The Alchemical Detective (Riga Hayworth) (26 page)

“Good.  Tell them that.  You’re helping them out; you’re allowed to do it on your terms, not theirs.”

“But they wouldn’t listen to me before.”

“Were you talking to them, or shouting at them?  Because I’ve found that shouting at someone rarely calms a situation.”

Pen sank against the headboard and the tension seemed to flow out of her.  “Okay, I get it.  They weren’t taking me seriously because I was acting like…” She cast around for an answer.

“Someone who’d seen their first ghost?”

Pen grimaced.  “Yeah.”

“Look.  I’m here.  If you want, we can deal with these ghosts together until you feel confident enough to go it alone.”

Pen studied her toes, considering.  “I don’t think they’ll respect me if I don’t take charge, or at least try to.  I’ll try on my own.  But can I come to you for help, if I need it?”

“Deal.”  Riga stood and stretched; tentacles of pain shot through her torso.  She winced

“By the way, I was supposed to tell you that you dive at noon,” Pen said.  “I can’t believe you agreed to it.  The water’s going to be freezing.”

“I’ll worry about that tomorrow.”  Riga trudged from the room, thoughts of Donovan foremost in her mind. 

Outside the door, one of Pen’s ghosts hovered, its skin gray and rotting as if it had been long submerged.  She could tell from its general build and short hair that it had once been male, but the face was barely recognizable as human. 

It sighed mournfully, trailing after Riga.

“Can I help you?” she said.  Pen had plenty of ghosts to deal with and Riga figured she could help with this one, at least, since he’d appeared to her as well.

“Have you seen my dog?”

Riga stopped to look at him.  The voice seemed oddly familiar.  “Your dog?  What does he look like?”

“I called him Monster, because that’s what he looks like, but he’s a sweetheart.”

Riga’s heart beat faster.  “Er, he’s not a Caucasian Sheepdog by any chance, is he?”

The ghost nodded.

“I… think I have seen him wandering.  Who are you?”

The ghost drifted off.  “Monster?”

“Wait!  I can help you!”

The ghost vanished through a wall.  Riga raced after him, skidding on the polished wooden flooring in her haste to get to the door of the room he’d vanished into.  When she reached it, the ghost was gone.  She combed the penthouse, but didn’t find him.

Swearing under her breath, she retreated to the bedroom.  At least she’d finally get her hot shower.

She unbuttoned her blouse, and noticed a bottle of wine and a cheese board on the small table beside the bed.  A card made of thick, creamy white paper stood beside it.  She picked it up:
Thinking of you.  –D.
 

Riga sagged with relief.  He was okay.  He wasn’t calling, but he’d arranged for this.  Or had he arranged for it before he left?  But he wouldn’t have, because he thought he’d be back by now.   Riga glanced at her purse, which she’d tossed upon the bed.  Her cell phone was inside it.  She’d left messages for him, she reminded herself.  He’d call her when he could.  Donovan had to be okay. 

Riga uncorked the wine, poured a solitary glass.  It was one of her favorite Zins and she let it linger on her tongue.  This then, was love.  She paused, startled by the thought, the glass poised before her lips.  It
was
love.  She really did love Donovan.  But it was impossible; they came from different worlds.  Donovan only needed her now, or thought he did, because of everything they’d gone through together and the changes in his life that resulted.  But… Donovan was no fool.  He knew what he wanted.  She put the glass down and paced the room, feeling a surge of nervous energy.  There’d always been something more between them, hadn’t there?  Could it work?  Really work?

Her cell phone rang.  She lunged across the bed for her purse, digging frantically through it.  Second ring, third, fourth.  Her hand closed around the smooth casing of the phone and she flipped it open.  “Hello?” Riga said breathlessly.

“Riga.  It’s good to hear your voice,” Donovan said, his voice low and rough.  “It’s not her.”

Riga flopped onto her back, relief flooding her system.  “I’m sorry.”

“If you’d seen the wreck of a human being who was using her identity…  It was a relief, in a way, that it wasn’t Erin.”

“What happened?  Where have you been?  I thought you’d be back tonight.  Did you get my voice mails?”

“Yes, and you and Vinnie don’t need to worry anymore.”

“Anymore?  What happened?”

“Welfare fraud.  She was part of a gang using a string of false identities.  Erin’s was one of them.  It’s a police case now.  I’m sorry I couldn’t call.  It’s a long story, I’ll tell you about it when I get back.  I’m coming home tomorrow.”

