The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth)

by Kirsten Weiss

  “Where did the soldier go?” Riga asked.

  Sam and Angus looked at each other.

  Pen laughed nervously. “What soldier? You’re on a boat, Riga. Don’t you remember?”

  Not a soldier, a sailor, someone she knew… Vinnie! It had been the ghost Donovan had crossed to the light. He looked different, younger, more innocent, and she hadn’t recognized him. But what had he wanted?

  Riga sat up on one elbow. Everything hurt. Her head felt like it was splitting open. Something shifted against her skin and she looked down, confused. She was wearing a silvery thermal blanket, her bra and panties, a pair of socks, and nothing else. “Where are my clothes?”

  “You went into the water,” Sam said. “Do you remember?”

  She probed her scalp with her fingers and felt a swollen, tender spot. “What hit me?”

  Sam’s glasses gleamed in the light. “Riga,” he said, “before the boat was hit for the second time you told Pen to hang on. Why did you do that? What did you see?”

  She hadn’t seen anything, she’d smelled it. They’d been attacked by a demon, not a lake monster, but Riga wasn’t going to give them that. It was one thing to discuss demons in private, with concerned clients, quite another to expose the concept to the TV universe. “I don’t remember. You say I was in the water?”

  “Wolfe went in after you.” Pen glanced toward the bow, where Wolfe sat upon a bench, wrapped in a similar thermal blanket.

  Dark hair was plastered wetly against his bare legs. He scratched his sideburn. “I wasn’t being heroic. My camera went overboard and I went in after it. I didn’t know you were in the water until Pen started screaming. Lost the camera though,” he added gloomily.

  “Good thing one of us managed to hold on to their gear,” Griff snarked from behind his camera. “I got everything.”

  Wolfe’s brow furrowed and he muttered something inaudible.

  Riga pulled the blanket more tightly about her. “Where are my clothes?”

  “They were soaking wet and you were so cold.” Pen handed her a towel. “And then you wouldn’t wake up so we thought you’d warm up more quickly if I just took them off. But since they were wet they kind of stuck and so… Sam helped.”

  “In a purely professional capacity,” he said quickly.

  Angus grinned. “I had my back turned.”

  Riga’s eyes narrowed. “And where was Griff when this was going on?” She’d never seen him without his camera.

  “Like I said, I got everything,” Griff said, one eye glued to the viewfinder.

  “The hell you did,” Riga said.

  Griff smirked. “And might I say, nice legs.“

  Riga felt a flare of anger. There was a popping sound and smoke curled from the camera. Its red light dimmed.

  Griff lowered the camera from his shoulder, gaping at it. Horror warred with astonishment on his thin face.

  “Tell me the video is okay,” Sam said warningly.

  Griff cradled the camera in his arms. “It’s broken! You did this,” he said angrily to Riga.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Riga said. “You probably got some water in it.”

  “You looked at it and it exploded!”

  “It didn’t explode,” Angus said reasonably. “I’m sure the video is fine and the camera can be fixed.”

  “The video…” Griff muttered. He hurried below.

  Angus looked warily at Riga. “Er, you didn’t…” He wiggled his fingers. “Did you?”

  “Really, Angus?” Riga blotted her hair with the towel. “Is that likely?”

  He adjusted the headphones which lay around his neck. “Well, no. But my grandma had the sight and strange things happened around her. At least, that’s what everybody believed.”

  “What sort of strange things?” Riga asked, interested.

  “Oh, you know. She’d say, ‘Gosh, I’d give my eye teeth for a slice of pound cake.’ And then a few minutes later the doorbell would ring and there would be a neighbor with a pound cake. She was lucky, too. Always winning contests, even contests she didn’t remember entering.”

  Sam clapped the sound man on the back. “Not quite the same thing, Angus.” He extended a hand to Riga. “Think you can stand?”

  She nodded and took his hand, allowing him to pull her to her feet. The shore was close now, and Riga could make out the shapes of buildings, lit against the night. They motored toward a pier strung with Christmas lights. The red emergency light of an ambulance flashed at the end of it

  Griff thundered up the stairs. He braced his hands against the doorframe, and leaned out, his face pale. “The video. It’s gone. It’s just white noise. There’s nothing on it. Whatever happened to the camera ruined the video.”

