The policewoman blew out her breath. “It was locked.”
Riga thanked her and hung up, then ambled over to Mr. Chen.
He jerked his head – inside – and she followed him.
“You’ve made someone angry,” he said, his eyes dark with concern.
“The feeling’s mutual.”
His lips quirked in a smile. “You look disturbed. Come, I’ve made tea.”
She followed him to the table. The dojo walls were decorated today with cardboard jack o’lanterns and a lifesize plastic skeleton.
He followed Riga’s gaze. “For the kids,” he said.
He handed her a chipped mug and she twisted it in her hands, thinking of a way to get rid of it while he wasn’t looking.
“It’s good for you,” he said.
Which guaranteed it would taste awful. She took a sip and made a face. What did he put in it?
“So, how is your case progressing,” he said. “Is the problem man, or metaphysics?”
“Both, I think.”
“You think! What about your beautiful laws of metaphysics?” he asked. “They aren’t helping?”
She sniffed at the tea. It smelled of tar and old shoes. “I may need to rethink my laws.”
In one fluid motion he lowered himself onto a rough wooden bench and curled a leg beneath him. “Tell me.”
She sat down beside him. The bench wobbled. “A metaphysical event doesn’t repeat itself on command. It’s what you see out of the corner of your eye. It can’t be nailed down.“
“Like trying to catch a moonbeam in your hand?” he warbled in a passable imitation of Julie Andrews.
She laughed. “Exactly. Did you hear about the waterspouts at Half Moon Bay?”
“I read about a waterspout. There was more than one?”
“Yes, on consecutive days, both when I was there to witness them. They couldn’t have been natural – the weather didn’t warrant them. It was a metaphysical event but it violated a prime metaphysical law – or what I thought was a law.”
He tilted his head. “When the world doesn’t behave the way we expect it to, we think the laws are broken. But nature simply reacts to the stimuli it’s presented with. The laws don’t change, but when there is an unexpected action, we get unexpected results.
“Huh,” Riga said, uncertain.
“Look.” He placed his mug upon the table. “Here sits my tea and here it will go on sitting.” With an abrupt motion, he knocked the cup over and tea flowed across the table. “Now, if you did not see my hand knock the tea over, you would think the law that a body at rest stays at rest had been broken. But of course, it hadn’t.”
Riga looked at the spreading tea, wishing he’d knocked hers over instead. She grabbed a nearby towel and mopped up the mess, placing her full cup behind a fencing mask, where it would be hidden. “So you’re saying my laws are fine, I’m just not seeing the big picture.”
He shrugged. “Or the small picture.”
She made her excuses and left. Outside the building, Riga breathed deeply, accidentally inhaling diesel from a passing bus. She coughed and swore, waving her hand before her face to dispel the cloud of fumes. It hadn’t been the best start to the day.
But she knew someone whose morning had likely been worse.
Chapter 21: Denial – Not Just a River in Egypt
She made a call to confirm Liz was available for visitors, then drove to the hospital, picking up some photography and travel magazines at a liquor store along the way. In front of the hospital’s sliding doors, Riga performed a simple cloak and shield spell. But as she passed through them, she still felt the weight of the misery of the place. It had sunk into the fabric of the building, dripped a thick miasma from its walls.
Liz shared a room on the third floor. Though the curtain was drawn, Riga caught a glimpse of a wispy haired, elderly woman in the other bed. Liz wore an IV attached to one arm and a mutinous expression, which shifted to surprise when Riga walked in.
Riga raised a hand in greeting. “Hey, Liz.” She put the magazines on a swivel table above her bed. “I thought you might be bored.” The windowless room stank of disinfectant and something Riga didn’t want to identify.
“You weren’t wrong. ” Liz thumbed through the magazines. Her skin was sickly-yellow beneath the fluorescent lights. “How’d you know I was here?”
“I was home when they took you out. A medic told me where they were bringing you. What happened?”
“I’m still not sure. They told me I was dehydrated and passed out. But how did they find me?”
