Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read

Chapter Nineteen

“My arms are getting tired.” Gus’ voice echoed out of the empty grave. “Why don’t you climb down here and do some digging?”

“And get my cassock dirty?” Shawn peered down into the grave, his face gleaming in the light bouncing off his priest’s collar. “Besides, you’re doing great. You’re a natural-born gravedigger.”

Gus threw down the shovel and climbed out of the hole. “No, the bulldozer that dug this grave yesterday is a natural-born gravedigger. They haven’t used shovels here in fifty years.”

“Which is why your disguise is so brilliant. You don’t have to worry about running into the real guy.”

“I just want to run into the real woman so we can get out of here.”

“Dude, it’s all going to plan.”

Which was true, although the fact that they were still only halfway through step one suggested there was still plenty that could go wrong. That and the gaping hole where step two of the three-step plan was supposed to go.

The fraction of a plan they had grew out of Shawn’s realization that Tara was a serial neck breaker. While Gus was busy thinking back on things he’d said that might have inspired her to snap his spine like a twig, Shawn was furiously castigating himself. If only he’d read the signs, if only he’d noticed what must have been obvious. Now people were dead, and it was his fault. The only good thing was that Tara hadn’t wanted Henry dead, so she had only tased him instead of snapping his neck, too. Because if Henry-

Shawn stopped in midthought. Gus looked over at him, thinking that the idea of his father murdered was too much for Shawn to take. But Shawn was smiling.

“What’s funny?” Gus said.

“Animal House,” Shawn said. “On the other hand, if you want something that doesn’t have big laughs, but leaves you with a wry smile, a warm chuckle, and that nod of recognition that we’re all riders in the same cockeyed caravan of life, how about the fact that Tara didn’t kill Dallas Steele?”

“You just said she did. You said she was a serial killer.”

“And she may be. Which means she’s got a pattern. She makes a friend, gets close, and when the relationship is over, she snaps his neck and moves on.”

“So she would have killed you and not me.”

“Can you stop thinking about yourself for one minute?” Shawn threw up his hands in exasperation. “She’s got this whole neck-snapping thing down to an art. So why would she choose to stab Dallas Steele in the heart?”

“Variety?”

“Because she didn’t do it. Which means we didn’t tell her to do it. Which means we’re off the hook.”

Gus desperately wanted to believe Shawn. If only he could get past the one small flaw in his logic. “We saw her standing over him, holding the knife.”

“Right,” Shawn said. “So we know it was a perfect frame. Now who had a motive to want Steele dead?”

“Us?”

Shawn thought long and hard. He scrunched his eyes shut as he mentally replayed every moment of the case. Then he jumped up out of his chair. “Reynaldo!”

“Who?”

“The new wife’s old lover, the handsome but poor artist. He couldn’t stand to lose his true love to this arrogant billionaire, so he turned all his seductive powers on Tara. When she was completely under his control, he killed Steele and framed her for it.”

By the time he was done, Shawn was practically glowing with amazement at his own genius. Gus wanted to share in the moment, but he was still stuck on logic issues.

“That’s really good,” Gus said.“Couple of small things. First, if anyone had Tara completely under his control, it was you. Remember?”

“She could have been using me to protect him.”

Gus sighed. “Okay, maybe,” he said. “But there’s one other problem. Reynaldo doesn’t exist.”

“He doesn’t?”

“You made him up when you were trying to figure out why Steele invited us to Eagle’s View. Steele said he had a new wife, and you-”

Shawn jumped up from his chair. “Exactly what I meant! It’s the wife!”

Of course it was. It had to be. Steele had no other living relatives either of them knew about, so she stood to inherit his billions. And there was clearly something strange about their relationship. Steele was willing to spend a hundred million dollars simply to win an argument. If she didn’t have immediate access to that much cash, maybe a knife through the heart would have seemed like the appropriate response. If they could confront Mrs. Steele, Shawn was sure he could prove she was the real killer.

Gus didn’t doubt Shawn’s abilities. The trouble would be in finding her. They didn’t even know her first name-Steele had always referred to her only as his bride. There was no announcement of the wedding in any newspaper, local or national. City hall had no record of their marriage. And somehow the wedding of Forbes magazine’s Sexiest Billionaire Alive of 2007 and 2008 had managed to go unnoticed by tabloids that give saturation coverage to the nuptials of anyone who’d ever been in the same ZIP code as a celebrity.

After a fruitless afternoon of online searching and another hour wasted at the county’s hall of records, Gus was almost ready to give up and say there was no Mrs. Steele. But Shawn would not let him quit. He was sure he was right. And besides, if he admitted Steele wasn’t married, he’d have to come up with a new theory.

The next morning, armed with business cards identifying themselves as segment producers for E! Entertainment Television, they hit every florist, caterer, and bridal shop within a five-dollar cab ride’s radius of their office. Even promises of a prominent role in a thirteen-week docu-soap about the wedding got them nothing but blank looks from the employees. They checked the gift registries of the most expensive stores on State Street, but the name Steele never appeared.

“This is useless.” Gus dropped a wad of business cards into a wastebasket outside an art gallery. “No one’s heard of this wedding. There is no Mrs. Dallas Steele.”

“He said he was keeping it quiet,” Shawn said, fishing the cards out of the trash and slipping them back into Gus’ shirt pocket. “Billions of dollars buy a lot of privacy. But she’ll have to show up sometime if she wants to claim her inheritance.”

“That could be weeks from now,” Gus said. “Months even. If she’s smart, she’ll wait until Tara is convicted.”

“She may be smart, but she’s got one weakness,” Shawn said. “She loves the big dramatic moment. Why else would she stage her husband’s murder for an invited audience?”

