The
Infernal Detective
Riga
Hayworth
Book
4
Kirsten
Weiss
Genre: urban fantasy/suspense
Publisher: Misterio Press
Date of Publication: May 2013
ISBN: 978-0-9855103-5-0
ASIN: B00CRJDWRA
Number of pages: 274
Word Count: 75,000
Cover Artist: Becky Scheel
Book Description:
Murder. The undead. Irritating
relatives.
When Riga Hayworth finds a dead
body in the bedroom, it’s par for the course. When the corpse drives off with
her fiancée… That’s a problem.
Riga knows dead. More intimately
than she’d like. So when a murdered photographer walks away from her
pre-wedding party, she believes there’s necromancy afoot. And when she
discovers that several of her wedding guests are under the influence of dark
magic, she’s certain. But how can she catch a killer and stop a necromancer
when even her nearest and dearest are lying to her?
Marrying romance, mystery, and
the metaphysical, The Infernal Detective is a fast-paced urban fantasy, where
nothing is quite as it seems, and magic lies just beyond the veil.
Book
Trailer: https://youtu.be/7kohhn5z3bM
“A high-voltage, cleverly-spun mystery
that I couldn't put down. Riga Hayworth is addictive.”- Diana Orgain, Best-selling author of The Maternal Instincts Mysteries
Excerpt:
Chapter 1
Riga checked her
watch.
It was thirteen
o’clock, and her feet hurt.
She’d never
liked high heels, shouldn’t have worn the over-priced, strappy black pumps.
Riga had been almost relieved when one of the heels snapped, relieved for the
excuse to slip upstairs, relieved to escape.
A roar of
laughter, punctuated by shattering glass. On the stairway, Riga winced, the
relief evaporating. A week to the wedding and she’d already begun to feel
proprietary about his things, their new lake house. But the crash was likely
only a wine glass, and Donovan – they – could afford it…
Frowning, she
looked again at her watch.
Nine
forty-seven.
Riga rubbed her
eyes. She had imagined the thirteen o’clock. It wasn’t an omen, a portent.
She limped up the
steps, dangling the broken pump from one hand, the other hand grasping the hem
of her gown, a sweep of formfitting black lace. She looked damn good in it, but
the dress was a fraction too long for her five-foot-six form, and she’d been
stumbling over the hem all night.
At the top of
the steps, she walked down the wood-plank hallway to a tall door swagged with
holly. She pressed her forehead against the wood, and released her hold on the
dress. Riga shut her eyes. Inhaled the scent of Christmas garlands and wood
polish.
Thirteen
o’clock.
It had been a
trick of the light, a trick of her brain.
It wasn’t magic.
Not here. Not so close to her wedding.
She’d told
Donovan that the wedding was the least important part of a marriage, and Riga
was old enough to believe it. Donovan needed good press after a recent unfair
pummeling to his reputation. So she’d pretended enthusiasm when his PR team
planned their “celebrity” wedding, invited names she recognized but didn’t
know, sent out press releases.
Soon they’d be
married, and free. Riga smiled broadly. She could do this for him and in a
week, the tumult would end. Her thumb found the band of platinum that circled
her third finger, explored its edges.
A draft of cool
air pebbled the flesh on her arms.
Idly, she wondered
if the place was haunted, if someone had opened a door, or if they needed new
insulation. Donovan had closed on the gabled manor a month ago, and any and all
options were possible. Riga was coming to learn that just because something
cost a fortune, it didn’t mean it was well constructed.
“Escaping?”
Donovan asked from behind her.
She turned,
leaned against the door, her auburn hair pillowing about her head.
Donovan prowled
up the stairs, his green eyes gleaming, a great cat in black Armani. God, he
was gorgeous. Wavy, raven-black hair, broad shoulders, chiseled features. But
he had other, more important, attributes that attracted her. And he was easy,
oh so easy, to love.
She held up her
shoes, dangling from a slender finger. “Regrouping.”
“Hm…” His broad
hands traced the curve of her hips and he bent, kissing her, slow and
intoxicating. He smelled of wild things, deep forests. When he pulled away, her
lips burned.
“Have I told you
how beautiful you look tonight?”
“Once or twice.”
She laughed. “Tell me again.”
His lips
quirked, tugging at the small, cross-shaped scar on his chin. “I saw your
expression when that heel broke.” His fingers traced a line from her jaw to her
collarbone, and her skin tingled beneath his touch.
