Cam.
He disappeared in a stand of pines. The cat sprang from the railing, following Cam’s figure into the forest.
Jordan leapt to his feet, and knocked his chair over. Muttering apologies, he righted it and strode from the room, adjusting his hat.
Dora turned in her chair, watching him go. Her paisley shawl slipped from her shoulders, releasing the acrid smell of stale cigarette smoke. She jammed the unlit cigarette in her mouth, adjusted the shawl. “What? Did you see something?”
“I thought I saw Cam,” Riga said, lowering herself into her chair. And Jordan had seen him as well. Why was he so interested in the photographer?
Dora snorted, inhaling the cigarette. She spat it out, coughing, and it landed in her scrambled eggs. “Damn it!” But she was laughing. “I blame that photographer for this. Isn’t he supposed to be here, taking pictures? What the hell’s he doing outside? If he was my photographer, I’d fire him. Again.”
“You fired him before?”
Dora shrugged. “He once was a small time photographer, working for a modest but honorable rag on the San Francisco Peninsula. He moved on.”
“I always wondered why you stayed,” Riga said. Dora had been a war correspondent, worked in the big leagues in her younger days.
The editor retrieved the cigarette, licked a piece of egg off the tip. “I like being a big fish in a small pond. Your boyfriend and I have that in common.”
“You think he’s in a small pond?”
Dora made a face. “Vegas? Meh. If it’s not New York, it don’t count, sister.”
“City snob,” Riga joked, uneasy. Dora was sharp, and knew something was up. They’d known each other a long time, called each other friends. But if Dora got a scoop, she wouldn’t hold back. Riga didn’t know what she was facing yet – murder? Magic? But she had no doubt she needed to beat the press to the punch.
“If I was a city snob, I’d have stayed in San Francisco.” Dora turned to Donovan. “I don’t think I ever thanked you for that scoop last month. You put my modest little rag on the map. You got any more, I’m always available.”
His green eyes clouded, a blank look flitting across his chiseled features. “Of course.”
“Though I don’t suppose you’ll find yourself under arrest again anytime soon,” Dora said.
“He shouldn’t have been under arrest the first time,” Riga said.
Dora turned her gaze on Riga. “Hm… And why do I get the feeling something’s up?”
Riga pressed her thumb along the curve of her fork, smiling tightly. “If anything newsworthy happens, you’ll be the first to know.”
Footsteps clunked hollowly on the wooden deck outside, and Jordan strode into view.
He yanked the glass door open, and a gust of chill air swept the room. Madison and Terry shrieked, clutching their forearms. Stamping his feet on the mat, he closed the door behind him, and made his way back to his chair, sidling past Riga. “Sorry, ladies.” He touched Terry on the shoulder. “I’m starting to think your husband’s avoiding us.”
“What?” Terry asked. “What do you mean?”
“He was lurking outside,” Jordan said. “Took off when he saw me. Isn’t he supposed to be taking pictures today?”
Terry swayed in her seat. “You…” She swallowed. “Yes, he is. I haven’t seen him since last night.”
Jordan grunted, and sat down in his chair. “Then I guess we’ve both been fooled.”
Annabelle’s eyes widened. “Jordan! Can’t you see how worried she is?”
He nodded shortly to Terry. “Sorry. Not your fault.”
Annabelle frowned at him, and leaned forward to catch Terry’s eye. “I’m sure there’s a good explanation. Don’t you worry. It will all work out.”
But Riga had a sick feeling it wouldn’t.
Chapter 8
Riga followed Terry into her hotel room. It was like the others on this floor: a king-sized bed, nondescript green carpet, and prints of Tahoe in winter against a cream-colored wall. She had to admit it, the room was bland. Donovan knew it too, planned to renovate the casino floor by floor. But the views made up for the dated room. The mountains, covered in snow, glinted icy blue in a morning sun hung in a pale wash of sky.
Terry laid her purse, a practical leather affair with lots of pockets, on the unmade bed. She rummaged through the bag, and pulled out a digital recorder.