“I heard you calling for help,” Riga lied, “and got in through your balcony.”
Liz winced when Riga told her of the smashed door – double paned glass was horribly expensive. “Well, it had to be done, I guess. I don’t remember calling, but I’m glad you heard me.”
“So how are you doing in here?” Riga asked.
The old woman muttered, a singsong chant, behind the curtain.
Liz glanced toward the curtain, lowered her voice. “I want to get the hell out of here but they’re keeping me for another twenty-four hours observation. I need to get back to my painting.”
“Isn’t that what put you here in the first place?”
“No.” She jutted her chin forward. “I was dehydrated.”
Denial. The discussion was doomed, but Riga plodded on, stubborn. “Why did you forget to drink? I was inside your condo, Liz. All those paintings – you must have been going non-stop.”
Her brows bumped together in a scowl. “What of it? I was inspired! You can’t stop when you’ve got something trying to get out.”
“And is it? Out, I mean? You must have exhausted the vine motif by now.”
“You don’t understand. I’ve got to paint. There’s just something about the texture, the feel of them.”
“You can’t paint if you’re dead,” Riga said bluntly. “You need to back off the vines and take care of yourself.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.”
They stared at each other, Liz looking surprised and disappointed, Riga baffled and embarrassed. Riga’s cell phone rang, and she jerked, startled. She checked the number and didn’t recognize it. “A client,” she said, eager to escape. “Do you mind?”
“Go ahead.”
Riga took the call. To her relief, it actually was a new client – a realtor named Frida Hernandez.
“Jerry told me you, er, took care of ghosts and things,” she said in a hushed voice.
“And things,” Riga agreed. She edged out into the hall. “What’s the problem?”
“Look, I’m selling a condo, and I think it’s haunted. I mean, I never believed in that stuff but I don’t know what else to do. No one will buy the place, the sellers are ready to cut me loose if I don’t unload the thing. They’ve already moved out of state. They’re desperate to sell. Can you, you know? Do your thing?”
A janitor walked past, trailing a dirty mop. A second janitor, translucent and in a jumpsuit from another era walked behind him, trying in vain to clean the trail left by the first.
“If it’s haunted,” Riga said, “I can probably help you. If it’s bad plumbing, you’re on your own. Did Jerry tell you about my rates?”
“Yeah, yeah, sure, they’re fine. When can you get here? Are you free today? After lunch, maybe?”
“Sure. One o’clock? I need a few things from you—“
“I know,” Frida interrupted. “Jerry told me. Plans for the unit and leave the back window open, right?”
“Right. What’s the address?”
Riga scribbled the address in her black leather notebook. She pocketed the phone and stepped back into the room, looked at Liz.
“A new case?” Liz asked.
“A haunting. Maybe.”
“Can you actually see them? Ghosts I mean?”
“Only when they let me,” Riga said, relieved that the awkwardness between them seemed to have ended. “But most hauntings aren’t ghosts at al
l –they’re bad wiring or plumbing, or just bad design that casts shadows and makes people feel uncomfortable. Nine times out of ten it’s an easy fix. Realtors love me.”
“For a metaphysical detective, you’re not very…” She hesitated.
“Credulous?”
“Yeah.”
Riga shrugged. “There’s plenty of mystery in the world. I don’t need to believe in everything to believe in something.”
Liz was silent, thinking that over. Finally, she said, “And if it’s a real ghost?”
“Then things get more expensive.”
Liz grinned. “Here’s to a ghost then.”
“Thanks. Well, is there anything you need? How are you getting home when they release you?”
Liz shook her head. “My ex will drive me home tomorrow.”
They exchanged goodbyes and Riga left, feeling like she’d escaped. She jabbed at the button on the elevator hard enough to bend back her nail. It blazed with pain and she shook her hand, tried to throw the hurt loose.
Perhaps she’d invite Pen to assist with the haunting. All of her equipment was trapped back in her office – she’d need her niece, she rationalized.
