Donovan’s father edged beside her. “I do,” he said in a low voice.
Mr. Smith trailed behind him, looking skeptically at the drink.
Riga sniffed, blinking. Donovan’s cousin could be such an ass and then, out of the blue, he’d do or say something beautiful. The little jerk.
Reuben raised his champagne. “So, I ask that all of you raise your glasses. Riga, Donovan, may all your hopes and dreams come true. Cheers!” He tilted his head back and took a drink.
The small crowd roared, glasses clinking.
Donovan’s father pressed his lips to her forehead. “It always confused me – when you’re the one being toasted, do you drink as well? Or would that be a toast to yourself?”
Riga blotted beneath her eye with the back of one of her fingers. “It’s our party. I say, drink.”
“Technically, it’s not my party, but—”
A woman screamed.
Silence rippled outward through the crowd. People moved back, muttering. Riga walked forward, pushed past people, her feet seeming to move of their own accord.
Madison convulsed on the wood floor, spittle flecking the corners of her mouth. An empty champagne flute rolled by her twitching hand.
Donovan/Cam, his camera dangling from his neck, knelt beside her, hands on the side of Madison’s head, keeping her still. “Riga, call 9-1-1!”
Riga dug in her clutch for her phone, realized she’d left it upstairs in her leather satchel.
“I’ve got it,” Smith said, pressing buttons on his cell.
Briian stared down at Madison, his eyes filled with horror.
“What happened?” Riga asked.
Madison relaxed. Donovan put two fingers to her neck. He swore, ripped the camera over his head, dropped it on the carpeted floor. Began CPR.
Briian pointed a shaking finger at Donovan. “He gave her his champagne. She drank it and just… collapsed.”
“Does she have any medical conditions?” Riga asked the actor.
“No! She just drank the champagne and… He hates her. He put something in it!”
“I didn’t put anything in it.” Donovan tilted her head back, lowered his lips to hers, and paused. He looked up at Riga, frustration written across his face.
He had no breath.
She knelt across from him, her knees protesting on the hard floor. “I’ll do the mouth to mouth. You take the chest.” Riga bent, her lips touching Madison’s. They were spongy, bitter-smelling, and Riga knew the actress was gone. She said nothing, exhaled, turned her head, inhaled.
“Is she going to be okay?” Briian stepped closer and glass crunched beneath his polished black shoe.
Madison’s champagne glass, the evidence, shattered.
Riga didn’t break the rhythm. Exhale, turn, breathe in, turn. The actress’s body jerked beneath Donovan’s chest compressions.
Exhale, turn, breathe in, turn. Again. Again. It seemed an eternity. And then a blue-shirted paramedic told her to step aside, and she scooted away, relieved, lightheaded.
They opened cases, charged paddles.
It might not have been poison.
But she had a sick feeling it was.
Chapter 19
Cam/Donovan rose from the restaurant floor, made way for the EMTs. A young woman in blue slipped into the spot he’d vacated, and shined a flashlight into Madison’s blank eyes.
Briian grabbed his arm. “Don’t go anywhere.”
Donovan brushed the actor’s hand off, a piece of lint, dislodged.
Briian stepped closer. A pulse throbbed in his jaw. “I saw you give her the glass. You poisoned her!”
“I didn’t give her the glass,” Donovan said. “She took it from me.”
“Bullshit. I saw you.”
“Then you saw what you wanted to see.” Donovan turned away.
Briian clasped his hands and brought them down on the back of Donovan’s neck.
Donovan turned, unaffected by the blow. His brow wrinkled in confusion.
Briian punched, a straight blow at Donovan’s chin. He caught the actor’s hand before it could land, forced it towards his chest. With his free hand, Briian grabbed a bottle from a table, swung it. Donovan blocked the blow, the bottle shattering on his forearm.
Jordan grabbed Briian from behind, wrestling him away. The actor reared his head back, knocking Jordan’s cowboy hat to the floor.
Terry pushed between the men. “Leave Cam alone!”
