The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) (14 page)

“—have no right!” he shouted.

Donovan’s response was measured, but it carried.  “Don’t I?  What about her rights?  Or are you more concerned about how this might affect your position in the family?”

“Damn you, Donovan.  I’ve given everything to this place, to the family.  How can you say that?”

“Then explain it to me.  What’s the problem?”

“There’s really no need to eavesdrop,” an amused, feminine voice said from behind Riga.

Riga started, turned around, gritting her teeth.  She was too damn jumpy today. “Isabelle.  How long have you been standing there?”

Donovan’s assistant was an icy vision in winter white.  She smoothed the front of her Jackie Kennedy style jacket.  “Not long,” she said, smiling sardonically.  “Don’t worry, I saw you come in.  I know you haven’t been here long either.  I’m sure you’re not the type to spy.”

Isabelle nodded toward one of the sitting rooms across the hall.  The door was open and Riga saw a fire crackling inside.  “Come on then, I’ll tell you all about it.  You may as well know.  Everybody else does.”

Riga slung her bag from her shoulder.  “Thanks, but maybe some other time.  I’m beat.”  She didn’t trust Isabelle, didn’t want to feel they were conspiring against Donovan.

Isabelle’s forehead puckered.  “Suit yourself.”  She reached behind Riga and knocked smartly on the closed door.

Before Riga could turn, Reuben flung it open behind her.  “Hear much?” he snarled.

“I don’t need to,” Isabelle said coolly.  “Mr. Mosse doesn’t keep secrets from me.”

Ouch.  Riga wondered who that barb had been directed at, Riga or Reuben?

Reuben pushed past them both and stalked to the elevator.  He jabbed the button and the doors slid open immediately.  The guard inside nodded, his face impassive.   “Good evening, Mr. Mosse.  Miss Locke.  Going down?”

Isabelle looked to Donovan. 

He stood inside the study, his face like a thundercloud.  “I think we’re done for the night, Isabelle.”

“Thank you, Mr. Mosse.  I’ll see you tomorrow morning.” 

Isabelle joined Reuben in the elevator, staring forward at the doors until they closed upon her.

Riga stepped inside the study, shutting the door behind her and leaning against it, waiting for Donovan to speak first.  A fire burned low behind the screen, its warmth more psychological than physical.

Donovan went to the bar and poured two glasses of red.  She followed him and he handed her a goblet.  Donovan unbuttoned his black jacket revealing an eggplant colored shirt and a dark tie. 

Riga took a sip of the wine, letting it linger on her tongue, wondering when or if Donovan would tell her what was going on with Reuben.  The anger in the men’s voices had been palpable.  She tilted the glass, holding it to the light.  “Malbec?” she hazarded. 

In answer, Donovan placed his hand on her hip, and kissed her.  His tongue tasted of the wine, and something primeval and wild and hot rose between them.  When his arms came around her, however, she gasped with pain. 

He released her as if scalded.  “What’s wrong?  Did I hurt you?”

“No.  I must have bruised myself.”  She went to a mirror, turned and lifted her blouse chest high.  An ugly hoof-shaped bruise marked her rib cage, purple with shades of green.

“It looks like you were kicked by a pony,” Donovan said.  “And what happened to your neck?  It’s got a red mark around it.”

A vision of the demon flashed in her mind, its horns and hooves, the feeling of being choked.  “The demon.  I’ll be more careful next time.”

Donovan’s lips thinned.  “You said a battle with a demon was psychological.”

“Largely psychological.”

“Riga—”

“I wasn’t holding out on you.  I didn’t think this would happen.  It shouldn’t have happened; it never did before.  Before, everything was—”

“Easy?”

Riga collapsed onto the couch and set her glass on the table beside her.  “This shouldn’t have happened.” She rubbed her temples.  She ached, she’d been roughed up by a demon, had dealt with two corpses – one human, one feline – and Donovan thought she’d been holding out on him when she knew he was holding out on her.  Riga didn’t expect him to tell her every business issue he had, but what was happening with Reuben seemed different, bigger.

Donovan would tell her when he was ready, she told herself.  Better to think about the things she could control – the magic.  The encounter with the demon shouldn’t have left her bruised and battered.  What had gone wrong?  She’d followed the formulas, the circles had been perfect.  And so the problem was Riga. 

“Magic is about more than formulas,” she said slowly.  “The sigils, the crystals, the wands – all of those things are just instruments for the will.  It’s the magician that gives them power.  I lost focus.”

