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

You want to know if Aaron was involved in Herman’s death, or even your client’s.  Isn’t that so?”
    “If you had any evidence of that, I’m sure you would have gone to the police.”
    “Or perhaps I had evidence,” Lauren said, “but none the police could use.  Isn’t that the realm of the metaphysical detective?”
    “Sometimes.”
    Lauren gave her a long look.  “Moral certainty can be a very dangerous thing, particularly when you believe you’re beyond morals.”
    “Is that Aaron?  Dangerous?  Morally certain?”
    “He worships at his own altar.  When you’re trying to save the world – and make money doing it – anyone who gets in your way deserves to get squashed.  I got squashed.”  She made a face.  “Literally.”
    “Are you saying Aaron caused your accident?”
    “The brakes went out.  The mechanic who looked at it afterward said the lines had worn through, but there had been a leak in them five or six months earlier and I’d had them replaced.”
    “And the police?”
    “Unfortunately, my chat with the mechanic happened after I came out of the hospital.  By that time, the car had been scrapped.  He showed me his report – the police had looked at it as well.  But without the car itself…” she trailed off.  “Aaron doesn’t like to lose.  And he definitely does not like to be cheated.”
    She turned her chair and began wheeling toward the door.  “There’s someone I’d like you to meet.”  She stopped by an intercom and pressed the talk button.  “Rosa, we’ll take our tea in the cottage.  For three, please.”

Chapter 17: Klotho
    Riga followed Lauren down a long tiled hallway and through a series of doors, then out the house and into the rear garden.  A flagstone path meandered through faded rose bushes, masses of rosemary, and lavender past its bloom.  Riga saw a shimmer of iridescence off to her left and looked quickly in that direction.  A hummingbird darted in and out of a fuchsia in a fat ceramic pot.  Tiny flying insects spiraled lazily, golden in a beam of sunlight.  The hummingbird chirped and zipped away and the spell was broken.
    “Was that Donovan’s car I saw leaving?” Riga asked.
    “Mmm?  Oh, yes.  He’s an old friend.”
    “But not of your husband’s.  What’s between those two?”
    “Not me, if that’s what you’re asking.  They never liked each other much.  The antipathy was instant and mutual.”
    They rounded a stand of redwoods and high bushes and a cottage came into view.  Riga stopped, staring. 
    Lauren laughed at her reaction.  “Yes, it’s my own fairytale cottage.  You have no idea what’s involved in maintaining the thatch.  We have to bring over a specialist from England.”
    The bungalow had whitewashed walls and an arched wooden door.  Pumpkins had been piled extravagantly around it.  Sheep grazed in a nearby meadow.
    “We make specialty yarns here,” Lauren said, following Riga’s gaze.  “Those are bluefaced sheep.  We have a dickens of a time keeping them out of the gardens.”  She chuckled.
    “I feel like Hansel and Gretel.  Well, like Gretel,” Riga corrected.
    A copper bell covered in verdigris hung by the gate.  Lauren rang it, then passed beneath the trellis.  Riga followed.
    The door swung inward.  Riga made out a dim figure in the shadowy interior. 
    “Who’s your friend?” a hostile feminine voice rang out. 
    Lauren didn’t pause as she wheeled up the walk.  “Her name’s Riga.  You’ll want to meet her.”
    The figure backed away, leaving the door open in an indifferent welcome.
    Lauren bumped through the doorway, putting a nick in the inside edge of the wooden door before Riga could leap forward to push it open further. 
    Riga followed behind Lauren, her eyes struggling to adjust to the gloomy interior.  The shutters, painted in an engaging old-country floral design, were closed.  The only lighting came from lanterns of colored glass and white pillar candles