Pen gasped, staring. Riga’s head swiveled in Pen’s direction. Could she see it too?
Frida started from the counter. “What? What? Did you see something?”
The man walked through Frida to stand inches before Riga, leering. “I’ve died and gone to heaven. Rita Hayworth, you’ve come to take me to the pearly gates.”
Frida shuddered, her eyes widening. “Did you feel that? Did it get colder in here? Oh, I can’t stand it. Do what you need to, I’m waiting outside.” She turned and fled from the condo.
The apparition raised his hands to chest level. Riga had seen that look before. “Back off,” she snarled, just as Pen said, “Hey!”
Riga and Pen looked at each other. “You can see him?” they asked simultaneously.
“You broads can see me?” the ghost said in a Brooklyn accent. He was slender and stood a couple inches shorter than Riga – she put him around 5’4”.
“Pen! How long have you been able to see ghosts?” Riga said.
“Since about thirty seconds ago.”
“Really? But if you have the sight you must have…” Riga trailed off, afraid to upset her niece. Most people who had the sight started seeing ghosts as children, and then either repressed it or expanded it. Riga’s ability hadn’t manifested itself until her early twenties and she had no idea why – there had been no emotional trauma, no near death experience. The ghosts had come with the darkness. Had Pen inherited it? Would she darken streetlamps, too?
“I don’t like this.” Pen’s voice quavered.
“You don’t like this?” the ghost said. “I’ve been dead for decades, and the first people who can hear me are you two dizzy dames.”
Riga made a stop motion with her hand. “Okay. Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Me? I’m Vinnie Delriccio.” He straightened his lapels with a quick jerk. “And who, may I ask, are you?”
“I’m Riga, Riga Hayworth, and this is—“
Vinnie hooted with laughter.
“This is my assistant, Pen,” Riga continued more loudly. “What are you doing here, Vinnie?”
“Got bored of the old digs. Thought I’d move up in the world. Something wrong with that?”
“Ye—What do you mean, old digs?” Riga said.
“My house. It might not have been much, but it had an ice box. Lived there for years. Died there too. Thought I’d never leave. And then a couple weeks back, poof! There was a door that hadn’t been there before. I thought, hey, maybe that’s the signal to move on, and up I went. But I figured out soon enough, this ain’t heaven, even with you two dolls in it.” He winked.
Riga frowned. “But why here? Why this apartment?”
“It was empty, wasn’t it? You don’t think I want to live with a bunch of snot nosed kids, or some hubby and wife yammering away at each other, do ya? Nah, this place is all mine.”
“What was the address of your old house?” Pen asked him.
“2304 Gardner.”
“Riga, that was the house this place was built over,” Pen said. “But I thought ghosts stayed in the home they remembered, even if that home was gone? Like they built up a ghost house in their heads to live in?”
“That’s what usually happens,” Riga agreed. “There have been cases of homes being built over, and the ghost’s activity was limited to the original dimensions of the home.”
“Hey,” Vinnie said. “All I know is I’m out and I like it that way.”
“Vinnie, you can’t just stay here,” Riga said.
“Says you.” He glared at the fireplace, where a single Hummel remained. It flew from the mantel and smashed against the far wall.
“Why did you do that?” Riga cried.
“F’ing krauts. That German fig-ooo-rine is no loss.”
“They’re made by nuns!”
“Kraut nuns,” Vinnie muttered.
Riga leaned back against the kitchen counter, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Vinnie, you’re really hurting the owners. They’re not rich, they had to move for work. They can’t afford to pay for this place indefinitely while you scare off every prospective customer.”
He blew a raspberry. “Cry me a river. I’m dead.”
Pen snorted. “You really thought appealing to his better nature would work?” She faced the ghost. “Listen up, Napoleon, it’s time to hit the road.”
“How’re ya gonna make me, little girl?” He sneered.
Pen clenched her fists.
Riga intervened. “Look around, Vinnie. Do you see a light?”
“Yeah, sure.”
Riga sagged with relief. “Then you don’t have to stay here, Vinnie, there’s a better place for you. All you have to do is go to the light.”
