The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) (19 page)

Two figures clasped upon the temple steps

Lucifer tied a sash about their waists in benediction

The scene shifted and she stood upon a San Francisco street.  She sent a prayer heavenwards – Am I responsible for my life or is it all fate?  An answer was returned: your life is the sum of Creation and Imagination.  But who, Rita wondered, was the Imaginer?

Angry clouds swept above her and thunder rolled across the city.  People fled the coming rain.  The clouds gathered atop one of the city’s hills, flashes of lightning streaking their roiling mass.  Rita, her doppelganger, was unafraid.  Someone was there, waiting.  She ascended the hill, past parked cars and trellises laden with grapes.  She walked faster; he was waiting.  A loud crash of thunder–

 Riga jerked awake.  The thundering was real; someone hammered on her door.  That someone was going to pay.  Whenever she was able to read something sensible in a dream, she knew to pay attention and she wasn’t about to lose this one.   “Hold your horses!” she shouted, stumbling out of bed and reviewing the dream in her mind so as not to forget.  She picked a kimono-style robe off the floor and wrapped it around her, finger combed her hair, then peered through the peep hole.  She rubbed the sleep from her eyes and looked again.

Donovan.

She threw open the door.  “What are you doing here?” she snarled.

“Are you okay?”  He pushed past her, looked around.  He was in his long coat, a folded newspaper beneath his arm.

 “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You haven’t heard then.”  He handed her the paper.  “Look.”

She didn’t see it right away, the article was two thirds down the page: Local Councilwoman Killed in Mugging. 

Riga sank to the couch. 

Faye was dead.  It had happened last night, in the parking lot outside a local drugstore.  She’d been stabbed, her purse taken.

Had it happened in San Francisco, it might have been a coincidence.  But attacks like that were rare in that section of the Peninsula and Riga didn’t believe in coincidence.  She stared at the paper, thinking.

“How did you know about Faye?” she asked.

“Pen told me.”

Riga exploded to her feet, throwing the newspaper to the floor.  “I don’t know what game you’ve been playing with me and I don’t care.” She closed the gap between them.  “But do not talk to or interact with Pen in any way without me there.”

He looked at her for a long while, as if considering.  “Agreed.”

“Why were you talking to her?”

“I wanted to know how she’s involved in this.”

“And how are you involved in this?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Try me,” she snarled.

“No, Riga.  It wouldn’t help.  You won’t believe me.”

 “Then just go.”

“I can’t.”  Donovan pulled her to him and kissed her.

Riga tasted berries and wild places on his lips.  She felt a molten heat flow through her, weakening her knees and she clasped his coat for balance.  Memories flooded her of times long past, ancient days, and the feel of a warmer sun on her neck.  Understanding seemed just within reach, she had known him for years, for her entire life, because–

She pushed away from him, breaking the kiss, and he let her go.  They stared at each other.

He looked dazed.

“That was a dirty trick,” she finally said.   

“Riga—“ He reached for her but she danced out of his grasp.

“I need to get changed,” she said.  “I have a lot to do today.”  She turned her back on him and stalked to her bedroom, slamming the door behind her.  She took her time getting dressed, half-hoping he’d be gone when she emerged in jeans and a white t-shirt.  But she found him sitting in her lounge chair, coat off, wearing a hangdog expression.  When he saw her, his insouciance snapped smoothly into place.

“Good, you’re still here,” she said.

“I thought you wanted me to go.”

“I’ve decided I’d rather have you where I can keep an eye on you.”

He rose gracefully from the chair, and rubbed his hands together.  “So what next?  A stakeout?  Will we be interviewing suspects?  Checking out the crime scene?”

“You will sit,” she pointed to the chair.  “And I will let my fingers do the walking.”

“Kinky.”

She ignored him, sitting upon a canvas stool at the kitchen counter and drawing the phonebook toward her. 

“A phonebook.  How quaint,” he said.

She glanced at him, struck by hearing her earlier thoughts echoed, then shook her head and called Dora.  For insider information, there was no one better than the local newspaper editor.

Dora picked up the phone, mid-cough.  “Peninsula Times,” she barked.

“Dora, it’s Riga.”

“Your article goes in tomorrow.  I was hoping for more juice, frankly.”

“I’m still digging.  What do you know about Faye Trevalyan’s death?”