“Annoyance?” She
tugged lightly on his crimson tie, pulling him toward her.
“Relief.” His
voice was a low rumble.
“I just came up
here for my Jordan McCall CD. Do you think he’d sign it for me?”
Donovan
chuckled. “Star struck?”
“A little. So
far, the only thing that’s stopped me from asking him is embarrassment. I don’t
have any of his wife’s CDs.”
“Liar. Deep in
that dark little heart I’ll bet you’re an Annabelle Lee fan.”
“A sucker for
country love songs? Guilty.” She arched toward him, her soft curves molding to
the hard contours of his body. “It’s a lovely party.”
“I know.” He
pressed against her, one hand exploring the small of her back. His mouth grazed
her earlobe, his breath uneven upon her neck. “Let’s ditch.”
“I thought you’d
never ask.” She reached behind her, fumbling for the doorknob. The metal
chilled beneath her fingers, iced, cold enough to burn. She gasped, jerking
away.
Donovan took a
step back, releasing her. “What’s…” He trailed off, brow furrowing.
Ice crystals
spread from the knob across the surface of the door and the wall beside it,
expanding outward in a circular pattern. The temperature in the hallway
dropped. Riga shivered in her thin gown. Another ghost. And she had a good idea
whose. After years of exposure, she’d gotten used to them. But Donovan had only
recently gained the ability to see ghosts, and if Riga was right about this
particular ghost… There were issues.
Donovan groaned,
his lips twisting into a snarl. “Dad. He’s more irritating as a ghost than he
was as a live father. Dad?”
But no specter
appeared.
“Show yourself,”
Donovan said in a low voice. “I’ve got some things to say to you.”
A breeze gusted
mournfully down the hallway.
“Maybe I should
leave you two alone,” Riga said. Both Donovan’s parents had died when he was a
child. He never spoke much about what had happened after, but Riga was a
detective and had pieced together a rough sketch – court dates and foster homes
until Donovan came of age, and could manage a casino the state-appointed
custodian had run into near-bankruptcy.
“No. I need to
talk to him. But this is our time, and I’m fed up with him knocking things
over, chilling rooms, slamming doors, and not telling me what he wants.”
Riga’s teeth
chattered. “They may not be games. This may be the only way his spirit can
communicate. If we understood what he wanted—”
“Right now, I
don’t care what he wants. He’s the master of bad timing.” Donovan glanced at
her, and whipped off his jacket, draped it over her shoulders. Grateful, she
slipped her arms inside, and pulled it tight around her.
He rattled the
knob, gripped it with both hands, muscles straining. He stepped away, wiping
his hands on his slacks. “He’s been dead for decades.” He tackled the door
again, grunting. “And instead of acting his age, the man plays poltergeist.”
His hand slipped off the knob, and his knuckles banged the door frame. Wincing,
he sucked on the broken skin. “Can’t you…?” He jerked his head toward the door.
“Use magic?” She
shook her head. “The last time I tried that I melted the doorknob. I could burn
the whole place down. Or worse.”
“Worse than
burning down our new home?”
Riga didn’t
respond. She wasn’t sure what was more depressing – being haunted by her future
father-in-law or the fact that her magic was still a disaster. That missing
piece of her was like a wobbly tooth she couldn’t stop probing with her tongue.
She told herself she could live without magic, but the loss nagged.
“Right.” He
nodded curtly, took a step back from the door.
Riga backed
away, alarmed. She recognized that look. “Dono—”
He raised one knee
and stomp-kicked the door. The wood splintered, and the door crashed inward,
ricocheting off the far wall. Donovan stopped the door’s return flight with one
hand. He looked at Riga. “Were you saying something?”
“No. Nicely
done.” There was a trick to kicking in a door. She felt irrationally pleased
that he knew it.
He strode
inside, and Riga trailed behind, wary. The ghost had frozen the door for a
reason – a symbol, a sign, a warning. But as she followed Donovan down the
short hallway into the master bedroom, she didn’t sense anything wrong. A king
size bed faced the darkened window, a faded kilim arranged artfully upon the
hardwood floor. Glass doors looked out upon Lake Tahoe, a black pool at night.
The waning moon was a mercury trail on the water and reflected lights glittered
along the far shore. Above it, snowcapped mountains rose darkly.