He gave her a pitying look. “Hey, I’ve seen Ghost Whisperer and you ain’t her. Besides,” he said, pointing at the ceiling, “I was talking about the lamp.”
Pen’s jaw sagged. “The ceiling lamp? That’s the light you see?”
“What did’ja think? You really are a dim bulb, kid, no pun intended. Listen,” he sidled up to Rita. “You’re some knockout. Why don’t you ditch the eager beaver and we can—“ He whispered something in her ear.
Riga’s face twisted with disgust. “You’re making an exorcism look very attractive, Vinnie.” Exorcisms were for malevolent entities, not ghosts like Vinnie. But Vinnie wouldn’t know that.
Pen bounced on her toes. “Cool! Can I watch?”
“Just don’t tell your mother.”
“Awesome!”
“Awesome,” Vinnie mimicked her in a high pitched voice. “I’ll show you awesome, kid.” He reached toward her and gave her a ghostly grope.
Pen shrieked. “Go to hell!”
There was a pop, an ethereal puff of smoke, and Vinnie vanished.
Riga stared at Pen, horror stricken.
“What… just happened?” Pen asked, eyes wide.
Riga reached out with her senses. Vinnie was gone. “I think you exorcised him.”
It wasn’t to the place Riga would have sent him, however.
Chapter 24: Faerie Shaman
Riga tried not to let Pen see how upset she was as Pen drove her back to the condo. Looking to find a way back into Pen’s good graces, Riga had brought her niece into the ghost hunt. But Pen had no training. True, Riga had never imagined Pen would be able to see and hear the ghost, or that she would be able to send Vinnie to hell with a word.
But she should have.
She had to make this right.
Pen risked a sideways glance. “Frida seemed happy,” she said, testing the waters.
Riga looked out the window and made a “hmm” sound. She rested her arm against the window, tapping her fingers on the car door. Finally, she turned to Pen. “Are you sure you’ve never seen a ghost before?”
Pen’s brows lowered threateningly. “I told you I hadn’t.”
“Look, if you see one again, please don’t engage with it. Just pretend it’s not there. Then call me.”
“Why? Do you think I’ll see another?”
Riga hesitated. Pen had sounded too eager for her liking. “I don’t know. But I’d like you to get some training before tackling one alone.” She pointed to the corner ahead. “Drop me here, will you?”
Pen pulled to the side of the road, in front of a taqueria. “What’s here?”
“Lunch. Thanks for the ride, Pen. I’ll call you tomorrow and let you know if the office is open.” She darted from the car before Pen could respond. A Saab pulled up behind the Bug and blasted its horn, forcing Pen to drive on.
Riga waited until her niece was out of sight, then turned a corner and hurried down the road. Ten minutes later she stood before a shop with a sign that read: Mystic Treasures. Its windows displayed sparkling orange, black, and purple bottles. The last time she and the owner, Sal, had met, Sal had tried and failed to help Riga with her problem. Riga didn’t mind the failure, but the naked fear in Sal’s eyes ended the relationship and Sal had told her not to c
ome back. Riga took a breath, steeling herself, and walked in. A bell tinkled above the door.
“Just a minute!” a female voice sang out from a back room.
Riga wandered through the shop. It was overflowing with houseplants, whirligigs, fountains and, if Riga relaxed her gaze, faeries. Riga caught a flash of one out of the corner of her eye, felt its heat, and looked away, repressing a shudder. Faeries creeped Riga out. At best, she considered them unreliable, at worst, dangerously cunning. Sal, a faerie shaman, was a cultural relativist, and took their quirks in stride.
Footprints coated in faerie dust residue led to the back room – the dust Sal had traveled on in her most recent trip to upper or lower world. Riga sniffed – definitely lower world – it smelled of primeval forest. The shaman must have journeyed recently for the tracks and trace odor to be so strong. Riga probed gently with her mind, just to assure herself that she still could. Sal’s magical energy tickled Riga’s senses, strong and steady.