  For the first time, Sam showed a trace of panic. “The video’s got to be there. You can’t have nothing!”

  “I put a new one in after lunch, so we have the morning’s shooting.”

  “But the attack on the boat!” Sam raged. “That was a unique event! We can’t have lost it.”

  Pen raised her hand. “I have—”

  “Wolfe!” Sam turned on the cameraman. “What the hell were you thinking, dropping your camera overboard? Of all the unprofessional—”

  “That’s garbage.” Wolfe leapt to his feet. “What should I have done, let Riga drown?”

  “You shouldn’t have dropped your camera in the lake.”

  “The stern was lifted two feet out of the water. How the hell was I supposed to anticipate that?”

  “I’ve got a camera,” Pen said.

  Sam whirled on her. “What?”

  She drew her small handheld out of her pocket. “I was filming during, uh, whatever it was that happened. I only stopped when Riga was pulled out of the water.”

  Sam snatched the camera away from her, and flipped open the viewer. Hands trembling, he reversed, pressed play. His shoulders sagged. “You got it. Is there sound on this?”

  Pen nodded. “It’s on mute.” She reached across him and pushed a button. “Here.”

  Riga could hear the sounds of faint, tinny shouts coming from the camera.

  The boat bumped against the dock. Ash swung down from his captain’s perch and tied the boat off.

  “I want a copy of this and I want to see it on a bigger screen.” Sam hurried below, stumbling on the steps. Griff, Pen and Wolfe followed.

  Angus looked at Riga and shrugged. “The thrill of the hunt. That ambulance is for you, I think. Ash radioed for it while you were unconscious.” He lumbered over the side of the boat and onto the dock, extending a hand for Riga. Cesar appeared out of the darkness to assist. She took both their hands and let them boost her onto the dock.

  Angus leaned in close. “Seriously, did you fry Griff’s camera?”

  Riga shook her head and the pain ricocheted around her skull. She winced. She hadn’t intended to wreck the camera, she told herself.

  The medics interposed themselves between the two. “We should take a look, Sir.”

  “I’m fine,” Riga said impatiently. Cold seeped through her socks and she wanted to get inside a heated car, fast. She did a double take. These weren’t her socks. She glanced at Angus’s ankles. They were bare.

  Angus caught her look. “Mine were dry. I figured yours was the greater need.”

  She smiled, grateful. “Thanks, Angus.”

  The medics led her to their ambulance and checked her out there. Through the open rear doors, she idly watched Cesar and Ash. Neither of the men looked happy. Riga struggled to remember the vision. Most of it had slipped away from her in the confusion on the boat. What had he told her?

  The medics gave her a pair of sweats, and declared she might have a concussion and should go to the emergency room. Riga refused. At the hospital, they’d only tell her to stay awake, just in case. She didn’t need to spend hours in the emergency room for that.

  Cesar walked to the ambulance, braced his hand against one of the doors. “How are you doing?”

  G
ingerly she climbed down. “I want to go home.”

  He escorted her to his SUV. It reeked of wet dog and she rolled down the window.

  “Where’s the monster?” she asked.

  “At my place, eating the furniture,” Cesar said cheerfully.

  “I thought you said these dogs were smart?”

  “He knows it’s not his furniture.”

  When they reached the casino, a valet took Cesar’s keys and he led Riga up to the penthouse. He remained quiet on the ride up. When they reached the foyer, he said, “We’ve got to keep you awake tonight.”

  “Don’t worry.” Riga sat down upon the leather couch and stretched. “You don’t need to stay. I’ve got some reading to do and Pen’s here.”

  “More alchemy? That stuff will put you to sleep.”

  “Trust me. It doesn’t,” she said. If Brigitte was right, the return of her magic depended on it.

  Chapter 21: Incineration

  Riga stumbled into the kitchen the next morning, sleep deprived and out of sorts. Without Donovan’s presence, the penthouse felt like a hotel and she couldn’t wait for his return today.

