Free The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) by Kirsten Weiss Page B

swung through a tight curve.  “So, tell me about the case.”
    Riga told him what she’d told the police, about Herman’s appearance in her condo, Riga’s theory of entanglement, and her determination to keep Pen unentangled. 
    Donovan chanced a quick glance at her.  “It doesn’t sound like you’ve got much.”
    “A dead body is enough.”
    “What’s your next step?”
    Dig.  She’d keep chasing leads until she ran out of trails to follow or the case was resolved.
    She directed him to a cliff side parking lot overlooking the ocean. 
    “Bit windy,” he said.  “Are you sure you’re up for a picnic on the beach?  I know a little trail not far from here—“
    She interrupted him, placing her hand lightly on his arm.  “Wait.”  Riga scanned the horizon. 
    Donovan drummed his fingers on the leather steering wheel.  “What exactly are we waiting for?”
    She absently stroked the dog’s neck.  Dog was in heaven, his eyes half closed.
    “There,” she said, pointing west.  A waterspout appeared, dancing across the ocean’s surface.
    “Huh.”  Donovan’s brows wrinkled.  “You don’t see one of those every day.”
    “Do you have any idea what the odds are of two appearing off the California coast in a two day period?  I was here yesterday and saw a spout as well.”  She shook her head.  “It’s not natural.  Something’s going on and you’re involved.”
    “If you say so,” he drawled.  “Can we go now?”
    Donovan put the car into reverse, not waiting for an answer.  The rear tires spit sand and they roared south.
    He was an expert driver, but Riga clenched the door handle as they whizzed around Highway 1’s curves. 
    “So what brought you to San Francisco?” she asked.
    “Business and pleasure.  I’m thinking of setting up a partnership with a winery north of here.  And I wanted a break.”
    “A partnership?”
    “Vegas has gone upscale.  People want more than gaming,” he said.
    “You sound like a travel brochure.”
    “It’s how I earn a living.”
    He did better than earn a living, Riga thought, sinking into the upholstery.
    Past Half Moon Bay, Donovan turned down a road that wound into the hills.  It narrowed to one lane, but Donovan didn’t slow, the car gripping the tight curves.  Riga closed her eyes.
    Donovan laughed.  “Don’t worry.  We’re here.” 
    He pulled the car into a shady lot overhung with oaks.  They were in a narrow valley, at a public trailhead.  Riga got out, stretching her legs.  She leashed the dog as Donovan retrieved the hamper from the trunk. 
    He led them down a wide dirt trail, with a creek in a gully to one side and a steep fern-covered hill rising on the other.  The oaks formed a lattice overhead, a verdant tunnel of green.  Donovan branched off onto a narrow path leading up the hill and to a grove of redwood giants that formed a tight circle.  They picnicked in their center, atop a red and black plaid blanket.  Donovan, shoeless again, opened the hamper with a flourish, setting out two wine goblets, china plates, cloth napkins, food and wine: grapes, a selection of cheeses, pâté, and a fine bottle of pinot noir.  He caught Riga eyeing the latter with suspicion.
    Donovan tossed her the church key and she caught it one handed.  “Would you feel better if you did the honors?” he said.
    “I’d feel better if I abstained all together.”
    “Riga, if you really thought I was tampering with the wine, would you be here with me now?”
    Riga shuddered.  She knew she would. 
    She uncorked the wine and poured two glasses, hesitated, then took a sip.  It was a good pinot, nothing more.
    They feasted beneath the tree, the ground soft beneath the blanket.  The dog darted in and snapped up Riga’s pâté.  She didn’t mind, wasn’t a fan of the stuff anyway. 
    The creek murmured beneath them, hidden by the trees; at times it sounded like a whispered conversation.  She strained to grasp the words but they