The Shamanic Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  She jammed the flashlight in her pocket, and pulled out her cell phone, called the Sheriff. “I’ve found Cesar’s car.” She told him where she was.

  “Don’t move. We’ll be right there.”

  She hung up. She couldn’t wait.

  “This way,” Clara said. “We don’t have much time.”

  Riga followed the ghost behind the Swiss-style ski chalet and onto the base of the slope. She slipped, staggering forward on the packed snow. It shimmered dully in the reflected light from the chalet. A ski lift whirred.

  Clara floated toward it, the only lift still operating. “He’s at the top!”

  Riga ran for it, jumped on a bobbing chair. It lurched upward, and she clutched its arm, her legs swinging beneath her.

  The chair passed, bouncing and shuddering, beneath one of the towers. Shoulders tightening, Riga scooted back farther in her seat.

  Clara materialized beside her.

  “How is he?” Riga asked.

  “Alive. Scared. Angry.”

  Riga swallowed, blinking. Donovan was tough. And Cesar... He was a good person. In spite of everything, she believed he’d do the right thing.

  “There’s something I want to tell you, Riga, while I have the chance. My mother-in-law never liked me. She didn’t think I was good enough. It hurt. But I’m glad Donovan found you.”

  “Thanks.” Something warmed inside her. But this wasn’t the time. “Now, let’s get him back.”

  They rolled beneath another tower, and Riga’s stomach clenched. In the darkness she had little sense of speed, but knew they were moving too slowly. “Hurry,” she muttered.

  “It’s taking too long,” Clara said.

  “Can you feel him? Has something changed?”

  “No. But I may be able to help.” Clara vanished.

  It was a moonless night, the snow a dark river beneath her. How high up was she? Thirty feet? Forty?

  The lift jolted, whined, increased speed. Riga clutched the cold metal arm, her heart skittering.

  Clara reappeared beside her. “I can affect electronics, I’ve found.”

  “You sped up the lift?”

  “Yes. I hope it’s enough.” The ghost gasped. “Oh!” She blinked out of existence.

  “Clara?”

  Riga was alone.

  Chill air knifed through her khakis. She buttoned up her pea coat, her fingers fumbling in the cold, turning up her collar.

  She bumped through another tower.

  The hum of the ski lift changed, grew louder. She leaned forward, and made out a dark, rectangular shape higher up the hill. Was she almost there?

  And then the ground rose to meet her, she was above a platform, and she dropped from the chair, landed on a steep slope and ran down it, her booted feet sliding awkwardly. She paused, steadying herself.

  No one was there.

  She pulled out her flashlight, shone it across the ground. Two sets of footprints led up the slope.

  Riga started up the rise. The snow was thicker here, and she slogged through it. A man’s voice drifted down to her, and she stopped, head cocked, listening. Two men, voices raised in anger. She plunged forward. A light flickered above, through the trees.

  “Donovan! Cesar?” She scrambled up the hill, crashed into a wide clearing.

  A light flashed in her eyes, blinding her, then flicked away.

  “Don’t move,” Cesar said.

  She flinched, dark red dots swimming before her eyes.

  “Drop the flashlight, Hayworth,” Cesar said. “And your bag.”

  She dropped them into the snow, the light still on, illuminating a cone of sparkling white.

  Donovan was in a half crouch, just feet from her. Cesar stood further up the slope, holding a flashlight in one hand. Something glinted in the other: a gun. He held his gun arm pressed awkwardly against his body.

  Riga edged toward Donovan. Cesar wouldn’t shoot her.

  “Isabelle’s been arrested,” she said. “She was behind it all.”

  “I’ve already told him that,” Donovan ground out, straightening.

  “And Isabelle said Mosse did it,” Cesar shouted. “We both knew where the evidence pointed, Hayworth, even if you didn’t want to believe it.”

  “Everybody wanted to believe it,” Riga said. “That’s why she used him. That’s why she and Sandra cooked up this story about money laundering and terrorism. It fit the narrative – the evil rich, a wealthy casino owner who got too greedy. The public, the media, the feds, wanted to believe it. But there never was any money laundering. It was all a blind to ruin Donovan, to direct attention away from the real motive: simple greed. For God’s sake, it was Isabelle!”

