A Fatal Frame of Mind

Chapter Twenty-eight

As he’d said, Flaxman Low had been expecting Kitteredge and his two friends. That’s why he had arranged for dinner to be served whenever they arrived.

Judging by the amount of food spread out on the long granite table, he must have been expecting his old friend to show up with at least a platoon. Or maybe he was planning to feed all the law enforcement personnel who would no doubt start to arrive once someone figured out the connection between the men. There were three roast chickens, their skins perfectly browned, each resting on beds of crispy potatoes. There was a platter of steaks so tender they almost split apart under a harsh gaze. In case there were any Catholics at the table and they were still working on this meal by the time Friday rolled around, there was a whole barbecued salmon stuffed with herbs. There were bowls of vegetables prepared in ways that made them irresistible even to people who hated vegetables.

And that was just the entrees. The kitchen door had swung open when Shawn and Gus came into the dining room, and Gus had caught a quick glimpse of the dessert array that was being prepared. He didn’t have a time to compile a list of the delights that were being laid out for them because he was so completely distracted by the centerpiece-a pineapple that had been hollowed out and transformed into a chocolate fountain.

Which might have explained why Shawn’s accusations against their host brought so little reaction from Low or Kitteredge. Shawn was so hungry he started stuffing food into his mouth even before he was completely settled in his chair, and whatever he said for the next twenty minutes was completely incomprehensible, even to Gus. And he wasn’t alone. For once, even Langston Kitteredge had found something other than lecturing to use his mouth for.

When Shawn’s consumption had slowed down to the pace of the runner-up in a hot-dog-eating contest, Gus braced himself for the worst. But the enormous meal had had a mellowing effect on Shawn, and his prosecutorial zeal subsided to what could be mistaken for ordinary curiosity.

That curiosity extended to both sides of the table. Low had spent most of the meal picking at his food while he watched Shawn and Gus closely. When Malko came through to clear away the dinner plates, it was their host who asked the first question.

“While the two of you were freshening up, I had a chance to talk to Langston about you,” he said. “I don’t believe I’ve ever met a psychic before.”

“You’d be surprised,” Shawn said. “We look just like everybody else. Well, not just like. We’ve got that healthy psychic glow that makes us irresistibly attractive to all who see us. But aside from that, we’re just plain folks.”

“Aside from that and your extraordinary talents,” Kitteredge corrected him.

Shawn shrugged modestly.

“I don’t suppose,” Low said, “I could ask you for a demonstration of your prowess.”

Normally, Gus would have been delighted at the opportunity for Shawn to show off his psychic bona fides. Whatever he might come up with, Gus knew it would be impressive.

But after their conversation in the bedroom, Gus was afraid that Shawn’s demonstration might be a little too impressive. He’d speak to a demon or read an aura or commune with the departed spirit of one of the roast chickens, and what he’d come back with would be an accusation of murder against Flaxman Low.

Gus couldn’t let that happen. Not only because it was an unspeakable breach of manners to call your host a murderer before dessert was served, but also because they were all alone on his massive property and nobody knew they were there. If, by some insane chance, Shawn was right and Low was behind the killing, it wouldn’t take a lot of work to do away with them in such a way that no one would ever know.

And if Shawn was wrong, it could be even worse. Because if Flaxman Low wasn’t the killer, then he might be their only chance at getting through a couple of decades without bars in front of them. If Shawn were to alienate him with an accusation of murder, that chance might disappear.

“I’d be happy to,” Shawn began. Gus kicked him in the ankle as hard as he could.

“But there are better uses of our time right now,” Gus said as Shawn’s mouth was too busy forming into an O of pain to utter the rest of his sentence.

“Better than an exploration of mysteries that have fascinated mankind through the ages?” Low said.

“It’s one thing to communicate with the afterlife,” Gus said. “But right now our top priority has to be keeping Professor Kitteredge from doing that in person. We need to figure out who killed Clay Filkins and how we’re going to prove it.”

Flaxman Low nodded thoughtfully. “It had occurred to me that the two tasks might be collapsed into one.”

“I think that could be arranged,” Shawn said. “Why don’t we start with the killer’s identity first?”

Once again, Gus’ foot made contact with the same spot on Shawn’s ankle with unerring accuracy.

“Which of course we can’t possibly know,” Gus said. “Because it’s locked in that painting. And we haven’t had a chance to talk about that yet.”

At the mention of the painting, Low and Kitteredge exchanged a look that could almost have been called wistful. “Ah, Langston, I can’t tell you how much I envy even your brief glance at that masterpiece,” Low said. “Even though it has come at such a cost.”

“No more than Adam and Eve paid for the gift of knowledge,” Kitteredge said. “And I’m sure they would have made the same choice if given the opportunity to do it all over again.”

“Yes, this certainly is fascinating,” Shawn said. “But maybe we should move on to another subject. Like the identity of the real killer.”

Gus kicked out again, but this time his foot sent Shawn’s chair skittering across the floor. He looked up to see that Shawn was standing and pressing his fingers to his temple in the way he used to signify the arrival of a vision from the beyond.

“And that identity is obvious to anyone who has ever read a book or seen a movie,” Shawn said. “Although the continuing acceptance of Dan Brown’s plotting skills by the worldwide reading audience strongly suggests that there are plenty of people who don’t fall into that category.”

“Shawn, don’t,” Gus begged.

“Let him speak,” Low said. “I am extremely curious about what he’s going to say next.”

But as adjectives go, “curious” didn’t seem strong enough to describe Flaxman Low’s level of interest in the subject. His voice had changed from the friendly, avuncular quality it had held into one of dark menace.

Gus cast a quick glance at Shawn to see if he had noticed the sudden change of tone in the room. Apparently he had.

“Of course, the simple fact that we could make an accusation based on experience with books and movies simply shows that truth is more complicated than fiction,” Shawn said.

Flaxman Low rose to his feet. Gus knew what was going to happen next. He was going to thrust both arms straight up in the air and summon a storm. Then, as thunder and lighting crashed on the roof, he would send energy bolts out of his fingers and hurl them across the dining room.

Of course, that too was drawn from Gus’ experience with books and movies. What Low actually did next was not nearly so dramatic-although to Gus it had essentially the same impact.

“The real killer’s identity is known to everyone here,” he said. “It is Shawn Spencer.”