“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.
Chapter Four
Despite 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?”