The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) (17 page)

Riga drove them to a diner that advertised pies.  The place was working class and crowded, and the waitresses looked cheerful but world-weary.  One guided them to a booth in the far corner.  Riga slid into the seat facing the door and opened a plastic menu.  “I hope they have strawberry-rhubarb,” she said.

Pen’s laugh was brittle.  “Pie?  Are you kidding?”

Riga looked up from the menu and raised an eyebrow.  “Why do you think I brought you here?”

“Pie,” Pen muttered.

Riga returned her attention to the menu, flipping past the breakfasts (Served All Day!) and burgers.  “What were you doing at the Hanged Man?”

Pen had known the interrogation was coming.  “I wanted to know about the night Herman was there.”

Riga ran her gaze down the dessert page.  “Learn anything?”

“The bartender said he wasn’t drunk.”

“Well, he would, wouldn’t he?  Probably scared someone will sue him over it.”

“I believe him,” Pen said firmly.  “And Herman wasn’t alone.”

She peered over the top of the menu, interested.  “Really?”

“He was with a local councilwoman named Faye something.”

“Learn anything else?”

“No. I left and then the three little pigs jumped me—”

Riga looked up sharply.  “The what?”

“Nothing,” she muttered.  “In the bar they just reminded me of the three little pigs for some reason.”

Riga looked thoughtful.  “So what else did you learn?”

“Nothing!”

“You sure?” She put the menu down, her eyes hard as glass.

Pen’s anger flared.  Why was Riga pushing her?  “The bartender didn’t tell me anything else.”

“Then I’ll enlighten you.”  Riga leaned across the table.  “Seventeen year old girls don’t belong in bars,” she hissed.  “I told you to leave it alone, Pen.”

“Everything turned out okay!”

“Did it?” Riga asked. 

Pen looked uncomfortable.

Riga felt the blood pound in her head.  She’d brought Pen to the restaurant because she’d hoped the presence of other diners would act as a restraint on her temper.  With the damage she’d inflicted tonight, she could be prosecuted for assault.  Sure, she’d told the guys she didn’t want to fight, her niece had been in danger, and it had been three men on two women.  But this was California, land of the lawsuit.  She probably should have called the cops, gotten everything on record, but at the time all she could think of was to get the hell out of there.   Riga didn’t think the guys would go to the police – too much explaining, too much damage to their pride. 

The waitress approached to take their order, her skirt rustling. 

“Strawberry-rhubarb pie and an iced tea,” Riga said.

“Do you want that heated, honey?” the waitress asked.

“Sure.”

Pen crossed her arms across her chest.  “Nothing for me.”

“She’ll have coffee and a slice of the chocolate peanut butter,” Riga said, handing the menus to the waitress. 

The waitress nodded and hurried away.

“Your mother will have to know,” Riga said.

“Why?”

“Because you’re under age.  It’s her right.”  She fervently hoped Rebecca would ground the kid.  Things were happening too fast and Pen was becoming entangled.

“She’ll just get upset,” Pen whispered, frantic.  “I’m not going to tell her.”

“Either you tell her, tonight, or I will.”

“That’s not fair!”

Riga stared sightlessly at the window.  The night turned it to a mirror, reflecting the pie shop back at her, but if she looked hard enough, she could see cars streaming past on the street outside.  “Fair’s a carnival.”

Pen glared at her, jaw clenching and unclenching.  Riga could feel the heat from her stare. 

“I’ve learned something about the case, too,” Riga said.

Pen’s expression shifted to surprise. 

“I thought the things that have been happening – Vinnie, Helen, the water spouts –”

“Water spouts?” Pen interrupted.

“They’ve appeared twice off the coast, both times when I was there to witness them.  They’re not normal in this area under any circumstances, and my presence both times was too much of a coincidence.  I thought this case was the focus point for these events.  Now I’m not so sure. Other paranormal workers have experienced things too.  It’s not just us.”

“How did you find this out?”

“A shaman I know told me.  I went online, checked out the forums and the paranormal news sources to confirm it.  You know more about computers than I, Pen.  Would it be possible to map the events by time and place?”

She nodded.  “If you give me the addresses and your passcodes for the forums and sites you mentioned.  Twitter could be a goldmine too.”

