A Fatal Frame of Mind (3 page)

“So how can you say I drag you to museums every day?”

“I didn’t,” Shawn explained calmly. “I said it’s exactly like that. This one moment alone is exactly like you dragging me to museums every day of our lives, except Monday when they’re closed.”

Gus pulled the Echo up behind a long line of cars, any of which was worth at least fifteen of his. “If it’s that painful for you to come with me to something that has great meaning in my life, then go,” he said. “Go see C. Thomas Howell. Hell, make him your new partner.”

Gus threw the car door open, nearly knocking over the small man in a red jacket who had been reaching for the handle when Gus burst out. The valet handed Gus a ticket and slid behind the wheel. He was about to drive off when he noticed that Shawn was still sitting in the passenger’s seat.

“Don’t let him slow you down,” Gus said. “In fact, there’s an extra five in it for you if you take this car to the Bijoux Theatre with that guy in it.”

The valet stared at Gus blankly until the passenger’s door opened and Shawn got out. As soon as he’d closed the door, the Echo disappeared around the corner.

Shawn stepped up to Gus on the sidewalk.

“I meant what I said,” Gus said. “You don’t have to stay here with me.”

“What, you want me to miss the social event of the season?” Shawn said.

“What do you mean?” Gus said, not quite believing that Shawn had found the spirit of the evening.

“For one thing, check out the valet line.” Shawn gestured at the row of cars waiting at the curb. “It looks like half the guests brought their own police escort.”

Gus glanced back at the street and saw what had been hidden by a large SUV when he’d pulled up: the first seven cars parked in front of the valet sign were flashing blue and red lights.

“And the party’s so popular they can’t even fit all the guests inside,” Shawn said.

Gus looked up at the broad steps that led to the art museum’s neoclassical façade. They were crowded with men in tuxedoes and women in gowns and jewels. If someone had pulled the fire alarm in the middle of the Social Register, the result would look like this.

“The reception was supposed to start half an hour ago.”

“That makes sense,” Shawn said. “Half an hour ago all these people went into the museum. Then Lamont Cranston started talking, and they all fled outside until he was done.”

Gus was seized by the sensation that something was seriously wrong here. It must have been related to Kitteredge’s call for help. If only Gus had insisted on acting faster, maybe he could have prevented whatever had happened. True, Professor Kitteredge had specifically asked him to meet at this time and place, but Gus could have insisted they talk earlier. It was only a couple hours’ drive to Riverside, where Kitteredge taught art history at the university. He could have taken half a day off and gone down there. And then maybe none of this would have happened—whatever it was that had happened.

Gus started to push his way through the crowd. But the people on the steps were Santa Barbara’s donor class—the richest and most powerful of the elites. And they weren’t used to being moved out of the way. They formed a solid wall as immovable as if they had actually been made of gold.

“Excuse me,” Gus said hopelessly. “Please, I have to get inside.”

“We all have to get inside, young man,” snapped a gray-haired woman cocooned in silk and diamonds. “And if we have to wait, you can, too.” The murmur of assent that came from everyone around her assured Gus that none of them would move out of his way as long as there was the tiniest chance the old woman might still rewrite her will to include them.

Gus could feel his heart trying to pound its way out of his chest, as if it was hoping to get to the top of the stairs even if it meant leaving the rest of him behind. He needed to get up there. He needed to find Professor Kitteredge and find out what was wrong. But there was no way he was going to get through this crowd, not before the statute of limitations on whatever crime had taken place up above had run out.

He was about to give up and search for a side entrance when the people around him began to move aside. Before he could figure out what was going on, Gus heard a voice coming from the bottom of the stairs.

“No need to worry—it’s not contagious,” said the voice, which Gus quickly realized belonged to Shawn. “Not unless you get within thirty feet of the victim, that is. And even then, it’s so quick you’ll never know what hit you.”

Gus turned and saw the crowd parting as if it had been Charlton Heston coming up the steps. It was Shawn, his mouth and nose covered by a surgical mask. “No need to move away from me; I’ve been around this plague all day, and I don’t feel a thing.”