She wanted to hear the story now, to reassure herself that all was well, but she swallowed her impatience.  It was his story to tell.  “And after you return…  What’s next?”

“I start over.”

“I’m glad you haven’t given up.”  She couldn’t stand the idea of Donovan defeated.

His laugh was hollow.  “You’ll be the only one.”

“About that… Reuben called me this afternoon.”

Donovan swore.  “My phone was turned off most of the day.  I suppose he’s been trying to get hold of me.  What did you tell him?”

“Nothing he didn’t already know.  But there’s something else…”  Riga hesitated, unsure of how to say it.

“Let me guess.  He suggested I was unstable, acting irrationally?”

“Yeah.  You knew about this?”

“It started while I was in San Francisco last month.  I’m sorry he dragged you into it.  What did you say?”

“I laughed.  It didn’t go over well.”

Donovan chuckled.  “That’s the best news I’ve heard today.  How’s your investigation going?”

Riga told him.

He was quiet for a time when she finished.  “I don’t like the sound of this.  I’ve got some things to wrap up with the police here before I can go, but I’ll be home by tomorrow night.  Is Cesar still on duty?”

“Of course.  I’m not stupid.  Donovan, the last time we spoke you said we needed to talk.”

“Not the best way to end a call, I know.  I’ve been thinking about us, about our future.  I shouldn’t have said anything at all because it’s something we need to talk over face to face.”

“And since breakups are easier by phone…”

“No!  Not that.  I love you, Riga.”

“I love you too.”

“That’s the first time you said that to me.”

“I wanted to make sure I meant it first.”

They talked more, and when Riga hung up, she felt as if a weight had been lifted from her.  Donovan was safe, and was coming home. 

If she dreamed that night, Riga didn’t remember it.  She woke late, dressed hurriedly, and drove to the burned remains of the church.  Standing in the parking lot, she felt she was looking at a black and white sketch.  The scene was a study in monochrome: white-frosted pine trees formed the backdrop for a dark slash of asphalt and the charred ruins of the church.  The sun shone brightly in a cloudless sky, and yesterday’s snow sparkled, a brilliant layer of white. 

She leaned against her Lincoln and dialed a number.

“Hello?” a wavering female voice asked.

“Hello, Mrs. Carver.  This is Riga Hayworth.”

“What do you want?  How did you get this number?”

“I wanted to tell you that I wasn’t responsible for your husband’s death and to tell you I’m sorry for your loss, and for the loss of your church.  I think your husband was searching for a killer, the same man I’m looking for, and that he died because of it.  I’d like to finish your husband’s work and catch the person responsible.  I think I’m close but it would be helpful to talk to you.  And you’re in the book.”

Riga waited, holding her breath. 

“Where are you?” Mrs. Carver finally asked.

“I’m in the church parking lot, across from the parsonage.”

Riga saw a gingham curtain in the parsonage draw aside, then drop back into place.

“Okay,” the reverend’s widow said.  “We can talk.”

Riga crunched through the ankle-deep snow to the parsonage.  Someone had made a path bordered by rough stones from the parking lot to the door, and swept the snow from it.  The ground was wet and spongy beneath her boots.  She knocked on the door.  Mrs. Carver opened it before Riga could pull her hand away.  Dark circles shadowed the hollows of the woman’s eyes.  She tightened her long, lumpy parka about her, studying Riga warily, then stepped outside and shut the door behind her, keeping Riga out. 

Riga stepped away, giving the woman more space.  “Mrs. Carver—”

“My name is Marie.”

Riga mentally stumbled.  Was this a statement of independence or a gesture of openness?  Neither seemed in keeping with her earlier impressions of Marie Carver.

“Marie, thanks for seeing me.  I can imagine how hard this is for you.”

“I know you didn’t burn down the church,” Marie said.  “The Sheriff told me, and the men admitted to it.” 

A Steller’s Jay shrieked angrily and they both glanced toward it.  The sapphire-colored bird fluttered from a tree, dislodging a clump of snow. 

“Did your husband ever talk to you about the women who died?” Riga asked.

“He didn’t kill them,” Marie said fiercely.  “I know that’s what some people are saying.  That he killed those women and then you—”

“I don’t believe he was responsible.  Are you familiar with Occam’s Razor?”

Marie nodded.  “The simplest answer usually is the correct one.”