Riga took a step forward and someone clasped her wrist, tugged her backward. She turned to make an angry retort, and saw it was Donovan’s father.
He shook his head. “They won’t hurt him, and the police are here. You’ll do the most good outside the fray.”
Six cops in black jackets dragged the combatants apart, rolled Donovan and Briian onto their stomachs, cuffed them.
A seventh, the Sheriff, rubbed a hand across his grizzled jaw, eyes narrowed. “Never a dull moment when you’re around, eh?”
“Sheriff King,” she said. “You got here fast.”
“A 9-1-1 call for the Mosse-Hayworth reception? You’re a magnet for homicides. Of course I’d come.” He turned to Mr. Mosse. “So what happened?”
He shrugged. “A woman collapsed. A fight broke out. Besides that, I’m in the dark.”
The Sheriff grunted, and walked to Madison’s prone figure. One of the paramedics stood, shook his head.
“It was poison,” Briian shouted. “That photographer gave her a glass of champagne, she drank it, and it killed her.”
The Sheriff looked around, his gaze falling on the crushed champagne flute. He pointed. “Was this hers?”
Briian colored, nodded. “It was an accident. Can you let me out of these cuffs?”
The Sheriff didn’t respond, and went to speak with the paramedics. They conferred and he shook his head, trudged to the microphone on the dias, tapped it. “Is this thing on?” Feedback screeched, nails on a chalkboard. “Good. I’d like everyone to please take a seat and speak to no one until an officer comes to take your statement.”
Riga let Donovan’s father guide her to a chair. “It will be okay,” he said.
More police arrived, and a tech team. King tilted his head, spoke into the radio on his shoulder.
Briian squirmed in his cuffs. Donovan sat on the ground beside him, hands pinioned behind his back. She stared at him. Look at me. Look at me. Give me a sign. But he stared at the floor, impassive.
Eventually, a police officer led Riga to the cloak room, and took her statement. When they’d finished, he closed his notebook with a slap. “Thanks. You can leave now,” he said.
“My guests are in there. I’d like to wait inside.”
He shook his head. “Sorry. It’s a crime scene. You can’t go back.” He escorted her out of the restaurant and into the green-carpeted hallway. Pen waited outside the door next to a Christmas tree, massed with shiny ornaments. They matched Pen’s eyes, puffy and red.
Dora paced beside her, talking on a cell. She hung up when she saw Riga.
“What’s the word?” the editor asked. “You get anything?”
Riga shook her head. “The cops aren’t talking to me.”
Dora pulled a pack of cigarettes from her black purse, tapped one out, jammed it in her mouth. “Forget the cops. You’re a P.I. What do you think? Could it have been poison?”
“No idea.”
Dora rummaged through her bag, jerked her chin toward Pen. “Hey kid, you got a light in there?”
Pen sniffed, dug out a plastic lighter from her clutch. “Sure.”
“No smoking,” Riga said, hoping Pen hadn’t taken it up.
“It’s medicinal,” Dora said. “I’m in shock.”
“Right,” Riga said. “And why are you carrying a lighter, Pen?”
Her niece shrugged. “Never know when you’ll need to light something on fire.”
“That’s the stuff, kid. Be prepared.” Dora lit up, inhaled. Bliss flooded her craggy face. “Think the Sher
iff will give a statement to the press?”
“Unlikely,” Riga said.
Dora blew out a stream of smoke, killing the scent of the Christmas tree. “That’s what I thought. He doesn’t look like he gives a hot damn about being a star for a day. I gotta go. Deadline to meet.” Dora hurried down the corridor.
“I can’t believe it,” Pen whispered. “Madison. She was so… awesome to me. She didn’t act like a movie star at all. She was a real person, you know? Who would do this?”
Riga shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“What Briian said about… Do you think they’ll arrest Donovan?” Pen asked.
“No. I doubt they’ll know cause of death for a while. It didn’t look like anything obvious, like cyanide, so they’ll need a toxicology report, and that takes time. They won’t arrest anyone until there’s more evidence. Have you seen Peregrine and Dot?”