“Hello?” Sal called out, exiting the back room, a dust cloth in hand, her caftan, a brown and yellow African print, rustling about her. Her long dreads, threaded with gray, bounced against her rounded shoulders. Sal was all earth mother curves.
Riga stepped out from behind the cabinet. “Hi, Sal.” Her gaze dropped to the woman’s other hand. It was bound in surgical tape and missing a ring finger.
The woman stopped dead, the smile slipping from her face. “Shamans are often transsexual. The energy that allows them to slip between the sexes is similar to that which allows them to move between the worlds.” She clapped her hands to her mouth, eyes wide.
Riga stared at her. “That’s… interesting.”
Sal’s hands dropped to her chest. “It’s been in my head all day. When you walked in it just–” Her shoulders collapsed forward, curling in on herself.
“Your hand – what happened?”
“Work place accident.”
Bull, Riga thought. An accident would have taken her outside finger, too.
Sal shifted her weight, looking everywhere but at Riga. “I know why you’re here. But I can’t help you.”
“Sal, I’m not even sure why I’m here. But I trust you and you’re the best shaman I know –”
“I’m the only shaman you know.”
“Untrue,” Riga said.
“Look, I don’t know what—“
“This isn’t about me,” Riga interrupted, her expression hardening. “A spirit was accidentally banished and I think he went somewhere he wasn’t supposed to go. I need to find out, make things right.”
Sal furrowed her brows. “Where do you think you sent him?”
“Hell.”
“Sweet mother of God!” The words exploded from her mouth. “This is bad, Riga. Really bad.” She paced the narrow aisle.
“Can you help me get him back?”
“No, I can’t!”
“Sal, this isn’t about me. I’ll stay as near or far from the operation as you want but I’ve got to get this guy back.”
Sal stopped pacing and looked at Riga, astonished. “Riga, when I said I can’t help you, I mean I can’t help you. Even if I wanted to go… there, which I don’t, it’s too dangerous to travel to the lower or upper worlds these days. Haven’t you been paying any attention? Something is seriously wrong. It’s like the energies have shifted. The rules don’t apply anymore. Everyone’s talking about it.”
Riga digested that. Slowly, she said, “It’s a strange sort of accident that takes a ring finger while leaving the rest unharmed. What really happened?”
Sal looked at the floor. “You know how shamanism works. To become a shaman, you usually have to go through some sort of dismemberment.”
“Yeah, but that’s a spiritual dismemberment in the lower world.“ Riga blinked. “You don’t mean you lost your finger in the lower world? That’s not possible!”
“It’s not possible, but it happened. I was lucky. Sitting Deer –” She shook her head. “You don’t want to know what happened to her.”
Riga’s mind raced. She’d been a fool thinking the events had been localized to her little problem. She should have kept in better touch with the others, if she had, she’d of known sooner. “When did this start?”
“Just over a week ago.” She shook her head, sending her dreads flying about her. “No, that’s not true. There’d been little things before, warnings, oddities. But all hell broke loose about a week ago.”
“Which brings me back to my problem. Under normal conditions, is it possible? A soul retrieval from… you know?“
Sal barked out a laugh. “Sure, if you’re Jesus. And you can wear all the crosses you want.” She looked pointedly at the silver around Riga’s neck. “We both know you’re far from it.”
“No argument there. But there’s got to be another way.”
Sal took an involuntary step back, her hands out in a warding gesture. “There’s no—“ Sal puffed her cheeks out and exhaled noisily. “You’d need a guide and what kind of a guide do you think would know that territory?”
Riga picked up an oblong piece of quartz and rolled it in her palms. It felt cool against her skin. She looked thoughtful. “You’re talking about using a demon or a damned soul as a guide.”
“Are you kidding me?” Sal shrieked. “You’re afraid of the fae folk but you’ll truck with demons?”
“King Solomon used demons to build his temple in Jerusalem,” Riga said reasonably.
“You’re no King Solomon either!”
The two women locked eyes.
“No,” Riga said. “I’m different.” Sal’s diagnosis had been clear on that point.