Riga placed her larger, leather satchel on the bed beside it.
“Have a seat.” Terry nodded toward the desk, and the wooden chair tucked beneath it.
Riga took her time, drawing the chair out, scanning the desktop. A folded card listing cable channels. Two laptops. A pile of notebooks she itched to pillage. Reluctantly, she turned the chair around, sat.
Terry dropped onto the edge of the bed, and the rumpled bedspread slipped forward beneath her weight. She held up the recorder. “You don’t mind, do you?”
Riga shook her head. As long as she didn’t have to hear her own voice, she didn’t mind. “I’ve read some of your work. It’s good. But I’m surprised they’re making you stay the whole week for this story.”
“They’re not. I’m taking advantage of Mr. Mosse’s free hotel room. Tahoe’s gorgeous in winter. And you’re not the only story in town.”
“Ah. What’s your other story?”
She leaned forward, eyes glowing. “Barbara Yaganovich.”
A memory stirred, sank beneath dark waves. “The name sounds familiar, but…”
“Barbara was an “it” girl when she was young. Dated rockers, modeled, had this whole mystical thing going for her. And then when she got too old for that, she became a landscape architect. Her gardens were big. Big as in famous. But she disappeared at the pinnacle of her fame.”
Riga nodded. She’d been to one of Barbara’s gardens. The place had had a magic feel to it, the possibility of a goat-headed god behind every twisted oak. “And she’s in Tahoe?”
“Yep, right here. Can you believe it? She was a tough one to find, but I got her.” The writer tapped her recorder. “But enough about that story. Let’s write yours.” She clicked the machine on. “First, I have to ask, you look so much like Rita Hayworth. What’s the story there? Did you change your name?”
Riga had known this was coming. “It’s my original name and my original face. Just one of those sadistic cosmic jokes.”
Terry lifted a single eyebrow, scooted back on the bed. “So how did you and Donovan meet?”
“In a bar.”
“Do people still do that?”
“They must. How did you and Cam meet?”
“Work. I was writing for a magazine, he was one of the photographers.”
“Love at first sight?”
Terry flushed. “No. So, top three must haves if you were stranded on a desert island?”
“Case of wine. Opener. Big floppy hat. I burn easily.” She crossed one leg over the other, rotating her booted foot. “I’m starting to get worried about Cam myself. When’s the last time you saw him?”
“Some time last night,” Terry said.
Riga nodded. “Yes, but when? What was he doing?”
“Photographing you, I think. So, you and Mr. Mosse don’t believe in long engagements?”
“Why bother? Did Cam have any enemies?”
Terry laughed, her voice hollow. “You really don’t like being interviewed, do you?”
“It’s easier if I pretend we’re having a conversation.” Riga laughed lightly, and to her ear, unconvincingly. “You don’t mind some back and forth, do you?”
“No, I guess not. As long as we get through the interview. You used to have a metaphysical detective agency.”
“I still do.”
“Why don’t you tell me about that?”
“I’m a licensed private investigator in California, worked in San Francisco. And I look for the root causes of things – the why. For example, why might Cam have left, do you think?”
Terry looked at her
feet. “This hasn’t been the easiest assignment for him. He’s not what I would call a paparazzi photographer, but he’s stepped on some celebrity toes. Briian Garcia isn’t exactly a fan.”
“They were at odds?”
She nodded. “But Cam can handle it. He’s an adult.”
“And Briian isn’t?”
“Briian is an excellent interview. I really shouldn’t say any more.” Terry gave Riga a pointed look. “Tell me more about your agency.”
“As you’ve probably guessed, the word ‘metaphysical’ tends to attract paranormal cases. I did a lot of work for realtors, de-haunting buildings.”
“How?”
“Trade secret.” Riga tilted her head back, softened her gaze. The dark, frayed coil was still there. She hadn’t imagined it. Suddenly, Riga remembered – it was a rapport. Someone was influencing Terry, someone with magic. Riga let her mind run along the cord, fly through the hotel ceiling into open air, and flashed on the city apartment, and then fainter, an afterimage, the Tibetan monastery.