The waitress returned, sliding the pies in front of them.  Riga dug in.  The pie was molten, burning the roof of her mouth.  She took a gulp of the tea, feeling a blister rising, and pressed an ice cube against it with her tongue.

“I’m sorry,” Pen said.  “You’re right, I shouldn’t have gone to that bar alone.”

Riga didn’t reply.  She’d spotted a familiar figure entering the restaurant, the edge of his black woolen coat swirling about his knees.  Donovan looked around as if he owned the place, saw Riga, and smiled.  He strode through the crowd to their table.

Riga tilted her head back to look at him.  “Fancy meeting you here.”

“I was in the neighborhood and suddenly had an overwhelming urge for pie.”

“And here I thought you might be following me,” Riga said.

His eyes crinkled.  “Hard day?”

“Get that pie to go and I’ll tell you all about it.”

In the end, they agreed he’d follow them back to Pen’s car.

“You’re not going to tell him about the Hanged Man?” Pen whispered as they walked towards Riga’s Lincoln.

Riga unlocked the doors and got inside, pretending to think about it. 

“It’s private,” Pen said fiercely.

Riga nodded.  “You’re right.  It should stay in the family.”

She pulled out her cell phone and dialed a number.  “Rebecca?  I’m here with Pen.  She’d like to talk to you.”

Chapter 26: El Diablo Rojo

Pen wasn’t speaking to her again and Riga pretended she didn’t care.  Showing weakness to a teenage girl was never a good idea.

Pen slammed the car door, and stormed off. 

Donovan knocked on her window and she rolled it down.  “She doesn’t seem happy.”

“I’m a constant disappointment.  So where are we off to next?”

“There’s a little wine bar I know –”

“I have to drive home,” Riga warned.

“They serve half glasses and there’s plenty of privacy.”  Donovan gave her the address and she mapped it on her phone.   She lost Donovan after the second turn.  When she arrived, she found he’d already claimed a bank of sleek black leather chairs, forming their own private niche.

She sat across from him, and stretched her legs before her, crossed loosely at the ankles.

Donovan leaned forward.  “May I make a suggestion?”

“Please.”

“The Malbec.”

Riga picked up the paper menu on the coffee table beside her and found the wine.  “El Diablo Rojo?  Sure.”

Donovan caught the eye of the bartender and nodded.  He hurried over and took her order, then whipped back, depositing two glasses filled with ruby red wine on the low tables beside them. 

Donovan’s was a goblet twice the size of hers.  He nodded.  “A half glass for you.  To the end of your day.”  He toasted her.

Riga laced her hands across her stomach.  “And speaking of devils, did you put a Tarot card on the whiteboard in my office?”

“Nice segue.  The Devil card?  Guilty.”

“Why?”

He lazily appraised her.  “The Devil: misdirection, deceit, illusion, entrapment.  It’s a warning.”

“And you need to warn me because…”

“That should be obvious.”

She felt a ripple of excitement.  Their sparring had aroused her.  “I discovered the card when my office was being invaded by the local environmental inspection team.”

“Did I say ‘warning?’  I meant prophecy.”  His face hardened.  “Aaron.”

“Your nemesis?  It’s possible.”  She picked up her glass, swirled the wine.  “He’s in construction so he deals with permitting.  It would make sense that he’d have the connections to get me investigated.”

“He’s also a vindictive S.O.B.”

“I’m starting to think there’s more history between you two than you’ve told me.”

Donovan tilted his goblet back, drank.  “I’ll take care of this.  Don’t worry.”

Riga cocked her head.  “How?”

“I have connections, too.”

“No.  Thank you, but I’d prefer you didn’t.”

His eyebrows rose in surprise.  “Why?”

There were so many reasons.  She didn’t want to lose more control over the situation than she had, she didn’t want to feel obligated, and she didn’t know if Donovan’s connections were on the up and up.  She evaded his gaze, pretended to examine the play of light on the wine.  “Because dealing with the government shouldn’t be a matter of who you pay or who you know.”

“Perhaps it shouldn’t be, but that’s the way it is.”

 “I’d rather take care of it myself,” she said stubbornly.

“Suit yourself.  What else happened?”

“I’m not done with the Tarot card yet.  Where did you get the magnet you stuck it to the board with?”  Riga took another sip, let it linger on her tongue.  Donovan’s recommendation had been a good one. 

“Since I’m not in the habit of carrying magnets in my pockets, it must have come from your board.  Where do you think I got it?”