“There’s something I don’t understand,” Donovan continued.  “Did the demon kill Lynn Chen?  Is that even possible?”

“I’m not sure it matters.  Either the demon killed her under someone else’s command, or the magician killed her as a sacrifice.”   

“Sacrifice to whom?”

She braced her elbow on the back of the couch and cupped her head in her hand. “People summon demons for power or favors.  If you’re strong enough to master a demon, it can be very helpful.  King Solomon supposedly used demons to build his temple.”

“If demons are so powerful, why would they work with a magician?  What does the demon get out of it?”

“That’s a good question,” she said slowly.  “Demons need material energy to operate on this plane.  The magician gives it to them.  As to why, when magicians work magic on a spiritual plane, it makes them spiritually stronger, or somehow changes things, on the material plane.  Maybe it works for demons in reverse – they become more powerful, or advance, on their plane when they work in ours.  Or maybe they just like it.

 “Whoever killed Lynn, used the demon in the act,” Riga continued.  “Most demons merely prey on weaknesses.  You like to drink, it turns to alcoholism, you’re in love, you become obsessed.  They cause you to self-destruct rather than kill you themselves, and ultimately you can resist.”

“How did you resist it tonight?”

“I knew what it was trying to do,” Riga said.  “Lynn didn’t.” 

She wouldn’t tell Donovan how close the demon had come to winning that battle. 

He sat down beside her.  Donovan draped one arm along her shoulders, kneading her neck with his hand.  She allowed him to distract her.  He would tell her about Reuben, she thought stubbornly.  Donovan wouldn’t possibly demand full disclosure from her in the afternoon and then keep things from her in the evening.

“What did Tara want?” he asked.

Riga told him about Tara, the cat, and Lynn Chen. 

Donovan stared deep into his glass.  He tilted it, frowning.  “The Sheriff isn’t going to like that you and Tara have identified the body before he’s released that information… If he’s even identified Lynn yet.”

“If that’s a hint to call him, I will.  Tonight.”

“It can wait until tomorrow.  You’re meeting the lawyer in the morning.  Let her sort it out.”

Riga digested that, and decided he was right.  She’d forgotten about the lawyer.  “Where’s Pen?”

“Out with the crew.  She said they needed to plan tomorrow night’s shoot.”

Riga frowned.  Pen was only eighteen – old enough to go to off to college but this didn’t feel right, especially with a killer out there.

Donovan held up a hand in appeasement.  “She’s being watched, remember?”

“And so am I.  I wish you’d asked me first.”

“I meant to talk to you about it when you called, but got sidetracked by your adventures in demonology.  You got my messages, didn’t you?”

“Uh, yeah.”  She didn’t want to admit she hadn’t listened to them yet.  “It surprised me though.  Why now?”

“You have to ask?  Two bodies?  Demons?  I’m no good to anyone when it comes to magic, and even if I could follow you around all day, which I can’t, we’d both be unhappy with that.”

There it was again, that false note, that wrongness to what he had told her.  Was she imagining it?  Paranoid?  Slowly, she said, “When it comes to magic, right now I’m not much good to anyone either.  But thanks.  Cesar seems competent.”

He studied the toes of his boots.  “There’s something else.  I have to fly to Philadelphia tomorrow.”

Her heart sank.

“It’s Erin,” he said.

Who was Erin?  And then the memory surfaced.  “Your… cousin?”  Donovan had lost his parents, uncle and aunt in a small plane crash when he was a child.  What was left of his family had been broken up, gone into foster care.  One cousin, Erin, had disappeared in the system. 

“You remember, Gwenn?” Donovan said.  “The ghost you met?  She knew her.  She’s given me a lead on Erin.”

“My God,” Riga breathed.  “A new lead after – how long has it been?”

“She disappeared twenty-five years ago.  I’ve been searching for twenty.  And the more time passes, the more futile it seems.  Even the investigators have been telling me to call it off, save my money.”

“And Reuben?”

“It’s easier for the family to consider Erin dead.  She was Reuben’s sister, so it’s more raw for him.  He’s said his goodbyes.  He doesn’t want to know what happened, to rake up the past.”

“What about the rest of the family?”

“Varying degrees on the same theme.”

A log collapsed upon itself in the fireplace, sending up a shower of sparks.

“You’re out of wine,” he said with a strained smile.

She looked at the empty glass, surprised.