“Riga?” Terry leaned forward, frowning.
She straightened in her chair. “Sorry. What were you saying?”
“I’ve heard you’re a medium. Is it true?”
“I can see ghosts, if that’s what you mean.” She’d never liked the term ‘medium.’ It implied an obligation to the bereaved living she wasn’t prepared to fulfill.
“Have you always been able to see ghosts?”
“No. It started in my late teens.”
“Is that usual? I thought people tended to see ghosts as children and most grew out of it.”
Riga’s foot stilled. “I’ve heard that too, but I can only speak for myself.”
“This is interesting. Was there some sort of trigger event?”
“I couldn’t say.” Riga’s trigger had been an encounter with a powerful archetype – Hecate. But her experience with the archetype was personal, private. She’d agreed to the interviews, the publicity, but she and Donovan had both drawn boundaries. And she was sticking to them.
“Where are you going on your honeymoon?”
“No idea. Donovan wanted to surprise me.” And she wanted to be surprised.
“’Wanted?’”
“Wants,” Riga said. “You must have traveled quite a bit in your career.”
“I understand you got around quite a bit too. Afghanistan?”
Riga shifted the conversation, nodded. “One place I always wanted to visit but never got the chance was Tibet. You been?”
“Not in this lifetime.”
“That’s an interesting way to put it.”
“Figure of speech. I don’t believe in that stuff. No offense.”
“None taken.” Riga relaxed her gaze again, studying Terry covertly.
Riga drew her breath in with a hiss.
A second tiny, black strand extended from Terry’s abdomen, a mockery of an umbilical cord.
*****
In Riga’s new living room, Pen lay sprawled on a leather couch, feet propped on one armrest, her head on the other, facing the lake. It sparkled in the harsh winter sunlight. Riga walked down the two steps into the room, and Pen laid the book she was reading on her stomach.
“What’s going on?” Pen asked. “Where’s Brigitte?”
“What’s going on is several of the guests are under some sort of outside influence.”
“How do you know?”
“I saw it in their auras. It’s a sort of psychic attack.”
“Am I—”
“No. Neither are the aunts. But, I need your help.”
Pen sat up, and her feet thudded on the red kilim. “What can I do?”
“I need you to go to the herbalist’s shop, the one in the photo shack with the giant palm painted on the side just off the highway? Lily’s the owner. Tell her I need ten cups of a bath mix of salts and angelica root. Dead Sea salts if she can manage it.”
“For what?”
Riga dug through her bag and extracted her wallet. “Wedding favors.” She pulled out several twenties. “Oh, and get something nice to put them in, too. If you ask nicely, Lily may help you make them.”
“You tell me we’re under magical attack, and send me to buy wedding favors? You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope.”
She snatched the bills from Riga’s hand. “I think you’re the one under the influence. Or are you just trying to get me out of the way?”
“Angelica root is a powerful magical herb. It purifies, protects against negative energy, and attracts the positive. I’ve used it in exorcisms before, but my supply is all back in San Francisco.”
Pen rose. “You’re going to exorcise the guests? They’ll love that.”
“One of the best ways to break contact with a negative force is immersion in a salt water bath, hence the bath salt wedding favors. The Angelica is just an extra touch.”
Pen crumpled the bills into the pocket of her cargo pants. “But is it… kosher? Didn’t you tell me that it’s wrong to… you know? Do magic on someone without permission?”
“If you knew there was a vampire in the neighborhood, wouldn’t you serve your guests garlic for dinner?”
“Give me a break.” Pen paused in the arched entry to the foyer. “And please tell me you were kidding about the vampires.”
“Relax, they don’t exist. Not the way you think of them anyway.”
Pen rolled her eyes, and stomped off.