“Yeah, they were let out earlier. Said they were tired from the excitement, and going to bed.”
Donovan’s father emerged from the restaurant. He glanced behind him. “Something’s going on,” he said in a low voice. “They moved me out before I could see much. But the police have gotten a lot more interested in my son.”
“Dammit.” Riga raked her hand through her hair. “What did you see before Madison collapsed?”
“I was watching my nephew, Reuben. For a horse’s ass, he made a nice speech.”
“Yeah,” Riga said. “What was he so angry about earlier?”
“He overreacted,” he said. “I accidentally reversed one of his orders.”
“What about you, Pen? What did you see?”
“I didn’t see anything. I was talking to that girl with the banged up face, Afreen.”
Riga’s eyes widened. “What? Afreen Gupta?” What the hell had she been doing here? And how had she gotten inside?
“Yeah. She seemed pretty cool.”
Riga tasted something sour. “What did you talk about?”
“You know, just chitchat. The wedding. Our work on that reality TV show. Your metaphysical detective agency.”
Donovan’s father wrinkled his brow.
“And… magic?” Riga asked.
Pen scratched her arm. “Well, yeah. Lake monsters and a metaphysical detective agency – what else are we going to talk about?”
“And did you tell her that you do magic?”
“I didn’t tell her about what you do. I would never do that!”
Riga wanted to shake her. “But did you tell Afreen that you practice magic?”
“Just that I can see ghosts. But I don’t think she believed me.”
Riga hung her head. The twinkle lights on the tree glinted off Mr. Mosse’s polished black shoes.
“She believed you.” Mediumship was a far cry from necromancy. And most mediums practiced some form of protection spells – that sort of spell work wouldn’t condemn her niece. But most mediums didn’t come from a family of practicing necromancers.
“Riga.” Donovan’s father put a hand on her arm. “What’s wrong? Who’s this Afreen person?”
“She’s a hunter.” Riga looked up. “She and her father are part of an organization that hunts dark magicians. A hunting lodge.”
“Maybe they can help us with the black lodge,” Pen said.
Riga pasted on a smile. “Maybe. But right now, they’re not sure what side we’re on, so you need to be careful what you say around them.” Now that they knew about Pen, they’d be watching her, alert for any magical slip-ups. Riga needed to neutralize the situation. Fast.
The doors opened and two policemen exited the restaurant. Donovan walked between them, hands cuffed behind his back.
“What’s going on?” Riga asked.
One of the police officers put his hand out in warning. “Step back, ma’am.”
“Don—Cam, what’s happening?” she asked.
He looked over his shoulder as they marched him away. “They found a near-empty bottle of nicotine in my jacket pocket. I didn’t put it there.”
“Nicotine?” Pen asked. “Like in cigarettes?”
“Gardeners use it,” Mr. Mosse said shortly, striding forward.
Terry plunged out of the restaurant. “Cam! I’ll get a lawyer!”
“We’ll help,” Mr. Mosse said. “Come on. Let’s follow him to the station.”
Riga dug her keys out of her clutch, tossed them to Pen. “Go home. Tell Brigitte what happened.”
“What about the Aunts?” Pen asked.
“They don’t need to know.” Brigitte didn’t need to know either. But Riga wanted her niece home, and safe.
Riga picked up her skirts and hurried down the hall after Terry and Donovan’s father. Panting, she caught up with them. “What happened, Terry?”
Terry’s cheeks were flushed. “He had a bottle wrapped in tissue and labeled nicotine in his pocket. But it doesn’t make any sense. Cam doesn’t have any reason to want Madison dead. He’s being framed.”
“Who wants Cam dead?” Riga asked.
The writer clutched her cropped jacket tightly around her. “Dead? What are you talking about?”
Mr. Mosse punched the elevator button. “Cam said Madison took the champagne from him. Someone may have been trying to kill Cam, and Madison just drank from the wrong glass.”
“And they disposed of the bottle by slipping it into Cam’s pocket,” Riga finished. “Don’t worry, Terry. The Sheriff’s a good man, and he’s smart. With the bottle on Cam, he has to bring him in. But he’ll keep looking. He’ll figure this out.”
