A Fatal Frame of Mind (4 page)

As the detectives leaned in to hear what Shawn had to say, Gus slipped behind them and walked up to Kitteredge. “Professor?”

Langston Kitteredge looked at him like he’d just awakened from a deep sleep. “I am Langston Kitteredge,” he said.

“I know you are, sir,” Gus said. “I’m Gus. Burton Guster.”

Kitteredge looked blank. “Burton Guster?”

He must be in shock, Gus thought. He dug into his breast pocket and pulled out the letter Kitteredge had sent him. “You wanted to meet me here tonight,” Gus said, pointing to the important parts of the letter. “There was something crucially important you needed to discuss with me. Although from the looks of things I’m a little too late.”

“Why do you say that?” Kitteredge said.

“Well, generally you want to call a private detective before things get so bad the police are involved,” Gus said. “But my partner, Shawn Spencer, and I will do everything we can to help you now.”

A small light of curiosity shone in Kitteredge’s eyes. “So you’re a son of Vidocq?” he said.

If it hadn’t been for those weeks in Kitteredge’s class, Gus might have been thrown by a reference to someone he’d never heard of. But if he’d learned anything in the course, it was that there were huge amounts of things he’d never heard of—and that Kitteredge not only had heard of most of them but could always find ways to work them into conversation. He’d watched other students flounder helplessly as they dug for definitions of random phrases while the lecture went on above their heads. So he chose to handle this one the way he had the others—by ignoring it and moving on to the main point. “What exactly is going on here?”

“Something terrible,” Kitteredge said sadly. “I fear the worst.”

“And the worst would be . . . ?”

“That.”

Kitteredge leveled a heavy finger at the museum entrance, where a uniformed officer was accompanying a tall, skinny man in a tuxedo out of the lobby. The man shook so hard he could barely stand up; he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with a handkerchief in a way that suggested most of his energy was going into not throwing up.

The officer marched over to Lassiter. “We’ve secured the scene,” he said. “There’s no one inside.”

“Thank you, Officer,” Lassiter said. “In that case, let us proceed to see the body.”

A
t the word “body,” the thin man shuddered violently and for a moment looked like he was going to crumple to the ground. But Kitteredge reached out and put a comforting hand on his shoulder, and he managed to steady himself.

“Do I need to go back in there?” the thin man said. “I mean, if it will help, I’m ready to. But I don’t know what else I can do. I told the officer everything I knew about poor Filkins.”

“Filkins?” Lassiter said.

The thin man looked shocked, as if he assumed everyone knew the name. “Clay Filkins,” he said. “He’s one of our curators—this was his exhibit. That’s how I found him. We were supposed to go over some last-minute details about tonight’s event, and when he didn’t show up I went looking for him in the gallery, assuming he was making some last-minute changes. And he was . . .”

The thin man looked like he was about to start crying.

“That’s all right, Mr. Ralston,” Detective O’Hara said soothingly. “We’ve got your statement, and we know how to contact you. There’s no need to come back into the gallery.”

“Except to aid in the apprehension of a murderer,” Lassiter said. “Some people might consider that a priority.”

O’Hara gave him a reproachful look. “I’m sure he does,” she said. “But there are other ways in which Mr. Ralston can help. Someone needs to talk to these people.” Her hand fluttered to indicate the socialites who thronged the steps below them.

“We’ve got officers taking their statements,” Lassiter said. “Not that I expect it will do much good. From what I’ve heard so far, the only thing any of them noticed is what other people were wearing, and since all the men are wearing the same suit, that’s a whole lot of useless. And it’s not like any of them have been inside the gallery.”

“Well, yes, of course that’s right,” the thin man said, then trailed off.

“I think Mr. Ralston means someone needs to calm these people down,” O’Hara said. “And it would probably be best if it came from the museum’s executive director.”

The thin man gave her a grateful smile. “Yes, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”

“You know what would be even better?” Shawn said. “If I said something to them.”

“No,” Lassiter said.

“Well, not so much me,” Shawn said. “It’s the spirits who want to have a word. I’d just be the vessel.”

“If you do, I’ll have you and the spirits arrested,” Lassiter said.

