of Cave Rock, here. The second…” Riga trailed off. Good God, the recent sighting wasn’t a coincidence. It couldn’t be. The last sighting was three days ago, Tuesday.
“You were saying about the second sighting?” Sam said, patient.
Riga hesitated. She’d planned to use the TV show to investigate the murder. She just hadn’t really believed there was a link between the two. “The second sighting was in this cove, where the body of a local palm reader was just found, decapitated.”
Chapter 8: The Fortuneteller’s Cafe
Riga and Sam stood by the open cabin door, on the front porch. The light had switched on automatically, though it wasn’t quite dark enough to make a difference. The crew bundled up their cables and lights, clearing the cabin.
“Here’s some homework.” Sam handed Riga a DVD. “A couple interviews we did in pre-production, Tessie witnesses. We plan to use the footage as is, you probably won’t need to re-interview this group but there are still plenty of people we haven’t met with yet.”
“Sam, there’s something else I should tell you. The Sheriff’s asked me not to leave town.”
His spectacles glinted. “Not to leave town? You make it sound as if you’re a suspect.”
“I’m not sure what he’s thinking, or if this will affect my ability to do this job.”
Pen brushed past them, unsmiling, a heavy light in both hands.
“Hey, Riga, don’t worry about it,” Sam said. He clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m a whiz at thinking up new storylines on the fly.”
She watched them depart, uneasy, the tail lights of the crew’s van disappearing around a bend in the road, then shut the door on the night.
Riga did a ritual cleansing of the cabin and reset her wards. She was going on faith and habit now, unable to sense the familiar buzz of magical energy and unsure if her rituals had any effect. Brigitte assured her they worked, but Riga’s faith was dimming.
She checked her watch, shrugged into her thick pea coat, and drove to The Fortuneteller’s Café. It was an unassuming coffee shop located in a strip mall, with red Christmas lights rimming the windows. Riga found a parking place in front of the door, the lights from her car rudely illuminating the three women, huddling around a table inside.
Riga opened the glass door and a bell jangled, announcing her presence. A long glass pastry counter, depressingly empty of food and swagged with plastic garlands, stood near one wall. Behind the counter was a chalkboard menu of coffee drinks and divination packages: $60 for an hour’s consultation, $30 for twenty minutes, $10 for fifteen. Opposite, oversized paperback books on the occult tumbled across a squat bookshelf.
The women fell silent, watching Riga wend through the maze of tables.
Tara was the owner, a short, voluptuous woman with graying hair worn in a loose braid. She made as if to stand and the tabby on her lap leaped to the floor, its tail bristling. Then the woman recognized Riga and relaxed onto the chair, rearranging her ankle-length flowered skirt.
Offended, the cat stalked behind the counter.
“Hello, Tara, Lily, Audrey,” Riga said, nodding to each. “The Sheriff told me about Lady Moonstone, I mean, Sarah. I’m sorry.” She didn’t know the women well, but suspected the hint about the Sheriff would be an effective means of entrée if the expression of sympathy fell short.
Tara’s round shoulders slumped, curling inward. She reached behind her and grabbed a wooden chair from another table set up, dragging it to their own. Its legs bounced on the cheap beige linoleum. “Have a seat,” she said. “I was just going to make myself more chamomile tea. Would you like some?” She didn’t wait for an answer, standing and going behind the counter, making a clatter of mugs and plates. The scent of patchouli lingered in her wake.
Riga lowered herself into the
“You were saying about the second sighting?” Sam said, patient.
Riga hesitated. She’d planned to use the TV show to investigate the murder. She just hadn’t really believed there was a link between the two. “The second sighting was in this cove, where the body of a local palm reader was just found, decapitated.”
Chapter 8: The Fortuneteller’s Cafe
Riga and Sam stood by the open cabin door, on the front porch. The light had switched on automatically, though it wasn’t quite dark enough to make a difference. The crew bundled up their cables and lights, clearing the cabin.
“Here’s some homework.” Sam handed Riga a DVD. “A couple interviews we did in pre-production, Tessie witnesses. We plan to use the footage as is, you probably won’t need to re-interview this group but there are still plenty of people we haven’t met with yet.”
“Sam, there’s something else I should tell you. The Sheriff’s asked me not to leave town.”
His spectacles glinted. “Not to leave town? You make it sound as if you’re a suspect.”
“I’m not sure what he’s thinking, or if this will affect my ability to do this job.”
Pen brushed past them, unsmiling, a heavy light in both hands.
“Hey, Riga, don’t worry about it,” Sam said. He clapped her on the shoulder. “I’m a whiz at thinking up new storylines on the fly.”
She watched them depart, uneasy, the tail lights of the crew’s van disappearing around a bend in the road, then shut the door on the night.
Riga did a ritual cleansing of the cabin and reset her wards. She was going on faith and habit now, unable to sense the familiar buzz of magical energy and unsure if her rituals had any effect. Brigitte assured her they worked, but Riga’s faith was dimming.
She checked her watch, shrugged into her thick pea coat, and drove to The Fortuneteller’s Café. It was an unassuming coffee shop located in a strip mall, with red Christmas lights rimming the windows. Riga found a parking place in front of the door, the lights from her car rudely illuminating the three women, huddling around a table inside.
Riga opened the glass door and a bell jangled, announcing her presence. A long glass pastry counter, depressingly empty of food and swagged with plastic garlands, stood near one wall. Behind the counter was a chalkboard menu of coffee drinks and divination packages: $60 for an hour’s consultation, $30 for twenty minutes, $10 for fifteen. Opposite, oversized paperback books on the occult tumbled across a squat bookshelf.
The women fell silent, watching Riga wend through the maze of tables.
Tara was the owner, a short, voluptuous woman with graying hair worn in a loose braid. She made as if to stand and the tabby on her lap leaped to the floor, its tail bristling. Then the woman recognized Riga and relaxed onto the chair, rearranging her ankle-length flowered skirt.
Offended, the cat stalked behind the counter.
“Hello, Tara, Lily, Audrey,” Riga said, nodding to each. “The Sheriff told me about Lady Moonstone, I mean, Sarah. I’m sorry.” She didn’t know the women well, but suspected the hint about the Sheriff would be an effective means of entrée if the expression of sympathy fell short.
Tara’s round shoulders slumped, curling inward. She reached behind her and grabbed a wooden chair from another table set up, dragging it to their own. Its legs bounced on the cheap beige linoleum. “Have a seat,” she said. “I was just going to make myself more chamomile tea. Would you like some?” She didn’t wait for an answer, standing and going behind the counter, making a clatter of mugs and plates. The scent of patchouli lingered in her wake.
Riga lowered herself into the
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