She shared a worried look with Donovan’s father.
But the Sheriff wouldn’t dismiss Cam either. He’d uncover the blackmail. What other skeletons had the photographer locked away?
Chapter 20
Donovan paced inside the cramped cell. “Now, I’m angry. Killing Cam… Madison.” He whirled on her. “This is the second time this month I’ve been stuck in jail.”
Riga nodded. Not long ago he’d been framed for murder and terrorist financing, and sat in this same jail. It was why she’d gone along with the “celebrity” wedding – to help get him out from under that shadow.
“When your aunts turned me into a zombie,” he said, “I was calm. They’re your family. I love you. Families can be challenging. And God knows, you’ve put up with mine.”
“You were a model of patience,” Riga agreed.
“But I have had it. Framing me for murder, twice in one month? When I get my hands on—”
“If it makes you feel better, whoever did it was trying to frame Cam.”
“It doesn’t. My Dad has been running amuck at the casino. Without me to hold him in check, God knows what he’ll do.” He grabbed one of the bars, shook it. “I want out of here. And I want my body back.”
“You’ll get it. Tell me what happened at the party. Who gave you the champagne?”
“A waiter. And Riga… pink champagne? You know how I feel about pink wine.”
She gave him an exasperated look. “Your parents drank it at their wedding reception.”
“Great. Another one of Dad’s bright ideas. He’s unbelievable! He just waltzes back into my life, takes over the place, as if nothing’s happened!”
“What has happened?”
“I was in foster care, Riga, because that idiot didn’t plan, didn’t have anything in place when he died. You have no idea…” He shook his head. “It was hell. And the casino that he’s so proud of? The state put a very well-meaning court-appointed administrator in charge of all the assets until I came of age, and he ran the casino into the ground. I built this casino – and the others. They’re mine. Not his.”
“Have you spoken to him about this?”
“I’m too angry.” His shoulders slumped. “And the man did come back from the dead.”
“He had some help.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“Donovan. The champagne?”
He rubbed his hands across his face. “I got it from a
waiter, and then your aunts ran up demanding a photo, so I put the glass down on a nearby table.”
“Who was around you then?”
“Jordan and Annabelle. I snapped their picture, too. Terry was trailing after me all night, like some accusing spirit.” He stared at the graffiti on the wall. A middle finger. A phone number. Genitalia.
“Anyone else?”
“Briian.”
The drunk in the cell next door rolled over on his cot, belched.
Disgust flitted across Donovan’s features, and he slammed a fist into the wall.
“Donovan!” She grasped the bars. Her ring clanked hollowly against the metal.
“It didn’t hurt,” he said glumly, examining his knuckles. “I don’t feel anything. Not you, nothing. I don’t even itch anymore.”
White powder drifted down the wall where he’d struck it, leaving a fist-shaped imprint.
“If it makes a difference… You still make me feel.”
He grasped her hand through the bar. “It does.”
“We’ll get you out of here, out of this body.”
“Not we – you. You have to do it. I don’t trust your aunts.”
She opened her mouth to protest, closed it. “I will.” Somehow.
“I’m sorry about this, Donovan. I should have suspected my aunts had magic, that it was a family affair.”
“I don’t care about that. Though we might want to ease off the necromancy in future. I’d like to go at least another year before I’m accused of murder.”
Riga looked at her shoes, impractical pointy-toed pumps.
“Riga. I love you, aunts, necromancy, all of it.” He rubbed his thumb across the back of her hand. “And your aunts are wrong. I’ve spent a lot of time with them these last few days, and for them, the answer is always Hecate. They’re seeing what they expect to see. And in spite of what’s happened…” He looked down at his new body, then up at her. “It feels right. We feel right.”
She leaned her head against the bars. “Donovan—”
“Now’s the time for you to shut up and kiss me.”
It was long past time. She tilted her head back, and his lips brushed hers. A wave of heat coursed through her body.
4 The Infernal Detective Page 15