you are under arrest for the murder of June Carding and for embezzlement.”
The glass slipped from Reuben’s hand, shattering on the hardwood floor. “What? Isabelle? Why?”
“You don’t deserve it,” she snarled over one shoulder. “None of you.”
The Sheriff grabbed her upper arm, turning his prisoner.
“You don’t do the work, I do it for you.” Isabelle’s lip curled. “You, Reuben, inheriting pieces of the casino because you’re his cousin. Or you, Finn, marrying your way into the position. You disgust me.”
“But it was Donovan you framed,” Riga spat.
“I did everything for him. Everything! And what did I get? By-passed by his useless family!”
Riga hissed. “Where is he?”
“How should I know? I told Cesar the Sheriff was on the way to arrest Donovan for Sandra’s murder. Knowing Cesar—”
Riga lurched toward her, and the Sheriff stepped between the two women. “Calm down, Hayworth. We’ll find Donovan.”
“She’s lying,” Reuben said. “Cesar flew to Vegas this morning.”
Isabelle smiled. “And returned this afternoon.”
“I don’t understand,” the Sheriff said. “Cesar is Mosse’s protection. What’s the problem?”
Riga clenched her fists. “Cesar was married to Sandra. He’s a trained...” She couldn’t bring herself to say the word: killer. “He’s trained in combat, and he’s taken Sandra’s death personally.”
King squeezed the radio clipped to his shoulder. “Where’s he staying?”
“At a house not far from here,” Reuben said, his narrow face pale.
He told the Sheriff the address, and King ordered a cruiser to the house.
Riga ran to her satchel, lying slumped on a chair, and dug her wrecked phone out, called Donovan. The call went to voice mail.
“He’s not answering,” she said.
“Is there security at the house?” King’s hand still rested on his radio.
Reuben nodded. “I’ll get the number.” He called his secretary, then dialed the house. “This is Reuben Mosse. I’m trying to locate my cousin. Is he... Thanks.” Reuben hung up, grim-faced. “He and Cesar left in Cesar’s SUV thirty minutes ago. They should have been here by now.”
Riga swallowed a sob.
No. Not Donovan.
“We’ll find them, don’t worry,” King said.
Two deputies entered the room.
“Lock her up,” the Sheriff said.
Isabelle strained against them. “I want her arrested for assault! You all saw her attack me.”
Reuben’s nostrils pinched. “I didn’t see anything.”
Finn took off his glasses, and polished them. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’ve got bigger problems right now, Ms. Locke.” King turned to the two deputies, jerked his chin toward the door. “Get her out of here.”
They took her away.
“I don’t understand,” Reuben said. “How? Why Isabelle?”
“It was that fake alibi she gave you for the time of Sandra’s death.” Riga’s movements were jerky, her face ashen. “She was giving herself one at the same time, putting herself in the casino when she was really shooting Sandra outside the Sheriff’s station. Isabelle has a cousin in the Sheriff’s department – she probably found out when they were moving Sandra through him... Or her. And she knew where you were, Reuben. You have to drive past that fortune teller’s shack to get from the casino to the Sheriff’s station. She saw your car, knew you didn’t want anyone to know you’d been with Lily. So she covered your lie, gave herself an alibi. That’s why she killed Vogelberg, that’s what he was trying to tell me when he died. Your alibi was wrong, and so was hers.”
“Of course.” Finn put his glasses on and stared owlishly. “She had access to everything he had access to.”
“And she’d seen his signature enough – probably faked it on his behalf – to forge it.” Riga redialed Donovan.
Voicemail.
“So Isabelle was the one behind the money laundering,” Finn said.
She shook her head. “I don’t believe there ever was any money laundering – just embezzling. All the lost money was found in a bank account in the Cayman Islands, in Isabelle’s name.”
“And June?” Finn said. “She was murdered? We all thought she’d killed herself.”
