The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) (17 page)

Audrey swore, and moved swiftly from behind the counter.  “What next?”

“Is that Reverend Carver?”

“Naturally.  His crew must have painted the graffiti on my window,” Audrey said.  “Dammit, I can’t deal with them now.  I have a client arriving any minute.”

Riga gave her a long look.  If she had a client, then she’d never planned on meeting with Riga.  “Mind if I talk to them?”

“Be my guest.” 

Riga nodded and strode outside, the chill air bringing a flush of rose to her cheeks.  The dog fell into step beside her, looking up at Riga with a hopeful expression.

The Reverend saw her and broke off his conversation with another man, staring. 

She waded through the crowd.  “Hello, Reverend.  What are you doing here?” 

The reverend pulled a plaid hunter’s cap from his pocket and clapped it on his head, covering the thinning hair.  “We’re here because no one else is; no one else is prepared to fight the evil in our midst.  You’ve danced with the devil, but not even you are lost.  Are you prepared?  The evil is upon us.  You’ve seen it.  Now, will you fight it?”

“Uh, thanks.  I’m glad to hear I’m not beyond redemption.”

“Deputy Night explained your role,” he said stiffly.  “Though you are walking close to the edge.”

“So are you.  Do you really think Audrey Laine is a prostitute?” Riga said.

“They all are,” he bellowed, playing to the gleeful crowd.  “Seducing the credulous, sapping their will, their senses, pulling them from reality, from their duties, from the one way.  All because of the many harlotries of the harlot.  The charming one, the mistress of sorceries, who sells nations by her harlotries and families by her sorceries.”

“I see,” Riga said.  He was quoting from a Hebrew text now, and she wracked her mental file cabinet to remember which one.  “So which one of you painted the word ‘whore’ on her window?”

The crowd buzzed. 

Cesar made his way through the cars toward them. 

“Since she’s not involved in prostitution, the word ‘whore’ implies a certain Biblical point of view, and one you applied to me when we first met,” Riga continued. 

The Reverend took a step toward her.  “You accuse us?  We are being persecuted for our faith, my brothers and sisters,” he roared.  “You are blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution.  The persecution drives you even deeper into God’s kingdom.”

The little group cheered.

Riga arched a brow.  “Matthew, isn’t it?  And that earlier quote, was it Nablus?  He’s a minor Hebrew prophet.  It seems esoteric study for a church.”

The reverend jammed his hands into his coat pockets.  “The police think you know who killed that girl.”

There were gasps from the crowd.  The men moved in closer.

Riga tensed.  She hated crowds.  Almost all had an undercurrent of anger; the jostling, the petty frustrations, seemed to magnify in groups.  Cesar pushed through the tightening circle towards her.

The dog beside her growled and she looked down at it, surprised.  “Hey now, there’s no call for that,” she said.

The dog hung its head. 

One of the women in the crowd laughed, a strange half-gasping sound.

“I don’t know who killed her,” Riga said, more loudly.  “But he needs to be stopped.  On that, I hope we agree.  I found the body on the beach when we were filming and the police questioned me about it.  You should know, there were signs at the site of an occult ceremony.”  She was glad now that the police department hadn’t hired her, binding her with secrecy. 

The Reverend’s gaze was caught by movement across the parking lot.  A police cruiser had pulled up.  Night and King got out of the car and headed toward them. 

“Signs?” the Reverend asked.  “What kind of signs?”

“I don’t think this is the time or place for that discussion.”  Riga shifted the bag slung across her shoulder.  It certainly wasn’t a discussion she’d like to have with Sheriff King looming over her.  “But I would like to talk to you about it.” 

The Reverend leaned towards her, quivering like an arrow strung in a bow.  And then the tension released.  “The church.  Eight o’clock tomorrow morning,” he rapped out.

“Hello, Reverend,” the Sheriff boomed.  “I see you’re exercising your First Amendment rights again.  Please ask your crowd not to block the street or parking lot.”

Carver nodded briefly, then turned on his heel and marched toward Audrey’s shop. 

The group picked up their placards, mobilizing to follow him.

“And Miss Hayworth,” King continued.  “Fancy seeing you here.”

“Hello, Sheriff.”

He looked her up and down.  “How nice to see you exercising your First Amendment rights as well.  Or are you interfering in a police investigation?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

The dog growled low in its throat and the Sheriff took a quick step back.  “What the—  Isn’t that your dog, Night?”