“That puts me in a terrible position,” Shawn said. “Because I don’t want to go to jail, but the spirits don’t care at all. So they’re going to speak through me, whatever happens to my earthly body.”

“Not if it gets Tased into unconsciousness,” Lassiter said.

Juliet O’Hara stepped between them. “Or if it comes with us to see the victim.”

Lassiter stared as if he’d been the one who’d been Tased and she was still pulling the trigger. “You want to invite him to a crime scene?”

“If this turns out to be as weird as we’ve been told, odds are the chief is going to ask him to help anyway,” O’Hara said. “This way he’s here at the beginning.”

Lassiter scowled. Shawn beamed back at him cheerfully.

“Fine,” Lassiter said in a tone that suggested he was anything but. “Maybe he’ll drop some DNA and we can arrest him for the murder.”

Lassiter spun and marched toward the museum entrance. Juliet O’Hara gave Shawn a warning look, then followed. Shawn ambled over to where Gus was standing with Professor Kitteredge. “Shall we?”

“One moment,” Kitteredge said. He went over to Ralston and threw his arms around him in a warm embrace. The thin man struggled for a moment, then succumbed like a drowning man to the ocean, finally putting his arms as far around Kitteredge as they would go, which was about the same degree of longitude as the professor’s coat pockets.

Just as Ralston’s face was turning red from oxygen starvation, Kitteredge released him and rejoined Shawn and Gus. Ralston took a couple of deep breaths, then stepped up to the front of the stairs and began speaking to the crowd in a soothing tone. “Ladies and gentlemen, please allow me to apologize for this terrible inconvenience.”

Shawn held the door open and ushered Gus and Kitteredge into the museum lobby. Their steps echoed loudly on the marble floor as they walked into the empty room. “They didn’t wait for us,” Shawn said. “I hate when they do that. How are we supposed to know which way to go?”

Kitteredge pointed at a large banner hanging from the ceiling. Orange type stood out from a gray background, proclaiming the arrival of Rossetti’s lost masterpiece. “To
The Defence of Guenevere
,” he said.

“I have no idea what that is,” Shawn said. “But if I have to miss the trailer for
Fatal Affair
to be here, you can wait a couple of minutes to help your girlfriend.”

“It’s a painting, Shawn,” Gus said. “It’s the reason for the event tonight.”

Kitteredge beamed at Gus like a trainer encouraging the seal who’d just jumped through the flaming hoop for the first time. “Not just a painting,” the professor said. “But one of the great mysteries of the art world. After Rossetti painted it in 1864, he—”

“That’s a great story, Doc,” Shawn said. “But maybe we should talk about something more important before we walk in on the cops. If you whacked that guy, this is your one chance to own up and let us protect you.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Gus said. “Professor Kitteredge didn’t kill anyone.”

“It would explain a lot,” Shawn said. “Like why he was so desperate for you to meet him here tonight. How else would he know what was going to happen?”

“He’s our client, not a suspect,” Gus said.

“You said that like those are two mutually contradictory things,” Shawn said.

“Professor Kitteredge came to us for help, and you’re doing nothing but insulting him,” Gus said.

“Technically he came to you for help,” Shawn said. “And he doesn’t look offended to me.”

Gus checked. Kitteredge didn’t. He was studying Shawn with the expression of an entomologist who has just discovered an entirely new species of slug.

“You must be the other son of Vidocq,” he said.

“I’m Shawn Spencer,” Shawn conceded. “But if you’re suggesting that my father was a space probe that was granted consciousness by an alien entity and now roams the universe eating planets, well, you’re only part right.”

“That’s V’ger,” Gus said.

The professor didn’t seem to notice Shawn’s misunderstanding. “Of course you know I’m referring to Eugène François Vidocq, the former French soldier, criminal, and privateer who in 1833 founded
Le Bureau de Reseignements Universels pour le commerce et l’industrie
, the world’s first private detective agency,” he said. “He’s mostly remembered for introducing record keeping and ballistics into the science of crime solving, along with being the first to make plaster casts of shoe impressions. But what I find singular about the man was his sense of compassion. Although there is no proof that this is true, he famously boasted that he never turned in to the police anyone who claimed to have stolen out of need.”