Riga heard her draw on the cigarette, then a slow exhale.  “What’s your interest?”

“I met with her the afternoon of her death.”

“Really?  Why?”

“Because Faye was the last person to see Herman Baro alive.  She neglected to report that to the police.”

“Herman Baro?  Why do I know that name?”

“He was Aaron Cunningham’s CFO.  He died in a car crash.  Aaron told me he’d embezzled funds from the company, but the funds never turned up.”

“Interesting.” 

Riga knew Dora was making the connections.  “Are the police investigating Faye’s death as a mugging gone wrong, or are they looking for a personal motive?”

“At this point, they’re keeping all possibilities open,” Dora rasped.  “A murder like this is unusual for our area.  So this meeting with Faye, how did it go?”

“On the record?”

“Of course.”

“You can quote me.  Just let me know if you hear anything, will you?”

“Deal.”

Riga gave Dora a rundown of the meeting and the name of the bartender in the Hanged Man who’d seen her with Herman Baro.  She’d known Dora a long time.  The editor was fair, she’d check sources, and she’d write just enough to gain eyeballs without getting sued.

“That was riveting,” Donovan said after she hung up.  He yawned, not bothering to cover his mouth.  “Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

“No.  There are eggs in the fridge and cereal in the cupboard.  Help yourself.” 

Donovan made a face, but went to the kitchen, rolled up his sleeves, and tied a dishcloth around his waist.  The man was impeccably dressed and she briefly wondered about his personal tailor, then picked up the phone again and called the police, asking for the officer in charge of the Faye Trevalyan investigation.  The officer thanked her, got her contact information, said they’d be in touch.  Riga hung up, satisfied.  She hadn’t expected more.

“That’s a nasty bruise on your arm,” he said, cracking an egg into a bowl.

She glanced at it, just below her t-shirt sleeve.  The bruise was purple tinged with green.  “Omelettes?” she asked.

He whisked the eggs with a fork.  “Scrambled.  Did it happen at the Hanged Man?”

“Who knows?”

“I found Pen at the beach.”  He poured the eggs into the now hissing pan, then looked up at her.  “She seemed unhappy.”

Riga felt a twinge.  She didn’t like to think of Pen unhappy, and she didn’t know what to do about it.  Then she realized – Pen had not been grounded.  Damn.  She’d have to call Rebecca and explain that Pen would be safer in parental lockdown. 

He idly stirred the egg mixture in the pan.  Green onions floated to the top.  When the eggs began to solidify, he crumbled goat cheese into the skillet. 

“Did she say anything?” Riga asked.

“Not much.  You know teenagers.  They’re all monosyllables and then complain you don’t understand them.”

“You seem to know them well.  Do you have any?”

He shook his head.  “No kids, just lots of young cousins.  I come from a prolific family.  Plates?”

She set the table, and when the eggs were done to his satisfaction, he brought the steaming pan to the table and ladled out the eggs.  She heard the click and metallic spring of her toaster.

“That will be the bagels,” he said, going to retrieve them, along with a tub of cream cheese.

He was an excellent cook, and she felt her guard relax amidst this cozy domesticity. 

“Let’s go away,” he said when they were done.

She looked at him, startled.  She’d been thinking the same thing.  She had set things in motion and wanted to let them fester a bit, not make herself too available to answer questions.  “Go where?” she asked.

A smile played across his lips.  “Somewhere we won’t be disturbed.”

*****

They were gone for two days.  By the time they returned to San Francisco, Riga had ignored three messages from Aaron Cunningham’s receptionist, and one from Aaron himself.

Donovan put their traveling bags down beside her couch – Riga’s scarred leather satchel beside his Louis Vuitton.  He pushed his sunglasses back upon his head.  “Now, are you going to call him?”

She tossed her purse upon the couch, where it landed with a thump.  The condo smelled welcoming, a scent she only noticed when she’d spent time away from it.  Riga deposited the wine she’d collected upon the kitchen counter.  “I’ve let Mr. Cunningham stew long enough.”  She made the call.  When she was done, she said, “We’ve been invited to a demolition tomorrow.”

“We?”

“Me, but you’re my guest.”

“Still don’t want to let me out of your sight?”

She smiled.  “Not a chance.”

Chapter 30: Off to the Races

Pen’s phone vibrated and she checked her texts.  There was a new one from Steve, her partner in movie making crime.  It read:

HAVE PRESS PASS TO RACETRK DEMOL.  COME W/ TO VIDEO?

