“Why didn’t you just say, ‘Hey, Shawn, here’s a case; let’s take it’?” Shawn said. “You know me: I love cases. I never turn a case away. In fact, I’m still waiting for that free case of Doritos they owe me for publicly endorsing their product.”
“You’re not getting any free Doritos,” Gus said. “Not for standing in the chips section of the Food King and shouting ‘Boy, I like Doritos.’ That’s not a public endorsement.”
“It’s as public as I’m going to get about a cheese-flavored corn snack,” Shawn said. “But I’d do much more for a real case.”
“Except for this case,” Gus said. “You did turn this one away.”
Shawn scrunched up his forehead as he tried to summon up the entire contents of his memory into his forebrain. “Sorry,” he said finally. “Just doesn’t sound like me.”
“You said you’d rather spend eternity being water-boarded with lime Jell-O than even meet with our client,” Gus said.
“Now that does sound like me,” Shawn conceded. Then he remembered. “Oh, no. You’re dragging me to see that Crispix guy.”
“His name is Kitteredge, as you well know,” Gus said. “Langston Kitteredge. And he’s not a guy; he’s a professor. And the single most brilliant man I’ve ever met.”
“Turn this car around right now,” Shawn said, clutching at the door handle.
“I will not,” Gus said. “We are going to meet Professor Langston Kitteredge at the Santa Barbara Museum of Art. And while we’re there, you will act like a professional.”
“Great,” Shawn said. “Maybe I should act like a professional waiter, because that’s how I’m dressed.”
“There’s a gala event tonight,” Gus said. “Professor K is the guest of honor. It’s the only time he could meet with us.”
“So now we have to listen to him make a speech?” Shawn said. “Instead of watching C. Thomas Howell as a renegade cop trying to stop a sex-slavery ring from kidnapping innocent teenage runaways, we’re going to listen to some droning hack go rabbiting on about brushstrokes?”
Gus tried to keep from getting angry. After all, he had lied to Shawn. But this was the kind of case Gus had dreamed of since he and Shawn had gone into business as psychic detectives. Not just another dead body or looted mansion, but something of historical significance. A chance to make a real difference to the entire world.
At least, he assumed that’s what it was. Professor Kitteredge’s letter requesting the meeting had been brief and completely without details. But Gus was sure the professor wouldn’t bother with anything that came in at less than earth-shaking on the importance meter.
“I don’t know why you’re making this so difficult,” Gus said. “It’s not like I drag you to museums every day.”
“Yes, it is,” Shawn said. “It’s exactly like that.”
Gus gaped at the injustice of Shawn’s accusation. “When was the last time you were in any museum with or without me, except when you were on a case?”
“I’d have to say that would be when I was ten and my father decided I needed some culture, so he took me to this traveling Van Gogh exhibit. But in the third gallery he tripped over an art student who was sitting on the floor copying some picture of sunflowers, and the student acted like it was my dad’s fault. So he arrested the kid for interfering with a police officer and copyright infringement, at which point we were politely invited to leave the museum.”
“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 facade. 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.”