“What are you doing?” Gus whispered as Shawn stepped up beside him.

“Clearing a path,” Shawn said.

“Where did you get the mask?”

“Amazing what you can find in the average police car,” Shawn said. “The shotgun probably would have worked even faster, but they’ve got those things locked down tight. Let’s go.”

Shawn headed up the stairs, and as the crowd oozed out of his way Gus followed. It took only seconds to get to the top, where Shawn whipped off his mask. And then froze.

“Oh my God,” Shawn said. “No wonder everyone ran out of the museum.”

“What is?” Gus said, pushing his way to Shawn’s side.

“It must have escaped from the zoo,” Shawn said.

“What?”

Shawn pointed across to the museum entrance. “The bear.”

Gus looked where Shawn was pointing, and felt a huge surge of relief. Because there did seem to be a bear standing in the doorway. It stood six and a half feet tall and was covered with thick black hair. A large snout protruded from a face almost entirely hidden by fur.

But bears don’t generally wear tweed coats or corduroy slacks, and this one was dressed in both. Which meant that it was not some ursine marauder come to wreck the museum and eat its patrons. It was the evening’s guest of honor, Professor Langston Kitteredge, looking exactly as he had the last time Gus saw him over a decade earlier.

At least he did at first glance. But before he could walk across the plaza to meet his newest client, Gus realized there was one great difference between Kitteredge now and Kitteredge the way he remembered him.

When Gus had seen Professor Kitteredge in the past, the teacher was always surrounded by students. Students who wanted to ask him a question or transfer into his already full class or just bask in the glow of his brilliance.

But while the professor was once again surrounded by people, these weren’t students. They were Carlton Lassiter and Juliet O’Hara, and they were Santa Barbara’s finest homicide detectives.

And they were holding his arms like they were taking him into custody.

D
espite his irritation at Shawn’s horror of museums, Gus hadn’t actually set foot inside one in years, except for a few times when he’d had to go on a case, and then he’d spent his entire visit looking for clues, not admiring the art.

But there had been a time when he was prepared to devote his life to the study of art history. Granted, it could only be considered a “time” in the way a grain of sand can be thought of as a boulder, but for the four or five weeks of his college career during which he intended to major in art history, Gus was completely enthralled by the subject. He was already planning a career hopping the globe, revealing minor artworks hidden under major masterpieces and discovering the true provenance of pieces never before believed to be the work of the old masters, when he took his first midterm and realized that he’d been so busy astonishing the art world in his mind he’d completely forgotten to memorize the names, dates, or painters of the several dozen works of art he was expected to identify in a slide show. Humiliated by his failure, Gus dropped the survey course and moved on to a new major.

But during that period when his interest had been riveted on art history, the prime riveter was a professor named Langston Kitteredge. Professor K, as he was known to his graduate students, was to his field what Indiana Jones had been to archeology, with the slight difference that Kitteredge was not fictional and therefore looked more like the animal on California’s state flag than like a movie star. He had a love for art that spilled over into a passion for adventure, and he made the two seem like one.

It was an adventure that Gus almost became a part of. Gus had stopped by his office to ask a question one afternoon as Kitteredge was explicating the theory behind his next research expedition in hopes of persuading some of his more promising students to come along with him. The professor, an expert in the Pre-Raphaelites and their work, had been studying a painting of Hamlet’s drowned girlfriend, Ophelia, by John Everett Millais, with particular emphasis on the setting. The picture, painted in the second half of the nineteenth century, was famous for its realistic depiction of the flora of the river and riverbank, and Kitteredge had hoped to prove that its setting was not, as was commonly believed, the banks of the Hogsmill River in Ewell but some other mysterious location. He was about to explain exactly why he found this so crucially important—and why he was particularly interested in the image of a water vole that had originally swum beside Ophelia’s corpse but had later been painted out—when his TA brought in the test scores so that Kitteredge could discover just how little promise Gus actually showed in the field.

