The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery)

by Kirsten Weiss

  *****

  When she arrived in the lobby of her condo, Dog greeted her with an excited bark. It followed her to the elevator, prancing with delight. She scratched its neck while they waited for the elevator to arrive. The doors slid open and the dog backed away, then sat down.

  Riga looked up in surprise. Donovan stood waiting inside.

  “You’ve been avoiding me.” His green-brown eyes mocked her.

  She rose, slinging her leather bag over her shoulder, unable to deny it. “I guess I have been.”

  “Going up?”

  She nodded and joined him in the elevator. The dog remained behind.

  Donovan followed her silently into the condo. He removed his long woolen coat and tossed it over the back of her sofa, then made a beeline for her wine cabinet. He stopped in front of it, admiring. “As wine cabinets go, this one is a thing of beauty. Did you get this in Afghanistan?”

  She gave him a long look. “How did you know I’d been in Afghanistan?”

  He shrugged. “I had you checked out.”

  He ran his hand across the woodwork, its paint faded blue, then flipped open the locking mechanism and unerringly withdrew the most expensive bottle. “Mmm... An obscure little winery, but their 2008 Tempranillo is outstanding.”

  “You know your wine.” She didn’t want to talk about Afghanistan.

  “Of course.” He handed her the bottle.

  She removed the cork with a church key, poured the wine into two wide bottomed goblets. “Who are you?”

  “I’ve told you that.”

  “No, you’ve told me your name and I haven’t had you checked out. Yet.” She handed him a glass. “What do you do? Where are you from?”

  He swirled the glass and held it up to the light. “Vegas. As for what I do, I’m in the sin industry.”

  She laughed. “I hope you mean gambling.”

  “What else—? Oh. Yes, just gaming. But Vegas has grown up. Now it’s about more than gaming, it’s entertainment. Good food, good wine, good music. Cheers. ” He clinked glasses with her and took a sip.

  She didn’t.

  Donovan leaned casually against the kitchen counter. “You’re not drinking?”

  “It needs time to breathe. And the last time I drank with you I blacked out.”

  One side of his mouth curved upward. “Blacked out? Come on,” he scoffed. “You didn’t drink that much.”

  She walked past him. In the narrow confines of her kitchen she brushed his elbow and felt another quiver of recognition. Magic? Or something else?

  He followed her into the living room and chose a chair close to the fireplace. “We should have a fire.” He looked around and, beside a bookcase, found a basket with logs inside.

  “Did anything… unusual happen that night?” she persisted, watching him kneel before the fireplace, stacking wood and paper. The muscles played across his back, shifting the fabric of his clothing. She felt a hunger surge within her and looked away.

  He drew a match across the brick hearth and lit the paper. The fire sprang to life. He sat back on his heels, regarding her. “We drank. If you had too much, you hid it well. I brought you back here, you went to sleep. So did I.”

  “Sleep.”

  “Just sleep,” Donovan confirmed. “Your bed is much more comfortable than mine at the hotel, by the way.”

  “It’s a new mattress.” She gracefully lowered herself into the chair opposite him. “I never black out.”

  “I don’t know why you would have last night.” He made himself comfortable in the chair and stretched his well-clad legs toward the fire, wine glass dangling loosely from his finger tips. “You’ve had an interesting international career – your own PR company, big clients. And then you gave it all up to become a metaphysical detective and you don’t even have a webpage. Considering the timing, I assumed the career change was because of what happened in Afghanistan—“

  “You don’t know what happened there,” she said sharply. She turned away from him, swirling the wine in her glass. The deaths hadn’t made a ripple in the US news feed – Iraq was hot at the time and Afghanistan the “good,” ignored war. However, if someone dug, they’d find a short, uninformative news blurb. The reporting had been poor but the Internet had a long memory.

  He gave her an appraising look. “But now I think it might have something to do with your ability to turn off streetlights when you get within five yards of them.”

  She felt the glass slip from her nerveless fingers. Donovan moved in a blur, catching it before it hit the carpet. He placed it atop a stack of books lying on the coffee table between them. “Careful.” He gave her a long look. “It looks like you need a drink.”

