William Rabkin - A Fatal Frame of Mind

“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 cafe 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.”

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.”

At 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.