“Enough games,”
Donovan said. When there was no response, “Dad? Do you hear—” His voice
dropped. “Oh, hell.”
Riga stumbled to
a halt beside him.
On the far side
of the bed was a reading area with a stone fireplace, wide, cozy chairs, and
bookshelves. Before them lay a man’s body, a plastic bag wrapped tightly about
its head, clouding his face.
“Oh my God,”
Riga whispered, swaying. It had to be murder.
Donovan knelt
beside the dead man, and grasped his wrist. He shook his head, pressed his
fingers to the man’s neck. Donovan looked up at her, his expression grim. “He’s
gone.”
Even with his
features distorted behind the plastic bag, Riga knew the man was dead, could
sense his spirit had fled. The body was just an inanimate object now, an empty
vessel. Of late, death seemed less an old acquaintance and more an annoying
relative who visited too often, stayed too long, drank her best wine and hit
her up for money. She stepped closer, swallowed. “That looks like Cam
Mitchell.”
“The
photographer?” A pulse beat in Donovan’s jaw.
“His wife is
downstairs.” Riga leaned one hip against the bed and grasped the post, feeling
sick, out of balance. “We have to tell her.”
“She’s pregnant,
you know.” Donovan stood, not looking at her, and she knew he was thinking
about his childhood loss, the years in foster homes.
“I didn’t know.
How did you?”
“He was crowing
about it to anyone who’d listen.” He slipped his cell phone from his jacket
pocket, thumbed the keypad. “Let’s call the Sheriff before we notify anyone
else.”
Riga nodded,
ashamed at her relief at the delay in giving the widow the bad news.
“King. Donovan
here,” he said into the phone. “I’m at my lake house. Riga and I found a body.”
Riga shot him a
questioning look. He knew Sheriff King’s direct number?
“No,” Donovan
said into the phone. “Someone helped him along… Right. Fifteen minutes.” He
hung up. His eyes were hard, cold. “I should stay with the body until the
police arrive. Why don’t you go downstairs, meet the Sheriff when he gets
here.”
She approached
the body, knelt on the soft white throw rug, placed one hand on the arm of a
nearby cream-colored chair for balance. “Donovan… The killer had to be one of
the guests.”
“I know.” His
words were clipped. “What I don’t understand is what the photographer was doing
up here.”
“I don’t see any
drag marks on the rug, no sign of a struggle. And to do this…” She motioned
towards the photographer’s head and the plastic bag wrapped tight around it.
“He wouldn’t have let someone do this without a fight. Unless he was drugged,
somehow incapacitated first.”
“We’re getting
married in a week,” he said.
She flushed.
“And the police will take care of this. Sorry. Habit.”
Riga backed out
of the room, closing the fractured door quietly behind her. She turned and
faced two elderly women, dressed in black.
“Gagh!” Riga
clutched her chest, breathing heavily. “Aunt Peregrine, Aunt Dot. What are you
doing here?”
Dot peered up at
her through coke-bottle lenses. They inflated her blue eyes to the size of
silver dollars. Her black dress sagged and bagged around her, two sizes too big
for her rotund frame. “Looking for you, dear.”
Peregrine, a
good foot taller than her niece, peered over Riga’s head at the broken bedroom
door, drifting open. Her shoulders hunched, vulture-like, and she clutched a
massive black purse in her hands.
Riga hastily
grabbed the knob and yanked it shut. She smiled. “Well, now that you’ve found
me, let’s head back to the party.”
“You look
jumpy.” Peregrine lowered her head, studying Riga. “Is something wrong?”
“No. No. No,
nothing’s wrong.” She felt sweat bead upon her lower back. Why did her aunts
terrify her? She was an adult, dammit, and this was her house.
Dot tapped Riga
on the arm, and Riga’s skin twitched from the contact. “Well, of course she’s
nervous, Peregrine. She’s getting married in a week!”
“Yes,” Peregrine
regarded Riga narrowly. “Awfully short engagement, if you ask me.”
Dot swatted her
sister. “You’re so bad! Of course she’s not pregnant? At her age? Really!”
“At my… I’m only
forty four!”
“Not exactly a
spring chicken,” Peregrine said. “I hope you’re not rushing into things because
of the tick-tick-tick of your biological clock? Sometimes, it really is better
to be alone.”