  “I think I do,” she said hoarsely, and took a gulp. The warmth of the fire bathed her skin as the wine blossomed inside her. Light folded in on itself – billions of dazzling stars followed by the cool sweet dark of infinite space.

  Chapter 13: Ariadne’s Secret

  Riga dreamed she was Ariadne. Their ship docked at the port of a fishing village at Naxos, waves slapping against the sides of the wood planking, sailors bustling with ropes and shouting to men on the pier. Her lover, Theseus, was busy below deck. He’d kept away from her lately; she knew it was over. She had betrayed her father and king by helping Theseus kill the Minotaur and escape the labyrinth. It had been the right thing to do – the sacrifices to the minotaur had to end – but she felt hollowed out inside. She couldn’t go back, and her dream of escaping with Theseus was dissolving. His coming betrayal should have stung more, but it seemed small payment for her own treachery.

  The youngest sailor, a boy of no more than twelve, took her hand, startling her from her reverie.

  “Let’s go to the town,” he said.

  She looked toward the ship’s cabin.

  Theseus emerged, his hair shining in the sunlight, his toga hanging loosely about his waist and shoulder. “Go, enjoy yourself! We depart at sunset,” he said, waving her off.

  Liar.

  “You should stay on the ship, little one,” she said.

  The boy had attached himself to her not long after she and Theseus had escaped Crete. He looked at her now, adoring, and shook his head. He took her hand and led her across the wooden plank to the pier. The boy exclaimed with delight over the baskets of fish, the jars of olives, the smells from the bakery stall.

  The two walked to the top of hill overlooking the port, the sun high above them and she watched the ship move steadily out into the waters, away from her. Ariadne’s only regret was for the boy, who had been abandoned with her by his shipmates. He tugged at her hand and she looked down upon him. Their eyes met. She had the sensation of falling, the stars spinning about her. This was no boy, it was Dionysus, and he had come for her.

  Riga awoke, the dream hanging on her and it felt as if she had experienced events that had actually occurred. She knew the story of Ariadne’s abandonment by Theseus (the jerk) on the island of Naxos, and of her rescue by Dionyus, but the idea of him appearing to her as a young boy onboard ship was new. Had she read it somewhere?

  A pan clattered in the kitchen and she became aware of the scent of breakfast – onions, fragrant cheese, bacon. She belted a cotton robe about her waist and padded into the kitchen.

  Donovan was there, in a display of either nerve or innocence. She voted for the former.

  He flipped an omelet in one of her non-stick pans and turned to her with a rakish grin. “Morning, Beautiful!” He was barefoot, in loose black pants and a white tunic.

  Riga wondered where he’d got the change of clothing. He had gorgeous feet, perfectly formed, as if they’d never been tortured into shape by modern footwear.

  Something was off though. She looked at him carefully. His insouciance remained in place, like a shield, but she felt something behind it. He was worried.

  Her emotions hardened. “What are you still doing here?”

  He looked up, surprised by the tone of her voice. “Breakfast.”


  “Nervy.”

  He appeared genuinely puzzled, which, in Riga’s eyes, just made him a good liar. “After seeing the gun safe in your closet, I have no nerve at all when it comes to you. Is that standard equipment for a metaphysical detective?”

  “What did you do to the wine?” It was magic, she knew, but none like she’d ever experienced. And the fact that it left her feeling better rather than worse disturbed her, because a part of her wanted it to happen again.

  His dark brows drew together. “Nothing.”

  “Then why did I blank out? Again. Don’t tell me you didn’t notice.”

  He waggled the pan in her direction. “You did not pass out last night, and I think I would have noticed. I’m starting to think you just don’t want to take responsibility for your actions.”

  “What actions? What happened?” She felt his magic now, there but not there. It sent a shiver of pleasure up her spine, and that frightened her even more.

  “Sadly, nothing happened. You made me spend the night on the couch, which is, by the way, not as comfortable as my hotel bed. When are we going to wake up together?”

  Fine. Two could play this game. “I don’t know what you are, but I will figure it out.”