It took her a moment to puzzle it out.  Getting some live video of an explosion, or multiple explosions, might come in handy.  

She texted back: TIME PLACE?

Pen was off to the races.

*****

Steve picked Pen up the next day in his rusted out van.  He was a quiet, massive Tongan with an equally massive family; he usually had at least one cousin in tow, and as an only child, Pen sometimes found herself longing for that sort of easy family connection. 

Pen nodded to his cousin.  “Hey, Peter.”

He gave her a gap-toothed smile.  “Pen!  How’s it going?”

They loaded her equipment into Steve’s van and were off.  The freeway was rutted and Steve’s shocks long gone.  Pen crouched in the back with Peter, fretting over the equipment and tightening straps as they bumped to the racetrack. 

There was a good crowd at the track.  A security guard glanced at Steve’s passes and gave them hard hats, then pointed them toward the viewing area across from the doomed building.  They bobbed in a sea of yellow plastic hats – reporters in blazers and other camera people, like themselves, in jeans and t-shirts.  No one gave them a second look.

One of the legs of Pen’s tripod wouldn’t lock in place.  “Can I have the duct tape?” she asked Steve. 

He looked around him, patted his pockets.  “Uh.  Peter?  You got it?”

Peter shook his head.  “Must be back in the van.”

Pen felt a flash of irritation with herself.  She should have thought to bring it.  The van was on the far end of the parking lot and the sun was hot today.  But she’d have time to get there and back before the demolition.  “I’ll get it,” she said.  “Need anything?”

“Red Vines in the glove compartment,” Steve said.

“Want me to go with you, Pen?” Peter asked.

She rolled her eyes.  “I think I can handle a roll of duct tape and candy.”  She left her camera and tripod with them, knowing her equipment would be safe.  Though the crush of people was growing, they gave her large friends wide berth.

She walked through a wire fence maze, past orange cones, and across a crude bridge of wooden planks, until she was regurgitated into the parking lot.  Most of the cars were clustered as close as possible to the construction zone, but not Steve’s.  He didn’t want his precious van scratched.  She slogged through the lot.  The sun broiled her scalp and the heat from the pavement baked the thin soles of her tennis shoes. 

Pen wended through the cars and then she saw him, the first pig, Tony.  He wore an orange construction vest and a hard hat, and was frowning at a clipboard.  She dropped into a crouch behind a Nissan, her heart slamming in her chest.  Had he seen her?  She didn’t think so.  She tried to stand, to peek at him through the car’s windows, but her legs wouldn’t cooperate.  It took her two tries to raise herself.  He was gone.  She looked around.  Where had he gone?  She liked the idea of the vanished Tony even less than a Tony she could see.  Had he seen her?  Was he looking for her now?  Fear numbed her brain. 

She crouched, duck walking behind another car.  It was slow going, so she straightened her legs and bent double, weaving between cars at an awkward trot.  She didn’t know where she was going, only that if he had seen her, he had seen her by the Nissan and she had to get as far from it as possible. 

She heard a soft crack and stopped in her tracks, dropping to a squat between a Jeep and a red SUV.  Pen held her breath, listening.  There it was again, another crack and shifting of earth.  A footstep?  But not a normal footstep, a normal footstep was followed by another footstep. 

When it came again she swung around, orienting on the sound.  A thin crack splintered the pavement, at first slowly, then picking up speed, zigzagging toward Pen.  She watched, too astonished to move.  At the tips of her shoes, the fracture halted. 

That was weird. 

The hair stood up on her arms. 

Pen wasn’t alone. 

She rose slowly, looking around.  No one.  But the sense of a nearby presence grew.  It felt like a weight, pressing upon her from all directions.  She remembered the stories of men hiding beneath cars with knives, slashing at women’s tendons so they couldn’t flee, and she sprang away from the Jeep. 

She looked down at the crack in the parking lot.  A bit of black asphalt crumbled and fell into the gap, making a mournful, hollow sort of sound.  Pen shivered.  The air had grown cold and still, as if the world was holding its breath, waiting.  The sun, which had beat so mercilessly upon her, now seemed like a dull, facsimile of a star, shining weakly in the pale sky.  Pen’s breath came in short gasps that she could see in the chill air.