Read The Metaphysical Detective (A Riga Hayworth Paranormal Mystery) for Free Online

I believe?  What a determined little lady she was, full of righteous vigor, converting pagans, founding churches.”
    He spoke as if he’d known her personally, Riga thought.  “There’s no need to sound contemptuous.”
    “Did I?”  He watched her in the mirror behind the bar.  “I didn’t mean to be.  She was touched by the divine.  I can’t mock that.” 
    She arched a brow.  “Little lady?”
    “Everyone was smaller back then.”
    “Have you spent time in the Caucasus?” Riga asked, her curiosity getting the better of her.  Nino was an obscure saint.
    He smiled.  “I know my wine.  Georgia’s suffered during the Soviet period.  One of that regime’s greatest crimes,” he mused.
    Riga gave him a look.
    “Aside from the murder of millions of their own citizens, of course,” he amended.  “What a joyless regime.”
    “Aren’t they all?”  Riga picked up her wine glass and held it to the light at a forty five degree angle.  It was clear and sharp, a deep ruby color.  She lowered the glass, swirled it, and tipped her head.  The wine was redolent of leather and roses and the scent of rain on dry earth.  There was a Greek word for that: petrichor. 
    She drank.   

Chapter 7: Mystics and Metaphysics
    Pen got up earlier than usual.  Her first class wasn’t until the afternoon, but she felt wired.  She’d never been involved in a murder investigation before and the thought excited her.  A part of her thought she should feel bad for the woman who had died.  But she didn’t know her, so that would be hypocritical.  Wouldn’t it?
    She slid into her favorite jeans and soft t-shirt, grabbed a muffin off the kitchen counter, and escaped to the pavement outside with her canvas backpack, closing the door on her mother’s protests about healthy breakfasts.  Something was finally happening to her and Pen wasn’t going to miss a minute of it.
    Riga had given her a key to the office and Pen went there now, stopping in a local coffee shop to pick up a cup of Ethiopian (black) and to pin a bright orange flyer to the bulletin board.  The detective agency flyer stood out among the notices for dog walkers, masseuses, and school plays.  A goldenrod flyer with a silhouette of a singing cowboy leapt out of the mix: Oklahoma was playing at the local high school.  It always seemed to be playing somewhere. 
    Riga’s office building was frigid and Pen could see her own breath as she slunk down its dimly lit halls, her shoes squeaking on the linoleum.  She unlocked her aunt’s office and flipped on the lights, making more noise than necessary.  Pen felt awkward in the empty office, as if she didn’t belong and it didn’t want her there.  But Riga had given her a key, she reminded herself, conveniently forgetting the key had been lent so she could clean over one weekend, several months ago.
    Pen went straight to Riga’s whiteboard.  She looked a long time at the photo of Helen’s body upon the staircase, feeling she should be shocked or disturbed by it but she wasn’t.  Was she insensitive?  Then she understood why – the photo didn’t seem real.  It looked posed.
    Pen turned her attention to the haiku, and rejected it as a bad attempt at poetry.  However, the Tarot cards Riga had placed in the whiteboard montage interested her – the Hanged Man and the Magician.  Pen made the same connection Riga had: the Hanged Man was upside down and one leg was bent like a number four, just like Helen’s body.  But she was stumped by the Magician.
    Pen took a photo of the whiteboard, then glanced over Riga’s desk.  There were lots of odd scribbles on the blotter, including some sort of chart with time on the X axis and dimensions on the Y.  Pen shrugged and riffled through the books on Tarot on Riga’s bookshelf.  She sat cross-legged upon the floor and began to read. 

Chapter 8: Tarot and Tai Chi
    Riga was awakened by sunlight.  She stirred, stretched, enjoying the feel of the