  He smiled, wolflike. “I guess we’ll be spending more time together then. Come on, you’ll feel better after breakfast.” He slid the omelet onto a plate and handed it to her.

  She looked at it.

  “It’s just an omelet,” he said.

  She took the plate from him and lowered herself onto one of the stools opposite, at the counter. Neither seeing nor sensing anything amiss (magic or otherwise), she took a hesitant bite. It was the best omelet she’d ever tasted – the ideal to which omelets should aspire: light, fluffy, tangy, heaven.

  “How is it?” he asked.

  “It’s good.”

  “That’s all?” He frowned, looking into the empty pan as if it had betrayed him. “I usually get a more effusive reaction than that.”

  “I’m still conscious. That’s something.”

  He met Riga’s eyes, violet like wine held to the sunlight. “I don’t know what happened to you last night,” he repeated, his voice low. “This memory loss – are you sure it’s never happened before?”

  She gritted her teeth. “Only with you.”

  “Then tell me about the street lights. Have you always been able to put them out?”

  Riga speared a mushroom. “Not always.” It had started, she told him, in college and within a year she couldn’t get within twenty feet of a streetlamp without it going dark. “A rumor started I had a weird electromagnetic field that would give people cancer. You can imagine how popular I was.”

  Donovan burst into laughter. It rolled through the condo like benevolent thunder. “Cancer! The modern day bogeyman. And do you? Have a weird electromagnetic field?”

  “I found someone to test me – never mind how – and no, they couldn’t find anything.” The Reiki masters and energy workers had been unable to help. Riga had turned to a shaman, but things had not gone well there, either. The shaman still refused to speak to her.

  “Which left dark magic.” Donovan chuckled.

  She felt heat rush to her cheeks. “Look, I know my problem sounds ridiculous. It is, in fact, ridiculous. But it’s hell on a social life. I can’t go out at night with friends, and night happens to be when most people want to meet up. Even the magical community thinks I’m freaky.” Dating was a disaster. When men found out, they were initially fascinated. But the strangeness eventually made them wary.

  “I’d love to take you to Vegas. Imagine what we could do to the Strip,” he mused.

  Riga merely shook her head. He was still in phase one: fascination. It would end soon enough, and hopefully not before she discovered what he was after.

  His lips quirked. “As super powers go, it’s a disappointment. But I know you’re not going to give me cancer. It does explain the metaphysical detective agency though. Any other powers?”

  “I can locate money. For some reason, checks are easiest, I suspect because the act of writing them leaves a greater psychic impression. It’s come in handy more than once.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Don’t worry, it has no affect on my gambling ability. And now that people are moving away from checks to electronic banking, I’m even losing that advantage.”

  Donovan looked thoughtful. “Anything else?”

  “Enough about me, I’m starting to bore myself.” She’d given him enough. She wanted to learn about him.

  “So, tell me about your current case,” he said.

  Damn. He was determined to play the listener today.

  “Have you got a drivers license?” she asked.

  Bemused, he ambled to the living room, where last night’s trousers lay across the back of the sofa, and retrieved his wallet. He tossed it to her, and watched while she examined his license, taking down the details.

  “You’re not very subtle,” he said.

  “At this point, why bother?” He was in her home, had once slept in her bed, and though she was fairly certain sleep was all that had taken place in that bed, she couldn’t say why.

  “Would you like to go to the coast?” she asked. Donovan was involved in the mystery of Helen – she couldn’t explain where her certainty came from but it was there. She wanted to keep him around.

  “I thought we were already there.”

  “No, the actual coast, that liminal place where land meets sea.”

  He broke into a smile. “I’ll drive,” he said. “And you can tell me more about that case and your secret admirer.”

  Chapter 14: The Bishop’s Wife

  Riga took her time dressing – low-slung jeans, a white tank top, and a white knit bolero for warmth. Anticipating wind, she tied her auburn hair in a loose pony tail, then slipped into a pair of leather sandals which showed off her movie star-red toenail polish. Her toes, she noted, were not as perfect as Donovan’s.