  “You’ll say anything to protect him.”

  She took a step closer to Donovan. A few more and she’d be between the two men.

  Donovan’s hand shot out, grabbed the collar of her coat, pinioned her at arm’s length. “Don’t even think about it, Riga. You’re not getting in the line of fire.”

  “Isabelle and Sandra were having an affair.” She was guessing now, going on instinct. “Isabelle killed June so she could get Sandra into June’s job. She probably told Sandra that if things got hot, they could just turn state’s evidence. But of course, once they had her, the feds weren’t going to let Sandra off scott free. Isabelle had to kill her to ensure her silence.”

  Cesar shook his head. “That makes no sense. Why would Isabelle frame Mosse? She loved him. Everyone knew it.”

  Donovan’s hand tightened on her collar. She was close enough now to see the bruises on his face, the dried blood above his lips.

  “Maybe because he didn’t love her back. Maybe because she loved and hated him at the same time. I don’t know, Cesar. People aren’t always that easy to figure, especially people like Isabelle. But I know she thought she deserved more – more money, more authority in the casino. She’s confessed, Cesar. The Sheriff has her. Don’t ruin your life and ours by doing this. Please.”

  Someone crashed through the trees behind her and Cesar swung his light toward it, keeping his gun trained on Donovan. “Hold it!”

  A man staggered into the clearing. Martin. His eyes were wide, confused. In one hand, he held a gun.

  “I said, hold it,” Cesar barked.

  Martin blinked, raising the gun. Its shadow grew, weirdly long, against the snow. “Who are you? What is this place?”

  “Put down the gun,” Cesar shouted.

  The night stilled. An odor of decay, rotting flesh, reached Riga’s nostrils, and she understood. Ankou. Martin was recovering from Ankou’s compulsion, disoriented, just as she had been.

  Martin turned in a drunken circle. “What am I doing here?”

  “Martin, it’s Riga. Put down the gun.”

  He spun toward her voice. Aimed.

  A shot rang out.

  Donovan swung her toward him, turning her into his orbit. He dragged her to the ground, and fell heavily on top of her.

  Three more shots exploded in the night, rapid fire, echoing across the mountain.

  And then the sound stopped, the echo cut off as if by a knife.

  Her breath was quick and loud in her ears. The sound of dried leaves, skittering across rocks. Magic. It raised the hairs on her arms, quickened her blood.

  Ankou was here.

  Riga couldn’t move, couldn’t see, couldn’t breathe beneath Donovan’s weight.

  “It’s all right, darling,” Clara said. “Now let her up, you’re crushing her.”

  The night sounds rushed back – wind in the trees, the crunching of a boot on snow.

  Donovan’s head jerked upward, and he lifted himself on his elbows, looked down at her. “You okay?”

  Riga sucked in air. “Yeah. You?”

  In answer, Donovan rolled off her.

  She sat up.

  “I thought I heard...” Donovan frowned.

  “It’s okay,” Cesar said, panting. “It’s done.”

  Donovan stood, pulling Riga up wit
h him.

  Cesar beamed his flashlight on the snow, on the body that lay slumped and still.

  Martin’s pale face stared up at them, the gun loose in his bony hand.

  “What the hell?” Donovan said.

  “It’s Martin Billings,” Riga said, “Sal’s plant manager. There’s an APB out for his arrest. I was sure he’d left town.” She should have known better. The fae had gotten everything he’d wanted – vengeance on the man who’d threatened his servant, the completion of their bargain. She bent over, hands on her knees, trying to control the nausea that threatened her. The bargain. Donovan should have died that night. Martin had been taken instead.

  “Looks like he followed you up here,” Cesar said. “He shot first. I made a decision.” He tossed his gun into the snow. “Shit.”

  “It’s not your fault,” Riga choked out. She straightened, breathing slowly, and her stomach calmed. If she were right, Martin’s death had in a sense saved Cesar, who’d been on the verge of making a life-changing mistake. She couldn’t think about it now. Later. Later.