“No, Aunt
Peregrine,” Riga said through clenched teeth. “That’s not why we’re getting
married.”
“Don’t feel bad,
dear,” Dot said. “What bride doesn’t feel occasional jitters? Poor cousin
Lettie? What a mess she was. And then her bridesmaid fainted dead away. Knocked
the ring bearer flat. What was his name? Wasn’t that Harold’s son?”
“That wasn’t
Lettie’s wedding,” Peregrine said. “That was Al’s daughter, Suzy. And the groom
fainted, not the bridesmaid.”
Dot covered her
mouth with her black gloved hand. “Was it? I was certain it was Lettie and the
bridesmaid. Don’t you remember? The bridesmaid ended up marrying the best man.”
“No, no.”
Peregrine shook her head. “She married the father of the bride. Such a
scandal.”
“Oh.” Dot patted
her hair, tied neatly in a silvery bun. “I don’t like thinking about those
things.”
“Neither do I,”
said Riga, her desperation growing. “So let’s go downstairs.” She hooked their
elbows and steered them toward the steps.
Dot neatly
twisted away, moving toward the bedroom. “But isn’t there a ladies room in
here?”
“Not there!”
Riga dodged between Dot and the bedroom door, pointed down the hallway.
“There’s a guest bathroom, second door on the left.”
Dot clapped her
hands together. “You have so many rooms! I do love this house.” She winked. “I
suppose the casino business must be very lucrative? Your Mr. Mosse must love
you very much to buy such an extravagant home.”
“Isn’t there
another bathroom in the bedroom there?” Peregrine motioned with her purse and
Riga ducked to avoid its arc. “I’d rather not wait for Dot. She takes forever.”
“Donovan’s in
that room now,” Riga said. “There’s another bathroom in the guest room across
the hall.”
Peregrine nodded
briskly and clumped away. Riga watched Dot dart into the guest bathroom, then
glanced at the bedroom door, still hanging ajar. All she needed to cap the
evening was for one of the old dears to find the body and have a heart attack.
Awkwardly, she shifted her weight, and realized she was still one-shoed. She
wrenched off the second pump, placed it on the banister, and slipped
downstairs. How much time had she wasted? The Sheriff’s station wasn’t far –
nothing was really far at Lake Tahoe – and he would be here soon.
She darted past
the wide, arched doorway to the living room, not daring to look left for fear
of catching someone’s eye. The room inside was filled with celebrities and
relatives and friends – mostly Donovan’s. Their laughter and the tinkling of
glasses flowed toward her, a contented warmth, scented with cinnamon and wood smoke
and sweat. She shied from it, through the stone-floored foyer with its massive
Christmas tree decked in red and gold, and ducked through a nondescript
doorway, into a claustrophobic, windowless room.
The uniformed
man seated at a bank of video monitors swiveled in his chair to face her. He
was middle aged, with a comb-over and a paunch, but she’d seen him in the
boxing gym. The man, Thomas, was lightning with his fists. He lumbered to his
feet. “Evening, Miss Hayworth. Can I help you?”
“Yes. The police
will be arriving shortly. Could you let the man at the gate know?”
He grabbed a
handheld radio off the narrow table. “Something I should know about?”
The floor here
was stone too, and cold, and she curled her toes. “We discovered a body
upstairs.”
“But you’ve
called the police, not an ambulance. Foul play?”
“Possibly.”
Definitely.
He glanced over
his shoulder at the video monitors behind him – views of the exterior,
doorways, windows dripping icicle lights. No shots of the inside. “I haven’t
seen anyone come or go for the last two hours, but I’ll check again.”
“Thanks.” She
shoved the door shut with her foot. “Mind if we check now?”
He rolled his
padded chair toward her. “Have a seat.”
She sat, watched
him queue up the videos with one hand while he radioed the gate with the other.
Thomas grunted,
eased himself into a swivel chair, and they watched the videos from the last
hour on high speed, the sounds of revelry drifting through the closed door.
Nothing caught her eye. Aside from the guard patrolling the exterior, nothing
moved. No one entered or left the house.
Riga released a
slow exhale. So that was it then. The killer was one of the guests. She didn’t
realize she’d clung to the hope it had been an outsider until it was snatched
away, leaving behind a weight of lead.
Frowning, she
checked the slim gold watch – a gift from Donovan – that circled her wrist.