  Pen joined her at the breakfast table, hair and pajamas rumpled. “We’ve got the day off.” Pen yawned. “Well, you do. We’re short a camera and Sam thought you shouldn’t dive with that lump on your head. It wasn’t worth the insurance rates, he said. The guys and I are going to do some work on the film I shot last night. It’s eerie. You can see this dark shape sweep you off the side of the boat.”

  “How is the crew treating you?”

  “A lot better since last night. Sam’s happy I caught the action on the boat with my handheld. And Wolfe’s been great, even though he did lose his camera overboard.”

  “What about Griff?” Riga poured herself a mug of English Breakfast tea.

  Pen made a face. “He’s still mad about the lost footage, though I can’t really blame him.”

  Brigitte sailed into the kitchen and dropped her new mystery novel onto the granite countertop. The hardback’s cover was scarred and a page slid free of its binding. Brigitte was rough on books.

  Pen leapt away from the counter. “Agh!”

  Brigitte landed on the slate floor and eyed her beadily. “Is that a way to treat an old acquaintance?”

  Pen clutched her chest with one hand. “I didn’t…” She sucked in her breath. “How did you get here?”

  Brigitte tossed her head. “Riga called me. Someone needed to make sure she stayed awake last night and I, her oldest most loyal friend, was there for her.”

  Riga rolled her eyes. “Sorry, Pen. I should have warned you. You remember Brigitte?”

  “How could I forget?” Pen muttered.

  “What is this about lost footage?” Brigitte asked. “You did not tell me about this last night.”

  “It was an accident,” Riga muttered. She’d lost control, and felt a flush of shame at the memory.

  Brigitte’s eyes narrowed. “What sort of an accident?”

  “The accidental kind,” Riga said.

  The gargoyle tut-tutted. “Childish.”

  Riga made a show of checking her watch. “I’m going to be late.”

  She escaped to the bedroom, where she changed into khakis and a crisp white blouse.

  She booted up her lap top and found the Church of the New Dawn. The website was surprisingly tame given the fire and brimstone nature of its preacher. She clicked on Carver’s bio and her eyebrows rose. He’d once been a member of the Franciscan order but had left that church to found his own. She wondered why he’d switched.

  There was a bio for his wife as well, which was unilluminating, aside from mention of her home town, Sioux City. On an impulse, Riga did some more Internet questing on the Carvers. There was nothing on the Reverend but she stumbled across a surprisingly sexy photo of his wife, who’d won second place in a local beauty pageant five years ago, before they were married.

  “Talk about still waters running deep,” Riga muttered. Why did the woman dress like such a frump now?

  She searched for Sarah Glass, and found a Facebook page. There were few posts, but lots of check-ins from local businesses – Tea and Tarot, Audrey’s shop, Sarah’s own business, cafés, the library… She shook her head. Riga had never understood the need to announce one’s location to all and sundry online. Announcing her home was unoccupied just didn’t seem smart. She scrolled further down and found two check-ins at the police station. To report the harassment?

  Next she searched for Lynn Chen. The Feng Shui specialist kept a blog and Riga eagerly began to read. She frowned, surprised. A blog entry had been posted yesterday on the uses of Feng Shui for protection. Lynn must have scheduled the post in advance, before she’d been killed. Her last two blog entries had been about protection as well. Security had been on Lynn’s mind.

  On a whim, she searched for Cesar’s alchemy quote by Martin Luther. It wasn’t hard to find:

  "The science of alchemy I like well, and, indeed, 'tis the philosophy of the ancients. I like it not only for the profits it brings in melting metals, in decocting preparing, extracting, and distilling herbs, roots; I like it also for the sake of the allegory and secret signification, which is exceedingly fine, touching the resurrection of the dead at the last day. For, as in a furnace the fire extracts and separates from a substance the other portions, and carries upward the spirit, the life, the sap, the strength, while the unclean matter, the dregs, remain at the bottom, like a dead and worthless carcass; even so God, at the day of judgment, will separate all things through fire, the righteous from the ungodly."

  Riga read it twice, then quietly shut down her computer.