  Donovan clambered through the knee-high snow toward him. “Cesar. You need medical attention.”

  “Cesar was shot?” Riga dropped to the snow beside her bag, extracted her cell phone. “I’ll call an ambulance.”

  “Not shot,” Donovan said. “Stabbed.” He reached for Cesar’s parka.

  The bodyguard jerked away. “I can take care of myself.”

  “Right. Riga, what have you got in that bag in way of a first aid kit?”

  “A first aid kit.” Riga drew it out, picked her flashlight off the ground, and opened the kit to find a roll of gauze.

  “Who stabbed you?” she asked.

  Donovan smiled, grim. “I did.”

  A shadow obscured the moon.

  Heavy wings flapped overhead, and a nearby tree shuddered, swayed, its branches creaking from the weight of a heavy object. A heap of snow slid from the tree and hit the ground with a wet thud.

  Riga didn’t look up, knew it was Brigitte. Another knot in her heart loosened, and she hurried to Cesar, bandages in hand.

  Chapter 35

  Donovan sprawled, fully clothed, on the leather couch in his study, holding Riga with one arm, a glass of Zin with the other. His nose and lip were swollen, the skin beneath his eyes purpling. He looked like hell, she thought, his black shirt bloodied and torn, but he was beautifully alive.

  He groaned. “Cesar knows his job. I hurt too much to take my clothes off.”

  “I’ll help, when you’re ready.” She lay with her back against his chest, feeling it rise and fall beneath her.

  His arm tightened. “You’d better.”

  “It looks like you gave as good as you got. How did you stab him?”

  “In the car, after he finished beating my head against the dashboard and thought I was unconscious.”

  “What are you going to do about him?”

  When the police had arrived on their snow mobiles, Donovan claimed they’d gone there to talk, and refused to explain the bruises. Cesar had gone along, saying that in the dark and confusion he didn’t know how he’d been stabbed. He was at the hospital now.

  “I don’t know yet,” he said. “Isabelle did a number on him, just like she played me. We’ll talk. We’ll see.” He raised his head, and took a sip of the wine.

  “Why did Cesar take you up there?”

  “It’s where he and Sandra were married.” Donovan’s brow knit. “It’s strange... When we were up on that mountain, I thought I heard my mother’s voice. But that’s not possible, is it?”

  She hesitated, unsure if this secret was hers to tell, or if Clara wanted to handle it herself. But there had been too many secrets lately; she knew she’d have to tell him about her encounter with Gregorovich... Later.

  “How did you find us?”

  “Together,” Clara said, stepping from the fireplace.

  Donovan jerked upright. Riga slid forward on the couch, giving him room to untangle himself. He rose, taking a step toward the ghost. “My God. Mom?”

  “She was attached to you,” Riga said, “so she knew where you were, knew you were in trouble. She brought me to you.”

  He reached toward the ghost, then dropped his hand. “But how is it possible? I never knew. I never saw you.”

  “I was that poor, deranged ghost you called Gwenn, confused and burnt beyond recognition.”

  “You’ve been here all these years, suffering.”

  “No,” Clara said quickly. “Don’t think of that. I was here because I had to be.”

  “So many years...” He shook his head. “I’ve thought about what I could say to you if I had the chance. And you’ve been here.”

  “You can tell me now.”

  “I was such a brat when you left—”

  Clara smiled. “You wanted to come with us. I thank God you didn’t. My last thoughts were of you – what would happen to you, who would take care of you. We hadn’t planned to die. We were so unprepared. And for that, you suffered.”

  “I’m fine. I’m okay.” He smiled broadly. “Everything is okay.”

  “What would you have said?”

  He swallowed. “Only... I love you, Mom.”

  “I love you too, son.” She beamed, then glanced over her shoulder. “But I think it’s time for me to go. There’s a beautiful golden light that’s been following me around ever since I knew you were safe at the top of that mountain.”

  Riga came to stand beside him, and he pulled her close.