Fifteen minutes had long gone. What was keeping the Sheriff? “When the police
arrive, will you show them upstairs? The body’s in the master bedroom.”
His expression
flickered, but he nodded.
She exited,
pausing in the doorway to make sure the coast was clear, then hurried past the
partiers and up the stairs, stumbling near the top.
Cold. Sickening.
An invisible
miasma flowed out the bedroom door, coiled sluggishly on the stairs. Her
stomach twisted, and she clutched the railing.
Corpses. Rancid
things. Decaying flesh.
Her skin
crawled.
“Donovan?” She
called softly, forcing herself forward.
She was used to
ghosts. This was something different.
The hallway
chandelier flickered above her, brightened. Fingers trembling, she touched the
slim silver cross that hung from her neck, gathered the forces from above and
below. Fueled by her fear, the energies rushed through her and outward,
creating a bubble of safety around her, cutting a path through the rot and
horror.
She pressed her
fingers against the bedroom door. It swung open at her touch and she sidled
through, barefoot and silent. Her fingers curled, palms ready to strike as she
prowled down the truncated hallway, turned the corner into the bedroom.
It was empty.
Do
You Dare Visit these Haunted Places?
Guest
post by Kirsten Weiss, author of The Infernal Detective.
We’ve all been there – those dark
woods, the fog-shrouded cemeteries, the lonely, creaking houses. And we’ve all
wondered – if even for a moment – if maybe there’s something… else. Something beyond. Something haunted. Some of
us even seek out those spectral places.
For me, a deep, dark Sierra
night, one of the settings for my urban fantasy The Infernal Detective, conjures all sorts of threats – natural and
supernatural. My sister’s old apartment in Davis, California, is one of the
most haunted places I know. But it’s also not a tourist attraction. So if
you’re looking for a haunted spot to holiday, here’s a round-up of the top five
around the world.
(Note: My selection was
completely unscientific. I searched the Internet for haunted places and
included on my list the five most frequently mentioned.)
5) The
Screaming Tunnel, Niagra Falls, Ontario, Canada. This old tunnel runs
beneath a railroad. Stand in it at midnight, light a wooden match, and you’ll
hear a woman’s scream. The match will blow out too, which may not be such a
mysterious occurrence in a tunnel.
4) Beechwood Lunatic
Asylum, Victoria, Australia. Nearly 9,000 inmates died during the asylum’s
operations from 1867-1995. Add to that the super-spooky architecture, and it’s
little wonder the place is hosting night tours.
3) Highgate Cemetery,
London, UK. All that history plus creepy gothic architecture? No wonder
London is jam-packed with haunted graveyards. But Highgate Cemetery is probably
the most famous, with its crooked tombstones, headless angels, and rumors of
vampire and occult activity.
2) Gettysburg,
Pennsylvania, USA. The sight of the bloodiest battle in the American Civil
War, the spirits of dead soldiers are frequently sighted in the fields and
roads around the town. A friend of mine claims when he and his girlfriend once
drove through Gettysburg at night, a man dressed in Confederate battle gear
suddenly appeared in front of their car. He slammed on the brakes, but couldn’t
stop in time. The car went through
the apparition. I’m still not sure if he was pulling my leg or not.
1) Bhangarh
Fort, India. This fort came up the most frequently in my research, winning
the number one spot. It’s said to be cursed by a black magician who was unable
to win the love of a fair maiden by traditional means. She managed to reverse
his dark love spell. In retaliation, he cursed the entire town’s inhabitants,
so their souls cannot be reborn.
Have
you visited any of these spots? Are there any haunted spots on your bucket
list? Tell us in the comments!
About
the Author:
Kirsten Weiss worked overseas for
nearly twenty years in the fringes of the former USSR, Africa, and South-east
Asia. Her experiences abroad sparked an
interest in the effects of mysticism and mythology, and how both are woven into
our daily lives.
Now based in San Mateo, CA, she
writes genre-blending steampunk suspense, urban fantasy, and mystery, mixing
her experiences and imagination to create a vivid world of magic and mayhem.
Kirsten has never met a dessert
she didn’t like, and her guilty pleasures are watching Ghost Whisperer re-runs
and drinking red wine. Sign up for her newsletter to get free updates on her
latest work at:
Website: http://kirstenweiss.com
Twitter: @KirstenWeiss
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