Gus had found an excuse to slink out of the office before his shame could be revealed, and ran directly to the registrar’s office to drop the class. That was the last time he’d seen Langston Kitteredge.

But it was the rare month that went by without Gus thinking about his old professor. It wasn’t that he regretted not spending his life in the study of old paintings. But he’d rarely met anyone whose passion for life, whose devotion to his obsessions, was so total. He couldn’t help but wonder every now and again what he might have done with himself if he had actually spent a few minutes studying for that midterm.

When Gus had received the letter, he’d been stunned. Not so much at the fact that Kitteredge was asking for help, but at the very idea that the professor had any idea who he was. With all the students that passed through his classes every year, with all the yearning souls desperate to join the ranks of slavish acolytes, it was amazing that he would have any memory of a kid who’d sat in the fifth row of his lecture course for a half a quarter more than a decade earlier.

Amazing or not, Professor Kitteredge had reached out to Gus for help, and now he was in serious trouble. It was up to Gus to help him.

“Say, exactly what is the case we’re here for?” Shawn said.

“I don’t know,” Gus said. “The letter only said it was of vital importance. But now that Lassiter and Jules are here—”

“That means it’s in our wheelhouse,” Shawn said. “Although why you’d put wheels on a house is beyond me. Unless it’s just to annoy people driving behind you on the freeway. But we should talk about traffic patterns later. There seems to be some kind of crime here.”

Shawn set off across the landing, and Gus found himself scurrying to keep up. “Wait for me!” he hissed.

“I’m going to distract the detectives so you have a chance to talk to Lowfat Creamer,” Shawn said “Langston Kitteredge,” Gus said.

Shawn waved a hand dismissively back at Gus, then lifted it to greet the detectives.

“Jules!” Shawn called out before he’d crossed half the distance to the detectives. “Hey, Lassie! What brings you here?”

Lassiter and O’Hara stepped forward to intercept him before he could reach Kitteredge.

“The same thing that brings me to every crime scene I visit,” Lassiter said. “The faint hope that maybe, just once, you won’t be there.”

“You forget who you’re dealing with, Lassie,” Shawn said. “After all, you’re only a normal detective. You can’t get to a crime scene until the crime has been discovered. But as a psychic, I can sense where the crime is going to happen and make sure to be there first. Also, I know when Happy Donuts is going to put out a fresh batch and get them while they’re still warm.”

Lassiter’s eyes narrowed. “So you know about this particular crime, do you?”

“Is that a trick question?” Shawn said.

“Is that a trick answer?” Lassiter said. “No, don’t answer that. All of your answers are trick answers.” He scanned the crowd. “Isn’t there an officer who can escort this man away from here?”

Apparently all the uniformed officers were occupied with keeping Santa Barbara’s best and brightest from turning into a mob and storming the museum, because no one stepped up to haul Shawn away. He turned to Detective O’Hara.

“If I’d known you liked art, I would have invited you up to see my etchings a long time ago,” Shawn said. “Well, not my etchings, actually, because I haven’t etched in ages. But I would have shown you my Etch-A-Sketch.”

She gave him a patient half smile. “Not a good time, Shawn. Things are about to get ugly here.”

Shawn cast a glance down at the mob on the stairs. “I can hold the fire hose on them if you turn on the water.”

“It’s not the crowd, Shawn,” she said. “This is a bad crime scene and you shouldn’t be here. It’s not going to be one of those fun murders.”

“There was a murder?” Shawn said.

“No, Spencer,” Lassiter snapped. “Santa Barbara’s two top homicide detectives are here because we had a tip Happy Donuts was about to deliver a fresh batch to the café here.”

“Let’s see, then,” Shawn said.

“I’ll make sure to bring you back a cream-filled,” Lassiter said. “Better yet, I’ll have Officer McNab drop it by your office.”

Shawn risked a quick look behind him and saw that Gus was still creeping along toward Kitteredge. He waggled his hand behind his back to urge him to hurry, then leaned in conspiratorially to the detectives. “You could do that,” Shawn said. “Or I could just tell you the identity of the killer right now.”