“Of course we know that,” Shawn said. “I’ve even got it on a T-shirt. Well, not the whole thing, because that wouldn’t fit. In fact, I think it actually says ‘Frankie Says Relax,’ but those who are in the know understand. Anyway, why’d you kill this guy?”

“I can assure you I have killed no one,” Kitteredge said. Then his face darkened. “But I do fear that someone has died because of me. Because of what I’ve found out. I’ve been concerned this would happen for a very long time, but I always assumed I would be the target.”

“That’s why you sent me the letter,” Gus said. He fished the document out of his breast pocket and shook it open. “That’s what you meant when you said ‘These are dark and difficult times. Events are conspiring to bring an end to those things which we hold most dear.’ ”

“Umm, no, not exactly,” Kitteredge said. “But now that I see what’s happened, I might wish it was the case.”

“Then what was the urgent crisis, Doc?” Spencer said. “It might help us to know before we start in on your case. That is, if we’re going to take your case.”

“Which we are,” Gus said.

“Which we might be,” Shawn said.

“Which some of us definitely are and others of us will be, once we get over sulking about the C. Thomas Howell Film Festival,” Gus said.

Kitteredge looked from Shawn to Gus and back again like a spectator at a Ping-Pong match. He was about to say something when a glass door opened at the end of the lobby and Juliet O’Hara stuck her head through. “The crime scene’s this way,” she said.

“N
ow this is a crime scene.”Shawn surveyed the Ngallery approvingly. Three walls were covered with a series of cardboard placards describing the exhibit in several languages. The fourth was hidden behind a heavy red velvet drape.

“Yes, Shawn, that’s what we call the place we find a dead body,” Lassiter said. “You can generally identify it by the yellow tape surrounding the area with the words ‘crime scene’ printed on them. At least you will once you’re able to read at a second-grade level.”

“Thanks, Lassie,” Shawn said. “But what I meant is that this is the kind of place you want to find a body. None of those damp alleys or dismal dive bars. This has class. You’d be proud to be found dead in a place like this.”

“That’s a very interesting point, Mr. Spencer,” Kitteredge said. “I never made the connection, but an art museum does provide the ideal circumstance for such a discovery. For one thing, the lighting and visual presentation are designed to give the maximum dramatic mood, thus heightening the already raised emotions in the situation. And on a more prosaic level, of course, the temperature will be strictly kept between eighteen and twenty degrees Celsius, while the humidity will stay at no more than four percent, which makes the forensics so much easier to read. And then of course there is the ritualistic aspect common to the investigation of a murder and the appreciation of a work of art, both of which are presented as quasi-religious ceremonies.”

Listening to Professor Kitteredge, Gus was transported back to his school days. Everything he said was so fascinating that Gus would have been content simply to listen to him for days.

“Plus you’ve got a nifty red curtain to pull away and reveal the body,” Shawn said. “Which maybe somebody should do.”

“Thank you, Shawn,” Lassiter said. “If it hadn’t been for you, I might have completely forgotten to do my job.” He walked over to the wall and pulled the curtain back a few inches, revealing a dangling push-button control like the ones for garage openers.

Gus noticed that Kitteredge was staring intently at the curtain. “You might want to look away,” Gus said. “This kind of thing can be pretty shocking if you’re not used to it.”

“I couldn’t look away if a thousand bodies lay on that floor,” Kitteredge said. “I’ve waited so long for this moment.”

“Umm, which moment would that be?” Gus said.

“Do you have any idea what’s behind that curtain?” Kitteredge said. “You should, so you understand what you’re looking at.
The Defence of Guinevere
isn’t just a painting, Gus. It’s not even just a masterpiece. It’s a work of art that has gone unseen for a century and a half. But it’s even more than that.”

“Is it a floor wax, too?” Shawn said.

“This was the last picture Dante Gabriel Rossetti painted before his untimely death at age fifty-four on April 9, 1882,” Kitteredge said, ignoring the interruption as only a man who’d spent decades teaching Intro to Art History to basketball players hoping for an easy grade could do. “For many years, it existed only as a rumor. It was never publicly exhibited anywhere, and the only references to it were brief mentions in other artists’ journals. Somehow it fell into the hands of a private collector—”