Riga walked to the door. “Thanks anyway, Sal.” She almost said she wouldn’t bother her again, but it was a promise she knew she couldn’t keep.
“You’ve got your soul,” Sal blurted. “It’s whole.”
Riga felt the breath steal from her. Hand on the door, she looked over her shoulder at Sal. “You told me a piece was missing.”
“I was wrong.” Her gaze shifted sideways. “You’re all there. There’s just… something extra there too. I know it doesn’t make sense, but that’s what’s there and I’ve never seen anything like it. Just don’t do anything crazy.”
Riga smiled mirthlessly. “When do I ever?”
Chapter 25: The Hanged Man
More training? Pen clenched the wheel. She’d show Riga. Pen had done her research, too. And if it was the ghost of Helen’s husband they were dealing with, then she’d follow that trail. He’d died leaving a bar on the Peninsula – maybe someone there remembered him. Maybe he had been a regular. Hell, maybe he was still there.
She’d need to look older. And maybe if she stuck to soda and big tips the bartender wouldn’t give her grief. She plotted her attack as she drove, imagining the conversation she’d have, chatting up the locals, reminiscing about her old buddy, Herman. By the time she reached home, Pen had created an alternate, more sophisticated persona and she couldn’t wait to try it on.
Her mother waylaid her at the door, fracturing her visions of adult independence. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you!”
“Sorry. Didn’t hear the cell,” she mumbled. It was true. The phone had been turned off.
Her mother fluttered around her, birdlike. “Have you had lunch?”
“I know when to feed myself, Mom.”
“I know you do, hon. It’s just, we never seem to talk anymore.”
Pen regarded her mother with a mixture of affection and frustration. Her mom had been trying to make the awkward transition from parent to friend for the last two years. Pen still wasn’t ready for it.
“You spend more time running errands for Riga lately then you do with me.” Her edict banning Pen from working with Riga hadn’t lasted a day.
“It’s just work, Mom.” Pen sidled past her and hurried up the stairs. “I’m seeing a movie with some friends,” she lied. “I’ve got to change.”
She took her time, car
eful to make her exit when her mother was busy in the kitchen with dinner. Pen didn’t want her to see the heavy makeup she’d applied.
It was twilight when she entered the Hanged Man and the bar was sunk in gloom. The dive was another world to Pen – an older world of red vinyl barstools, tarnished brash and cheap linoleum.
A long bar lined one wall. Booths squatted opposite. Three college-aged men had squeezed into one and they looked at Pen speculatively.
Like the three little pigs. There was nothing pig-like about them, really, Pen corrected herself. The men were tanned, hard and muscled.
She averted her gaze and studied the bar. An older, mixed-race couple sat further down, both overweight and jolly looking, though the hispanic man looked like he had muscle beneath. They leaned close together and laughed, as if they’d been together years.
The white haired bartender regarded Pen with suspicion from beneath a pair of eyebrows like hairy caterpillars. A tattoo of a hula girl danced on his ropy bicep.
“Diet coke,” she said, before he could ask for her I.D.
He gave her a hard stare then fetched a glass, poured, and placed it in front of her. He walked away without comment.
All her imagined wit evaporated. She had no idea what to ask, and could feel the stares from the three pigs – she couldn’t get the image out of her head now – burning the back of her neck. She nursed the coke, ordered another, then a third. Finally, bladder full, she raced to the bathroom.
She emerged determined to talk to the bartender. In the hallway, she bumped into one of the young men. He’d done it on purpose – the hall was wide enough and she was pressed to one side, but still he knocked into her shoulder. Automatically, she muttered an apology and then wondered why she’d done so.
At the bar she caught the bartender’s eye.
“Another coke?” he asked impassively.
“No. I came here to ask you something and I’ve been sitting here trying to get the courage to do it but I’m going to do it now,” she said in a rush. “My uncle, Herman Baro, was here the night he died. The newspapers said he’d been drinking but I don’t believe it, it wasn’t like him.” The bartender glowered at her and she hesitated. “And I just wanted to ask you if you remember that night, anything about him.”
The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) Page 12