Riga smiled, and went upstairs to the bedroom. The cleaning woman hadn’t been in yet, and she wanted to take another look before the crime scene was disturbed. Sun streamed through the windows, danced across the hardwood floor, cast rectangles of light upon the faded kilim and the neatly-made bed. She walked to the windows. Against the snow-covered mountains, the lake sparkled sapphire. She let her mind clear, tried to just observe.
But her mind wouldn’t sit still.
A psychic attack generally had three components: hypnotic suggestion, psychic reinforcement of that suggestion, and a physical object used as a link between the attacker and his victim. Someone had gotten close enough to influence half of her guests. Could that influence drive someone to murder?
Riga crossed to the reading area and rolled up the furry white carpet, stored it in the closet. It was still a crime scene, dammit, and she couldn’t help but think that the carpet the body had lain on would be useful evidence. She lay down where they’d found Cam, positioned her body as his had been, stilled her mind.
Nothing came to her.
Nothing, except a burning feeling of stupidity.
The morning sun, still low on the horizon, slid a golden streamer beneath the bed. Something glinted.
She rolled onto her knees, groped beneath the bed. Her hand grasped something soft and she sat back on her heels.
A crude cloth doll with auburn hair and violet beads for eyes stared back at her, tingling with malice.
A poppet for cursing.
A rusty nail protruded from its heart.
Chapter 9
Riga paced inside her hidden library. It wasn’t completely secret – Donovan had it built for her, behind a bookcase that hinged outward as a door. And there were windows, so a clever person, examining the house, could figure out a room was there. But it was hers and it was private and she loved it. You had to love a man who built a bookshelf that spun into a secret room.
She stopped before the windows. They were obscured by tall pines, branches weighted with snow. The poppet sat on her desk, leering. The nail lay beside it – she’d removed it immediately. But she was unsure what to do with the poppet itself. It was evidence. Evidence she itched to throw in the crackling fireplace on the other side of the room.
The poppet acted as an amplifier and a connector between Riga and whoever had thrown the curse. She could try to ride that connection, find out who was behind the magic. But the memory of her last attempt raised bile in her throat. She’d screwed it up. Riga’d been screwing up a lot lately.
&nb
sp; She could destroy the poppet.
Or she could neutralize it. That also held risks, namely the risk she’d fail. Again.
Who had put it beneath her bed? And when? She’d checked under the bed last night. It had been poppet-free. So someone had put it there that morning, while she was out. Her aunts and Pen had been in the house while she was at the casino, before going on to the brunch. The idea that they had been responsible flitted briefly through her brain and as quickly vanished.
Ridiculous.
Which left the guards, unless someone else had managed to get in before the brunch, or while she was interviewing Terry. It was possible. And there were the outside the video feeds. She’d have to check them again.
She picked up the antique phone on her desk, dialed.
A man answered on the first ring. “Yeah?”
“Hi, Cesar. It’s Riga.”
A long pause. “Yeah?”
Now she hesitated. Cesar had once worked for Donovan, and only recently left. There was history between them. Employing the standard chitchat to break the ice seemed false, manipulative. “I’ve got a job for you, if you’re available.”
“What kind of job?”
“Some background checks. It’s a one-off.”
Silence. Then: “Still don’t have that Nevada P.I. license, do you?”
Riga felt her shoulders loosen. Smart ass she could handle. “Guilty.”
“Mosse know you’ve asked me?”
She’d tell Donovan. When she stopped being angry. She picked up a pen, pressed the cap-end into the pad of her thumb. It left a breast-shaped imprint. “Does it matter?”
“I guess not, as long as I get paid. Whose background am I checking?”
“I had a party at the new lake house last night, used a team from Classic Catering. I need them checked. Them, and the security team on duty last night and this morning.”
“You know background checks have already been run on Mosse’s security.”
“Sometimes things get missed.”
Cesar laughed harshly.
Riga winced. Tactless. She hurried on. “I need you to go deeper – and look for any occult connections.”
“Occult… What happened last night?”
“I found a poppet under my bed and it had to have been placed there between the time I left the house this morning and an hour ago.”
4 The Infernal Detective Page 6