He took it from her, went to the bar and poured her another.  When he returned to hand it to her, he remained standing.  “I’ve got a detective working for me on the east coast.  Thanks to Gwenn‘s lead, she’s found…  Someone.  The only way I’ll know for sure is to see for myself.  This woman, if she is Erin, is mixed up with a rough crowd.  Drugs.”

“And Reuben?”

“He somehow found out about the P.I.  At least he doesn’t know about Gwenn, or this trip.  You’re the only one I’ve told.”

“Isabelle doesn’t know?”

He began to deny it, then stopped himself.  “She’s smart, she thinks outside the box, and she knows nearly as much about my business as I do.  She knows I’m leaving for Philadelphia tomorrow – she booked the flight.  She might have figured it out.  But Isabelle is loyal.  She wouldn’t have told Reuben.”

Riga didn’t say anything.  What would Isabelle have revealed if Riga had taken her up on her offer for a tête-à-tête? 

He looked at her.  “But I don’t like leaving you alone.  Come with me.  You and Pen.”

“You’re not leaving me alone.  Pen’s got Ash and now I have Cesar.  I’ve also got Brigitte, who is weirdly dangerous.”  Riga had seen the gargoyle once drop upon someone, letting gravity do its work.  The man didn’t get up again for a long time.   “It sounds like this woman, whoever she is, doesn’t have much of anyone.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“And how will you feel if you lose this lead?”

“I won’t if you come with me.”

For a moment Riga imagined doing it, flying away from all of this.  “I can’t.  The Sheriff doesn’t want me to leave town.  I’d love it if Pen would go with you, but there’s not a chance in hell of her agreeing to it.  She’s not going to leave the show.  Besides, I’ve got a contract.”

He shook his head.  “I’m chasing shadows.  I’ll tell the detective to follow up on her own.”

 “You can go.  The police are watching me closely.”

“Not that closely,” Donovan said.  He rose and went to the bar, hesitating over the wine, then pouring himself a glass of club soda.

“How long will you be gone?”

“A day at most.”

“Is that all?  Donovan, as remarkable as you are, I think I can survive a day without you.  Go!”

His lips quirked.  “It’s not that simple.”

“Sure it is.  You’ve got conflicting loyalties – your girlfriend or your family.  Family comes first, and for pete’s sake, it’s only for a day!  That’s not even a real conflict.”

His emerald-colored eyes seemed to glow.  “You’re more than just a girlfriend.”

“If you don’t go, you’ll regret it,” she said. “You’ve been searching for Erin for years.  You can’t miss this opportunity.  Go!  I’ll be here when you get back.”

He drew her close, kissed her on the forehead.  “You’d better be.”

Chapter 15: Group Therapy

Riga dreamed.

She sat before a wooden table in a dimly lit room.  Thin beeswax tapers glowed in the walls, affixed by their own drippings to the uneven stone.  Daylight streamed through a narrow slit high in one wall and through an open doorway through which bees flew in and out.  They filled the air with their low, persistent humming.

A deck of tarot cards lay upon the table.  Riga shuffled them seven times and laid them out in a Celtic Cross spread, her standby.  The situation: Eight of Swords, a woman trapped in a web ringed by blades.  Crossing card: Seven of Cups – illusion.  Beneath the situation: the Hermit – a lonely man struggling up a mountain, the path lit by a glowing crystal upon his staff.  Above: Two of Coins – a delicate balancing act.  Behind her: the Page of Swords – an impetuous and fiery youth.  Before her, the King of Wands reversed.  Riga shuddered at this card, which depicted a man in red robes standing before an altar with a burning flame.  He was someone who had remade himself, who worshipped fire, who demanded obedience.  Riga, the querant: the World reversed.  She had it all at her fingertips, just out of reach.  Something blocked her.  The environment: the Magician reversed.   Riga frowned.  Her magic was certainly upside down.  The key: a blindfolded woman holding two crossed swords before her – peace restored.  It would be up to Riga, then, to fix things.  The final card, the outcome, depicted a man prone upon the ground, ten swords plunged into his back.  Who did he represent?  A bee buzzed past her and she waved it away, sitting back to look at the spread as a whole.  The first card she’d laid out, the Eight of Swords, drew her gaze.  The woman in the card shifted, struggling against the web that entrapped her.  And then Riga was that woman, pulling desperately against the sticky webs.  An evil-looking spider the size of a cat moved towards her, its fangs dripping venom.