“Yes.  And the simplest answer is one killer.  I think the man who killed those women, also killed your husband.  Your husband had photos on his wall of the women he’d been picketing, and of me from the day we discovered Sarah Glass’s body.  Do you know why?” 

“Photos?”  The thick lashes that shadowed Marie’s eyes flew upwards. 

“Photos at the demonstrations make sense.  Photos of me and the police, not so much…”  Riga trailed off.  Maybe they did make sense after all. 

“What?  What are you thinking?” Marie asked.

Riga massaged her right temple.  A dull ache throbbed in her head.  “Nothing.  Just an idea.”

“About who killed my husband?  Tell me what you know!”

“I don’t
know
anything.  Did he talk to you about what he was doing?”

Marie moistened her cracked lips.  “We didn’t…  He was obsessed with evil.  He thought something terrible had come here and he wanted to protect his flock.  But I don’t know anymore.”  Her expression changed to panic.  “I can’t tell you anymore!  Leave me alone!”

“Marie?” A man said from behind Riga.

She turned toward the voice.  A man walked toward them.  He looked vaguely familiar – mid-thirties, wearing a red and black hunters cap and thick leather jacket.  Had he been at the demonstration at Audrey’s shop?  Then she remembered.  He’d been at the church the day of the fire, the man who’d charged Cesar.

The lines in his face hardened and in two quick strides he was beside Marie, one arm protectively around her shoulder.  He looked at Riga with disgust.  “What are you doing here?  Haven’t you caused enough trouble?” 

“I’m leaving.”  Riga wondered at Marie and the man’s protectiveness.  Was it a normal reaction after the tragedy, or something more?  “Thanks, Marie, for your help.  If there’s anything you need, please let me know.”

She turned to leave.  A branch cracked behind her and she glanced over her shoulder.  The man stepped toward her.

“Don’t,” Marie said in a low voice, putting a restraining hand on his arm.  “She knows martial arts.”

Riga stopped, turned to them.  “How did you know that, Marie?”

Marie tossed her head.  “Looked you up on the Internet.  You’re not the only one who can find things out.”

Bull.  Riga wasn’t online; she’d made certain of that.  Marie was lying about something that shouldn’t matter and that meant that it did matter, somehow.  She smiled blandly.  “Thanks again.  You’ve been very informative.”

She walked to her car, thinking hard.  Marie had agreed to meet with her because she wanted something – to know what Riga knew?  Perhaps Marie just wanted closure, to figure out who killed her husband.  But her slip at the end warned Riga that it wasn’t innocent at all.  She’d been surprised to learn about the Reverend’s photos.  Surprised and… afraid?

Chapter 26: Cave Dive

Sunlight danced on the surface of the lake, glittering like a sapphire against the snow-capped mountains.  Riga was unmoved by the sight.  Standing at the rear of the gently rocking boat, she gazed unenthusiastically into the water and adjusted the strap on one flipper. 

They’d anchored outside a rocky cove.  The crew could have taken the inflatable dingy to get closer to the cave cut in the granite cliff side, but Sam wanted underwater shots of Riga’s approach. 

“Cheer up,” Wolfe said.  He sat beside her on the boat and wore a dive suit as well, his underwater camera held carefully upon his lap.  His dark, curling hair was damp and it stuck to his scalp, making him appear even more vulpine.  “The water’s shallow here.  I’d be surprised if it was deeper than twenty feet.  So it won’t be that cold.”

“It’s snowmelt,” Riga said, incredulous.

Wolfe just grinned.  “You ready for this?”

“No.”

“It won’t be that cold.”

“Shut up.”

Pen sat down upon the edge of the boat.  She hiked up one sleeve of her fur-lined leather jacket, and leaned over the edge to dip her hand in the water.  “Yow!  It’s freezing!”

Riga gritted her teeth.  “Yes!  I know.”

Angus lifted a boom mic above them, his round face serious.  “At least we don’t have to worry about sound.  I’ll just splice in some scuba breathing audio later.”

“Oh, that’s good news,” Riga said.  “So what’s with the boom mic?”

Angus looked towards the front of the boat, where Sam spoke with Griff.  “Sam wanted to chat with you before you went in.” 

Sam ambled over to them and Griff followed, his camera balanced on one narrow shoulder, one eye glued to the lens. 

“Well,” Sam said, “sorry we couldn’t get a dry suit, but they told me a normal wet suit would work.  It will be cold but this isn’t the arctic.  How are you feeling, Riga?”