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 Eugene Francois 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.
Chapter Six
“Now 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-”
“That means someone who buys a painting and then owns it,” Shawn muttered to Gus. “I can’t believe he missed the opportunity to explain that concept for us.”
“Sssh!” Gus hissed.
“-and there it stayed for the next one hundred and fifty years,” Kitteredge continued. “The owner, whose will continues to demand his complete anonymity, refused to allow anyone to see this picture, or even to acknowledge that it existed. And believe me, many scholars over the years tried to get a glimpse of the piece-no one harder than me, by the way. But the painting was handed down through the generations, and apparently each new heir was more fanatical about keeping it hidden than the last.”