  If Donovan was annoyed by the wait, he didn’t show it, his eyes lighting when she entered the room. He hustled her downstairs, where the dog followed them to the glass door. He howled plaintively when it became apparent he’d be left behind. Riga hesitated.

  “Oh, go on,” Donovan said.

  She stuck her head in the entryway and asked the doorman if he’d like her to take the dog for a walk on the beach. He agreed, delighted his pet would get a treat, and a little wistful that Riga hadn’t offered to take him as well. He made the dog promise to behave himself.

  Riga and the dog bundled into Donovan’s car, a vintage silver Aston Martin. She would have made a snarky remark about James Bond fantasies, but the car was too beautiful. She surreptitiously smoothed a hand over the soft leather seat. “What is it you do in the sin industry, exactly?”

  He revved the engine and peeled neatly into the street. “Casinos.”

  They drove south, detouring into a wine shop. Riga waited in the car and he emerged carrying a wicker picnic basket, which he put inside the trunk. “No peeking.”

  They cut across the city to the Great Highway, Magic Carpet Ride blaring on the radio, and then blasted up and over the hill to drop down winding Highway 1. The dog settled happily in Riga’s lap, panting. She rolled the window down part way and Dog wormed its nose out.

  Donovan shifted gears as the car swung through a tight curve. “So, tell me about the case.”

  Riga told him what she’d told the police, about Herman’s appearance in her condo, Riga’s theory of entanglement, and her determination to keep Pen unentangled.

  Donovan chanced a quick glance at her. “It doesn’t sound like you’ve got much.”

  “A dead body is enough.”

  “What’s your next step?”

  Dig. She’d keep chasing leads until she ran out of trails to follow or the case was resolved.

  She directed him to a cliff side parking lot overlooking the ocean.

  “Bit windy,” he said. “Are you su
re you’re up for a picnic on the beach? I know a little trail not far from here—“

  She interrupted him, placing her hand lightly on his arm. “Wait.” Riga scanned the horizon.

  Donovan drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel. “What exactly are we waiting for?”

  She absently stroked the dog’s neck. Dog was in heaven, his eyes half closed.

  “There,” she said, pointing west. A waterspout appeared, dancing across the ocean’s surface.

  “Huh.” Donovan’s brows wrinkled. “You don’t see one of those every day.”

  “Do you have any idea what the odds are of two appearing off the California coast in a two day period? I was here yesterday and saw a spout as well.” She shook her head. “It’s not natural. Something’s going on and you’re involved.”

  “If you say so,” he drawled. “Can we go now?”

  Donovan put the car into reverse, not waiting for an answer. The rear tires spit sand and they roared south.

  He was an expert driver, but Riga clenched the door handle as they whizzed around Highway 1’s curves.

  “So what brought you to San Francisco?” she asked.

  “Business and pleasure. I’m thinking of setting up a partnership with a winery north of here. And I wanted a break.”

  “A partnership?”

  “Vegas has gone upscale. People want more than gaming,” he said.

  “You sound like a travel brochure.”

  “It’s how I earn a living.”

  He did better than earn a living, Riga thought, sinking into the upholstery.

  Past Half Moon Bay, Donovan turned down a road that wound into the hills. It narrowed to one lane, but Donovan didn’t slow, the car gripping the tight curves. Riga closed her eyes.

  Donovan laughed. “Don’t worry. We’re here.”

  He pulled the car into a shady lot overhung with oaks. They were in a narrow valley, at a public trailhead. Riga got out, stretching her legs. She leashed the dog as Donovan retrieved the hamper from the trunk.

  He led them down a wide dirt trail, with a creek in a gully to one side and a steep fern-covered hill rising on the other. The oaks formed a lattice overhead, a verdant tunnel of green. Donovan branched off onto a narrow path leading up the hill and to a grove of redwood giants that formed a tight circle. They picnicked in their center, atop a red and black plaid blanket. Donovan, shoeless again, opened the hamper with a flourish, setting out two wine goblets, china plates, cloth napkins, food and wine: grapes, a selection of cheeses, pâté, and a fine bottle of pinot noir. He caught Riga eyeing the latter with suspicion.