“Absolutely not.” The Deputy shook his head.  “I saw it at Miss Hayworth’s last night.”  He grinned at her.  “She saved me from the beast.”

“You mean there’s more than one of those monsters?”  He knelt down, peered at it.  “I don’t see a collar on it.  Better call it in to animal control.”

“It’s mine,” Cesar said, materializing by Riga’s side.

King squinted at him.  “Huh.  You work at the casino, don’t you?”

“Yeah.  Dog must have busted out of my yard.  Come on boy.”  Cesar whistled and headed away.  The dog followed.

Riga felt an uncomfortable prickling at the back of her neck.  She turned.  The Reverend’s wife stood, watching her.  Her eyes burned with hate.

Riga shivered, and hurried after Cesar.  She caught up with him, loading the dog into his SUV.  “That’s your dog?”

“Nah.”  He closed the car door and the dog pressed his nose against the window, leaving a gooey looking print.  “But the thing tried to eat my car outside your place last night, so I think that gives me some ownership rights.  Did you know it’s a Caucasian Sheepdog?  They’re really smart and deadly tough, which is why the Russian military uses them.”

“Yeah.  I know.  But it must belong to somebody.”

“It’s a small town.  I’ll find out who he belongs to.  But I can’t let this guy go to jail.  No dog deserves that.  So what’s next?”

“My lunch date bailed and I’m starving.  I was thinking of heading over to Truckee, grabbing a bite, checking on some leads there.” Riga’s phone rang.  She checked the number, it was Pen.  “Just a second.” She pressed the phone to her ear.

“Hi, Riga.  The police just finished with me.  Want to get some lunch?”

“Sure.  Where are you?”

“At the station with Ash.  Can you pick us up?”

Riga consulted with Cesar.  “We’ll be there in five.”

Chapter 18: Putrefaction

The ghosts of Truckee were entirely in Riga’s imagination: frontier cowboys walked its wood plank sidewalks, thirties athletes clunked past with long skis slung over their shoulders, fifties greasers worked in the gas station.  It was a funny little town, she thought, laid out in a wavering line, along the railroad tracks and the river.  Snow drifted downward, fat white flakes that stuck to their eyelashes, hair and clothing, and the four hurried into a diner, blowing on their hands and stamping their feet for warmth as they waited to be seated.  A waitress led them past red Naugahyde booths, a snarling, stuffed bear, and walls lined with antlers and arrowheads. 

They took a table near the far corner, Riga and the two bodyguards jostling for the power chair facing the door, its back to the wall.  Riga conceded first.  Ash and Cesar glared at each other, then Cesar grimaced and took the next least vulnerable seat.  Ash nodded and took the chair.

Riga’s hamburger arrived, drowning in grilled onions, bacon and cheese.  Her stomach whined in response. 

Pen unzipped her thick black jacket, exposing a black t-shirt that said “Freedom” in antique white script.  A large filigreed gold pendant hung around her neck.  She tore into her short stack, her handheld camera on the table by her elbow, while Cesar watched with an amused expression.  Ash ignored the women, his eyes roving to the doors, the other diners, the waitresses. 

“Can I ask you a question, Ms. Hayworth?” Cesar asked.

Riga nodded cautiously.

“Why did you become a metaphysical detective?  Why not a regular P.I.?”

How could she explain it?  That she’d been trying to figure out her own oddities, what had happened to her?  It was a road she didn’t want to go down.  “Because those aren’t the kind of mysteries I’m interested in,” she said lightly.  “And only wonder leads to knowing.”

Cesar raised an eyebrow, and his scar tissue stretched into new and interesting patterns.  “That’s Gregory of Nyssa, isn’t it?  But that’s not the entire quote.  It’s: Ideas create idols, only wonder leads to knowing.  It’s really a warning against ideologies.”

Riga put her half-eaten burger down, surprised.  “I’d forgotten the first part.  Were you a theology student?”

“Masters in religious studies.  Thought some philosophy would smarten me up.”

“How’d that work for you?” Ash said, unsmiling. 

Cesar’s scarred face twisted into a grin.  “Hey, at least I’ve got my good looks to fall back on.”

“Did you specialize in anything?” Riga asked him.

“Medieval Christian philosophy.  The universe was like a giant clockworks to the medieval mind. Everything was connected and so everything had mystical significance.  Today nothing means anything.  Modern life is depressing.”