  “Wait,” he said. “I have so many questions. About you, about Dad.”

  She shook her head. “It’s time. Besides, if I don’t go, your father will never make the transition.”

  His muscles tensed. “Dad? Where’s Dad?”

  “Who do you think has been stirring up the casino, rattling the ghosts? He might have even tried to drop a chandelier on someone, which was rather naughty. But you know your Dad. He was never one for rules.”

  The feeling of oppression, of rage, that changed for seemingly no reason... Riga felt dizzy. Donovan had been named after his father. The name she’d discovered in the casino corridor hadn’t been a game of Ankou’s after all.

  Clara turned toward a bookcase, and touched one delicate hand to her throat. A smile lit her face. “Mother? Father?” She laughed delightedly. “Gwenn?” Her aura flared with golden light, and she stepped forward. Clara vanished.

  Blindly, Donovan reached behind him for Riga’s hand, pulled her to him. “This is the right thing.” He swallowed, looking down at her. “She needed to go.”

  “Then it’s a happy ending?” She saw how hard it was for him to see Clara go, that even though he knew it was right, his emotions were tangled.

  “Almost.” He knelt down. “Will you marry me?”

  She slipped to her knees, and threw her arms around him. “Yes!” She was smiling so hard it ached, but she couldn’t stop.

  Outside, Brigitte swooped past the window, winking out the stars.

  *****

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  About the Author

  Kirsten Weiss is the author of the Riga Hayworth paranormal mystery series: The Metaphysical Detective, The Alchemical Detective, and The Shamanic Detective.

  Kirsten worked overseas for nearly fourteen years, in the fringes of the former USSR and deep in the Afghan war zone. Her experiences abroad not only gave her glimpses into the darker side of human nature, but also sparked an interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into our daily lives.

  Now based in San Mateo, CA, she writes paranormal mysteries, blending her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.

  Kirsten has never met a dessert she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer reruns and drinking good wine.

  Chat with her on Twitter at https://twitter.com/#!/RigaHayworth, and sign up for her newsletter and check out her blog a
t http://kirstenweiss.com

  Also Available from misterio press: LADY LUCK RUNS OUT, by Shannon Esposito

  Rose Faraday knew it was time to stop ignoring her niggling gut and the metaphorical neon-flashing signs the universe had been manifesting around her. She lowered herself onto the sofa, unwrapped her tarot cards from their silk fabric covering and spread the cloth out on the coffee table. A long-haired, black cat wound itself around her ankle, and then deposited a fake mouse on her foot. "Mew!"

  She smiled down into eyes as green and clear as emeralds and sighed. "Not now, Lucky, Mama's got to work." She scratched the cat under the belly with her bare toes and then pushed her gently away, "Go on, we'll play fetch later. Scooch." Lucky squeaked out one more "mew" in protest then sauntered off, hopping through the cat door to the screened lanai, where her favorite scratching post awaited.

  Rose took a deep breath, letting the scent of the burning jasmine incense relax her, and closed her eyes. When she felt ready, she opened and took out the time-softened cards, arranging them in three piles on the silk. The mounting feeling of dread had prompted her to read for herself today and she needed to be relaxed. To concentrate on the question: Am I in physical danger?

  After shuffling the cards three times, she slid the first one off the pile and laid it down. Ten of Swords. Her least favorite card. Well, things couldn't get worse, that wasn't exactly bad news. She slid the next card off the deck and placed it upright to the left of the Ten of Swords.

  The Death Card. Rose stared at the skeletal face in the black armor. So, something was coming to an end? A transformation? She held the question "Am I in physical danger?" in the forefront of her mind. Heaviness fell upon her. She shivered. Then again, sometimes death just meant death.

  Rose shook off the thought and pulled a third card, placing it to the right of the Ten of Swords. Judgment reversed. She noted her own reaction to this card, a nervousness that she knew meant the card wasn't just about closing a door on the past and having a new beginning. It was about a decided end.

  Defiantly, she pulled a fourth clarifying card and placed it to the right of Judgment.