The elevator doors slid open and she walked inside, making brief eye contact with the other two occupants. Riga hated hospitals, but she approved of their elevators – built for gurneys and wheelchairs they weren’t cramped and claustrophobic. As the doors slid shut she glanced curiously at her fellow travelers. An older black woman stood pressed in one corner, away from the man on Riga’s right. He tugged on his beard, flecked with bits of food. The stench of urine rose from his worn clothing.
His upper body rocked spasmodically and he muttered to himself. The man’s eyes rolled, locked on Riga. “You!”
Riga jumped, startled.
“You! You’re empty! You’re nothing!” Spittle flew from his lips.
“Oh, Lord,” the older woman said weakly.
“You’ll destroy us all!” He made a wild grab for Riga, as if to put her in a headlock.
Her elbow flew out, catching him in the armpit and driving him sideways. She ducked beneath his arm and with her other hand grabbed his wrist. Riga slammed her forearm into the flesh just above his elbow and made a tight turn, spinning him to the ground. She bent his wrist down into a lock and pressed one foot into his shoulder blade, pinning him.
He thrashed beneath her and she almost let go. If he kept it up, she knew he’d ruin his wrist and shoulder and as he fought her, Riga felt her gorge rise. She couldn’t do it to him.
“Don’t you let go!” the woman said. “Just you hold on now. We’re almost there!”
The doors slid open and the woman scurried between them so they wouldn’t close. She screamed for an orderly.
Riga’s hands felt slick. “I can’t hold him much longer!” The man was working free, she couldn’t bring herself to complete the hold, wreck his arm.
She heard a sickening crack and let him go, pushing the older woman from the elevator. The man scrambled to his knees, his eyes feral, his arm dangling uselessly at his side. Then Riga was brushed aside and two white-coated orderlies charged in, flattening him. Riga felt a hand on her arm, drawing her away.
The woman looked up at her, her chocolate-colored eyes wide. “Let’s get away from this. You can’t do any more than you did. Are you okay?”
Riga nodded, not trusting her voice.
“You girls today,” the woman said admiringly. “You sure know how to take care of yourselves. My daughter’s taking a karate class. I thought she was a fool to spend her time on it, but I was wrong and I’m going to tell her.
“You know, you look just like that movie star, what was her name?” The woman steered her down the hall and stopped in front of a soda machine. She snapped her fingers. “Ava Gardner!”
Riga laughed shakily. “I get that all the time.”
Chapter 22: A New Client
“Want to help with a ghost hunt?” Riga said into her phone.
Silence.
She sat at the bus stop outside the hospital, still shaken by her encounter in the elevator. The hospital administrator had groveled apologies about the incident. The man had left the emergency room when no one was looking, and wandered into the hospital proper. It was just one of those things, the administrator said helplessly.
“Pen? You there?” Riga asked, impatient.
“Maaayyyyy-beeee.” Pen drew each syllable out.
Riga explained the case, what she needed.
“’Kay. I’ll bring the gear. Want me to research the building’s history?”
“That would be great. Uh, can you drive?”
“Sure!” Pen said, more brightly. She loved driving.
Riga went home, made a grilled cheese sandwich and chased it down with a diet soda. Comfort food. She ran through her Tai Chi form. Comfort meditation. It took the edge off the fear that still pricked at her.
Thirty minutes later, Pen screeched to a halt outside Riga’s condo in her yellow Bug. Today she wore loose fitting khakis. She’d added a photographer’s vest, its baggy pockets bulging with equipment.
Riga slid into the car.
“What have we got?” Pen said, starting the Bug.
“Possible haunting. How are things?”
Pen shrugged eloquently, pulled into the street without looking. A horn sounded behind them. “Same.”
“How’s the movie making?”
Pen rolled her eyes. “We had a great script based off an RPG I wrote – basically we turned it into a comedy about gamers. Part of the movie was taking place in their heads – the fantasy bit – and part of it is in reality – them sitting in a garage drinking beer and rolling dice. But I just found a YouTube series out there that’s got the same premise, and they did it better. Now ours is derivative so I’m junking that idea and moving on.”