  She heard a soft sigh behind her and turned. Shadows stirred in a corner of the room and Gwenn appeared.

  The ghost looked about. A piece of burnt skin flaked off, turned gooey, dripped to the geometric carpet as ectoplasm. “I’m sorry to bother you. I was just looking for Mr. Mosse.”

  “He’s in Philadelphia. He said he was following a clue you’d found for him.”

  Gwenn tugged on a lock of hair by her temple. It came free and dropped to the floor. “I wish… He’s left already?”

  “Yeah. Is there a problem?”

  “No, no problem, I guess.” She sighed, a low, mournful sound. “He’s had other women here before but you seem different. I’m glad.”

  Riga was uncertain how to take that. Sure, she knew there had been women before. She just didn’t like being reminded of it. “You watch out for him, don’t you?”

  The ghost nodded. “I knew him when he was a kid, saw him around the casino. Funny little guy.” She smiled, a ghastly rictus grin.

  “Is that why you’re helping him?”

  “Yes, that and… There’s something I have to do, but I can’t remember...” Gwenn looked at Riga intently. “He’s a good man.” The ghost drifted through a wall and was gone.

  Riga gazed at the wall for a minute, thoughtful. She dug her phone from her satchel and called Donovan. It rang three times and went to his voice mail.

  “Donovan, I had a vision of Vinnie, the ghost you crossed over last month. I think… He wanted to tell you something but the vision was confused. Just… Be careful, okay? And call me. I miss you.” She hung up, slipping the phone into the pocket of her slacks.

  Gray clouds massed above the mountains, and she tied a wooly red scarf above the collar of her pea coat. Donovan’s minions had dried and pressed the thick coat overnight after its soaking in the lake. She sniffed one of the sleeves. It smelled like lavender. Riga could get used to this.

  Pen came to lounge in the doorway. “Where are you going?” She studied her fingernails.

  Dissatisfied with the effect, Riga undid her scarf and retied the knot. “Church of the New Dawn. I need to talk to the Reverend.”

  Pen looked up, her brow wrinkled in confusion. “Do you think he’s involved in the murders? I thought you said it was a magician or necromancer or something.”

  She tuck
ed the scarf inside her coat and buttoned it. “I’m keeping an open mind. Stay out of trouble, okay?” She smiled at her niece as she strode through the doorway, past her.

  The elevator doors slid open; there was a new man today. She smiled at him, stepped inside. As the elevator descended, she considered asking Cesar to come with her, but decided it would be too much trouble for them both. She was going to a church. What could happen?

  The highway was slick and the traffic crawled. Riga tapped her fingers on the wheel, impatient, then reminded herself that her snow driving skills weren’t exactly up to par, and tried to enjoy her quick glimpses of the lake through the pines. Tahoe’s choppy waters had dulled to cold steel beneath a lowering mist.

  She turned into the church parking lot, wincing when the car hit a pothole, scraping its carriage on the macadam. The church’s green van was parked in front of the main door and Riga pulled up beside it.

  The church looked Finnish or Russian orthodox, built of honey-colored wood, with an onion dome and bell tower perched atop its steep roof. Yesterday’s layer of snow frosted the eaves, making a gingerbread church.

  She wriggled the phone out of her pocket and checked her messages. Nothing. Her finger hovered over the buttons. Maybe Donovan hadn’t noticed her voicemail?

  Maybe she was devolving into an obsessed teenage girl.

  She blew her breath out, put the phone in her pocket of her pea coat. He’d call when he could.

  Riga felt a prickling sensation at the back of her neck.

  Someone was watching.

  She scanned the lot, saw no one. Probably Cesar again, playing cat and mouse. Or perhaps Brigitte, though the gargoyle usually kept her promises.

  Riga shook off her apprehension and walked up the wooden plank steps, her footsteps sounding hollowly beneath her. The front door was unlocked and Riga strode into a small antechamber, with stairs off to each side and open double-doors that led into the church proper. Three men worked in the far corner of the church. They wore heavy jackets and wooly scarves, and set up instruments for a band: drums, an electric guitar, and a keyboard.