“I think it came from Helen Baro’s house.”

“Your dead client?  That’s disturbing.  What else has happened?”

She ran through the rest of it – Liz, the mad man in the hospital, the accidental banishment of Vinnie the ghost.

Donovan leaned forward, his brow wrinkling.  “Pen banished the ghost?  You’re sure?  Pen?”

“Yes, I’m sure,” Riga said, irritated by the reminder.

“That changes things,” he muttered.

“What do you mean?”

“What?”  He looked up as if he’d just remembered she was there.  “Oh.  It seems Pen has inherited some of your gifts.”

Riga didn’t believe that was what he’d meant at all.

He nudged her feet with his black cowboy boots and she felt a shiver of electricity race between them.  She wanted to tell him more, to unburden herself about the imbroglio in the parking lot.  But Pen was right.  It was private.  He shouldn’t know.

“So,” he began, “now are you going to tell me who ripped the collar off your shirt?”

She looked down at the tear in surprise.  “Damn.”

Chapter 27: Mothers and Daughters

Pen had never seen her mother so angry.  Worse than last night’s screaming, though, was the “understanding” mother, who cornered Pen over breakfast the next morning.

“Pen, we need to talk.”  Her mother poured herself a cup of coffee from the counter and stirred it noisily, her teaspoon clinking off the side of the
World’s Greatest Mom
mug.  It had a chipped edge.  Pen had bought it for her in the fifth grade.

“What?” Pen asked, wary.

“About last night–”

“I know.  I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.”  Rebecca put the cup down upon the kitchen table and sat across from her. 

Pen waited, pushing her oatmeal around the cheerful blue bowl with her spoon.  She mashed it to the left side, then the right.

“What happened to you last night was terrible.  Your father and I have discussed it, and think you should talk to someone about what happened.”

 “You mean the police?”

“God, no!” her mother exploded.  “Riga could be arrested.  I was talking about a counselor.  Someone who specializes in… what you went through.  They hurt you, Pen.”

Pen squirmed.  She almost wished her mom would start yelling again.  But a small voice inside her told her she deserved this.  “No, they didn’t.  If anything, they’re the ones hurting now.”

Her mother’s eyes flashed.  “Good.  I hope Riga smashed them into bloody pulps.”

Pen stared at her mother, taken aback.

“But that wasn’t what I was talking about,” her mother said.  “Something like this leaves other types of scars.  I know a wonderful counselor.  She’s funny, interesting, I really think you’ll like her.”

“A psychiatrist?”

“A psychologist,” her mother corrected.

“There’s nothing wrong with me!”  But as she said it, she began to wonder.   She’d never been one of the popular girls in school, always an outsider.  Though she and her friends sneered at the prom, it hurt her that no one had asked.  If she was normal, she would have “fit,” wouldn’t she?  If she was normal, she wouldn’t see ghosts.  Her voice rose, panicked.  “I’m not crazy!”

“Of course you’re not, honey,” her mother soothed.

Pen pushed away from the table.  “I’ve got to go.”

“Oh!” her mother said, bewildered.  “ Well, think about it, Pen.  If you want to talk to me…?”

Pen grunted something incomprehensible and fled the house.  The day was cool and foggy.  Again.  Pen hadn’t any destination in mind, she just wanted out and away.  She took the coast road and parked in a cove outside Pacifica, wandering down to the sandy beach.  The ocean was iron gray, the foam from its waves tinged sickly brown.  A gust of wind dashed a light spray of water in her face and Pen zipped her military jacket to her chin. 

She wandered the beach, head down, blinking back tears.  Something was wrong with her.  It ran through her head, a mantra she couldn’t stop, until she saw something which arrested her motion.  Two oblong stones had been placed end up in the sand like a tiny Stonehenge, a temple for faeries.  A bulbous piece of seaweed lay artistically beside it.  She wondered who had put the stones there, and if the seaweed had been placed beside them or had just washed up there.

A shadow cut across her line of sight.

“Yours?”

Pen looked up, startled.  It was the man from the pie place, Riga’s friend.  Dave?  Dan?  He wore the same long woolen coat, but today a black scarf was knotted around his throat in an elegant cravat.  He was handsome in an old-fashioned sort of way, Pen thought, “old” being the operative word.  The man had to be forty.  At least.