“I’ve been reading some alchemical texts for fun—”

“Fun?”  Cesar raised an eyebrow.  “Those old texts will make your head spin.”

“No kidding.  I’m starting to think deciphering the texts is part of the internal alchemical process.”

“I doubt that.”  Cesar used a french fry as a wand to point at her.  “You’re talking about the correspondences?”

“What’s a correspondence?” Pen said.

“The medieval mind saw symbolic connections between things,” Cesar said.  “For example, when plants died in the winter and were reborn in the spring, they saw this as a natural correspondence to man’s resurrection after death.  In alchemy, secrets are revealed through symbols and their relationships to each other, for example: the symbolic relationship between sun and moon, king and queen.  But the alchemists didn’t have to struggle to figure them out because thinking this way was natural for them.  If alchemy works, I don’t think it’s because of the effort required to decipher the symbols.  There’s something else going on.”

Dammit, he was right, Riga realized.  She should have thought of that.  “Do you think alchemy works?” she asked, curious.

“There’s a quote by the protestant reformer, Martin Luther, on alchemy.  I can’t remember it exactly, but he approved of it – not for the ability to turn lead into gold, but because he thought it was an allegory for the last judgment and that it could transform spiritual lead into gold.  I’m a Catholic, but I’ve got to admit, Luther had style.”

“My turn, Ms. Hayworth,” Ash said.  “Why do you drive an old man’s car?”

“What’s wrong with my Lincoln?”

“Nothing, if you like driving a sofa,” Ash said.

“It’s got a smooth ride, crumple room, and trunk space for at least three bodies.”

Ash nodded, looking thoughtful.  “It depends on the size of the bodies, but I get you.”

Replete, Riga checked her watch.  “This is where Cesar and I leave you two.  Let’s meet back in two hours.”

“Come on, Aunt Riga,” Pen said.  “Let me come with you.  I worked with you on cases before.”

“No, you haven’t.” 

“Did too!”

“Did not.  Why are you asking now?  Did Sam put you up to this?”

Pen’s brows drew together.  “Why would he do that?”

Riga pointed at the filigreed pendant that dangled from Pen’s neck.  “Because you don’t wear jewelry.  Even if you did, that antique-looking charm isn’t your style, and even if it was, it doesn’t go with your t-shirt.  Also, your camera is on.  Sam hinted about using hidden cameras today.  So I’m guessing this…”  She flipped the pendant with a twist of her finger.  “Is a microphone. And those are Angus’s specialty.”

Pen spluttered.  “It’s not…How…?  The show is really important!”

“Et tu, Brutus?”  Riga leaned forward, her voice dark and sweet as molasses as she spoke into the mic.  “Don’t cross me, Angus.”

“I can help!”  Pen looked away, winced, touched a hand to her ear.  “I can’t—”

Riga wiped her hands with a paper napkin.  “They’ve got you wearing an earpiece too?  Where are they?  Truckee’s in a valley so they must be close to pick up your signal.”

“In the parking lot across the street,” Pen muttered.  “And Angus wants to know if you just threatened him.”

“Now that’s just dumb.  I would never give a target warning.  And you can tell Sam it’s time for him to back off.  Now.  I didn’t agree to be secretly filmed.”

Pen rolled her eyes.  “I don’t have to tell him.  He can hear you.  Microphone, remember?”

“Then the van had better be gone by the time I leave this restaurant.  Pen, what’s going on with you?  I know this show is important, but all of this… deceit is out of character.”

“You’re one to talk!  What about…?”  Pen stopped, gnawing her lower lip.  “You’ve been sneaking around too,” she finished lamely.  “And you have an over-developed sense of privacy.  No website, no social media… I don’t know how anybody even finds you to hire you.  You’re on a TV show now.  If this goes well, you can kiss privacy goodbye.”

“I doubt the paparazzi are interested in Tahoe Tessie.”  Riga held her hand out, palm up.  “Give me the pendant.”

Pen sullenly pulled the necklace over her head and handed it to Riga. 

She dropped it in her iced tea.  “Okay, you really want to help?  Then see what you can dig up on hauntings in the area.  I’m looking for recent activity.”

“Okaaaay,” Pen said, looking doubtful.

Riga rose from the table.  “Ready, Cesar?”

“As I’ll ever be.”

They wound through the tables and left the warmth of the diner.  Outside upon the wooden sidewalk, he asked her, “Why are you interested in recent hauntings?”