“Last spring,” Riga said, “when Donovan was in Atlantic City, she flew from the Vegas office to Reno, rented a car, and killed June Carding. It had to be Isabelle who’d used Donovan’s credit card to rent the car – neither you nor Reuben would have needed to rent a car in Reno to kill her in Stateline. You were both already here.
“She’d been trying to befriend June, but that day when she asked June to be part of the scheme, June refused. So she followed her home and killed her, then Sandra was promoted into her place. I imagine Isabelle had worked on her beforehand as well, because the embezzlement began soon after she was promoted.”
Reuben collapsed onto the couch, ran his hand across his thinning hair. “This is my fault. Donovan could be killed because of me.”
“No,” Riga said, miserable. “He’s in danger because of Isabelle. She made the choice. She made the call. Excuse me.”
Riga fled the room. She wasn’t going to break down, she couldn’t afford to. But she needed to be alone, to think, to calm down. She wasn’t any good to Donovan like this.
She went to his bedroom – their bedroom – and closed the door quietly behind her, leaned against it. Tears pooled in her eyes, and she crushed them with the palms of her hands.
No. This was not helping.
Breathe.
She closed her eyes, took deep breaths, tried to clear her mind. Where was he? But she smelled Donovan, his scent was everywhere in the room, distracting her, reminding her of the potential loss, a knife through her heart.
She’d always been good at finding money. Finding people, however, was beyond her.
“Donovan, where are you?”
She shivered, opened her eyes.
Gwenn stood beside the bureau in her dealer’s clothing, whole, and unburnt. Her hair cascaded, raven black wings, past her shoulders. Her eyes were familiar pools of deep green.
“I know where he is,” the ghost said. “I always know where he is.”
Like a sleepwalker, dazed, robotic, Riga walked to the bureau, picked up the silver-framed photo of Donovan and his parents. Looked from it to the ghost.
“It’s you,” Riga whispered. “You’re his mother.”
Chapter 34
“Yes.” The ghost turned to gaze at the photo. Her raven hair brushed Riga’s shoulder, a breeze that cooled, teased. “And I alway
s know where he is. He’s alive, but we need to get to him. Now.”
Riga grabbed her pea coat off the bed and shrugged into it. “Where?”
“I can’t describe how to get there. I can feel his pull, but... I have to show you.”
“Let’s go.”
The ghost floating beside her, Riga raced down to the parking lot, flung herself into the Lincoln, started the car.
“Which way?”
“There.” The ghost pointed left.
She peeled out of the lot, driving as fast as she dared on the dark road. Headlights going in the opposite direction flashed past. Taillights glowed red before her, and she braked.
“Hurry,” the ghost urged.
Riga accelerated, veering around a startled motorist on the two-lane highway. She considered calling the Sheriff, or even Ash, but she didn’t know where she was going.
“Does Donovan know?” Riga asked.
“How could he? I didn’t even know who I was. And the crash wrecked me beyond recognition. Gwenn.” The ghost smiled thinly. “Gwenn was the name of my pet goat growing up. Funny how my mind attached to that. My real name’s Clara, by the way.”
“Nice to meet you.” Donovan had always referred to her as “Mom,” and Riga hadn’t delved deeper. She should have.
The light ahead turned red, and Riga ground her teeth, drifting to a stop.
No one was coming. Screw this. She stepped on the gas, drove through the intersection.
A horn blared behind her, and she glanced in the rear view mirror. Another car had followed her through, perhaps not noticing the light was red.
Riga and Clara wended along the highway, past mini-malls, past the black silhouettes of pines.
“There!” Clara pointed.
Riga turned sharply, drove into the parking lot of a ski resort. The place was closing, the lot shiny with damp beneath the yellow lights and emptying out – all except for a black SUV parked beside a high snow bank. She drove into the space beside it, and jumped out of her car.
The SUV had an employee parking sticker from Donovan’s casino. She pulled her tactical flashlight from her satchel, beamed it inside. Nose prints from a large dog smeared the windows.
Riga paled.
Blood stains on the dash, on the space between the driver and passenger seats.
The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 24