It was the longest monologue Riga had gotten from her niece. “I’m guessing RPG does not stand for rocket propelled grenade?”
Pen accelerated to zip past a biker and gave her a look. “Role. Playing. Game.”
Pen swerved to avoid a car barreling out of a lot. Riga realized she was pressing one foot against an imaginary brake and relaxed, embarrassed.
“I started selling them online last year,” Pen continued. “I’ve been using a pen name because I hate my own – no pun intended.”
“Why? Pen Hallows is a great name for a writer,” Riga said.
“Yeah, well. I’m saving it for my breakout script.”
“So what’s your pen name?”
Pen rooted around in the papers and candy wrappers that littered the Bug’s cup holders. “What’s the address of that building?”
“It’s two blocks up. Road, Pen!”
Pen looked up and jerked the wheel to the left, pulling the car back into her lane.
Next time she let Pen drive, Riga silently vowed, she’d bring valium and a blindfold.
They drove past the address. Pen made an illegal U-turn and backtracked. The parking gods did not favor them and they had to loop the block in ever-widening circles before they found a spot, five blocks away. It began to drizzle and they arrived at the high-rise damp, shivering, and sniping at each other.
On the fifth floor, they found the realtor pacing outside the door to the condo, her jaw set at a determined angle, her nubby pink coat buttoned to the top. When she saw the two, the realtor came to a halt, standing in first position like a ballet dancer. She thrust a slim hand forward and Riga took it. Her grip was fragile, perhaps to protect the massive square cut diamond she wore.
“Pen, this is Ms. Hernandez,” Riga said. “Ms. Hernandez, this is my assistant.”
The woman flashed a tight smile. “You can call me Frida.” She paused, her dusky skin darkening. “I didn’t want to go in by myself,” she said, unlocking the door.
Riga gave her an appraising look. “You don’t seem the type to be scared off by a ghost story.”
“It’s not a story,” she said grimly.
Chapter 23: Ghost On the Loose
They held the conversation outside the door, speaking in low voices so the neighbors wouldn’t hear.
“So why do you think this place is haunted?” Pen asked. “Cold spots?”
Riga shot Pen a warning look.
Frida laughed hollowly. “Cold spots, creaking doors, and odd shadows are the least of my problems. I’ve got the TV blasting at all hours and crap flying off the shelves.” She raked a hand through her ebony hair, pulling hanks loose from the bun. “I’ve got to sell this house. The owners have already moved and bought a new one in Arizona. They can’t afford two mortgages. And the longer this place stays on the market, the worse the odds get for a sale. People see it’s been on the shelf and start to wonder why. Not that it’s any mystery once they check the place out,” she added.
“What have the owners had to say about this?” Riga said.
“When I asked if the condo might possibly be haunted, they laughed. They thought I was joking. Seriously. As if I would joke about something like that! Now they’re hinting that I’m just not competent and am using it as an excuse. I honestly don’t believe they think this place is haunted.”
Pen looked skeptical and Frida continued, “Look, this is a sales business. You learn real fast to sniff out when someone’s lying or leading you on.”
“Do you know if the owners experienced any sort of trauma before they left?” Riga asked.
“No idea. I don’t get into that with my clients. You want to see inside?”
“Let’s look at the plans first,” Riga said. It didn’t take long – it wasn’t a big condo. When Riga was satisfied, she shielded and cloaked herself, then extended the field of protection to the other two women. The realtor led them into the kitchen and leaned against the granite counter, arms crossed defensively. She pointed through the open kitchen to the fireplace mantel. “That’s his favorite spot for destruction. There used to be a set of Hummels on it. One by one they’ve gone flying off – not falling off, flying off, and always in front of a prospective buyer. In two of my open houses, people literally ran for the doors.”
A translucent man in a fedora walked through the refrigerator, stopped, and leered at Riga. “Well, hubba hubba.”
The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 11