“So what are you suggesting? We should hold auditions for a phony musical, and see if she shows up to read for us?”

For a moment, Shawn actually seemed to be considering the idea. Then he shook it off. He rapped on the plastic screen of the Santa Barbara Times box. Beneath the scarred Plexiglas, the paper’s front page was filled with a headline: “Private Services for Steele Tomorrow.”

“We don’t need to offer her a stage. She’s already got one. We just need to make sure we’ve got good seats.”

A quick scan of the part of the article visible above the fold strongly suggested those seats wouldn’t be easy to come by. Admittance to the service was strictly by invitation; apparently Steele’s fondness for privacy extended into the grave. To make sure there would be no press or other interlopers in attendance, the entire cemetery would be closed all morning, another one of the perks a few billion can buy. And while Shawn and Gus might have been able to make a plausible case for themselves as Steele’s old high school chums, their more recent friendliness with the woman accused of his murder suggested they wouldn’t be welcome.

Fortunately there was a costume-rental store within walking distance. Although tempted by a dented suit of armor-on the theory that if he was spotted, he could stand on a grave and look like a statue-Shawn ultimately decided on a Roman Catholic cassock, an ankle-length, close-fitting priest’s robe. That way, he pointed out, if their investigation took them to the Vatican, he could use the costume a second time, getting value for their money.

Since there was only one cassock, and Gus refused to wear the matching nun’s habit, Shawn dug through his own closet and dragged out a coverall he’d been issued on his first and last day working as a mechanic years ago. It was bright green and the embroidered name tag read LUBITY LUBE TRAINEE, but a quick pass with a Magic Marker blacked that out and brought an appropriately funereal accent to the ensemble.

Dallas Steele’s memorial service was scheduled for ten o’clock the next morning. Shawn declared they should be there no later than eight, so they could see everyone arriving. Since their transportation issues hadn’t improved overnight, that meant taking a series of local buses to reach the cemetery. Gus didn’t mind riding the bus, especially since he was unclear on several parts of Shawn’s plan, and looked forward to spending the time patching up the holes. But Gus hadn’t anticipated how popular a Catholic priest might be on a Santa Barbara bus. Shawn spent the entire trip taking confessions and giving absolution to their fellow riders. By the time they reached the cemetery gates, Gus was no clearer on what they were doing next than when he first dropped his dollar twenty-five into the fare box.

Getting through the employee entrance was so easy that Gus forgave Shawn for the poorly fitting jumpsuit. He grabbed a time card at random and jammed it into the machine, then passed through. It took Shawn a little longer to persuade the gate guard to let him in, but after a few shouted “Begorrah”s and the occasional mention of a lake of fire, he joined Gus inside.

“Begorrah?” Gus said. “When did you become Irish?”

“When the guy at the gate was named O’Malley,” Shawn said. “Besides, everything sounds convincing with an Irish accent. Now grab that shovel.”

Following the road that snaked through the cemetery, they found an open grave on top of a hill that looked down over the entire park. At the center there was a large lake. Off to one side, a large area, the size of at least eight normal grave sites, was marked off with chains.

“I guess they’re expecting a big crowd,” Gus said.

“Give the people what they want,” Shawn said. “Now get digging.”

Gus glanced at the temporary marker lying next to the open grave. “I don’t think Mrs. Lancashire is in any great hurry.”

“No,” Shawn said. “But that guy is.”

He pointed down the hill, where an aging pickup truck was hauling a load of white folding chairs toward them. Gus snatched the shovel and jumped into the grave as Shawn piously crossed himself. If the maintenance man driving the pickup thought there was something odd about a priest blessing an empty grave while dirt flew out of it, he didn’t stop to investigate. Shawn watched as the truck crested the hill, then chugged down toward the site of Dallas Steele’s eternal repose.

“Isn’t he gone yet?” Gus called from the grave after a few minutes had gone by.

“Better keep digging, just to make sure,” Shawn said.

The truck puttered to Steele’s site, and the maintenance man got out, unhooked the chain, and drove up to the open grave.

“If I dig any farther, I’m not going to be able to climb out,” Gus said.

“At least you’ll have Mrs. Lancashire to keep you company.” Shawn stepped out of the way as a dirt clod flew up at him. Down below, the maintenance man got out of the truck again and opened the tailgate. He pulled one folding chair off the stack and set it up directly in front of the grave.

“What’s he doing now?”

“Setting up the chairs for the memorial service.”

There was a strangled curse from the grave. “And you want me to keep digging all that time? It’s going to take hours.”

“Maybe not.”

The maintenance man shook the chair to make sure it was on level ground, then climbed back into his truck and started up the hill toward them. As soon as the sound of its engine faded away, Gus pulled himself out of the grave and looked down at Steele’s site.

“Wow,” Gus said. “When they said it was going to be a private service, they really meant it.”

“At least we don’t have to worry about picking the wife out of a large crowd.”

“Or being inconspicuous in one.”

Shawn and Gus watched the maintenance truck drive back toward the office. Gus nudged Shawn and pointed to the cemetery’s main gates. They were swinging open to admit a battered Honda Accord.

“I thought the entire cemetery was closed for the private service,” Shawn said.

“Maybe that’s Mrs. Steele.”

“If that’s her car, no wonder she killed her husband,” Shawn said. “Get back in the grave.”

Gus pushed the shovel at him. “You get in the grave.”

“That doesn’t make any sense at all.” Shawn pushed the shovel back at him. “What would a priest be doing in a grave with a shovel?”

“What would a maintenance man be doing in a grave with a shovel when there’s a backhoe parked six feet away?”

“Maybe his driver’s license was revoked for a DUI and he can’t drive a backhoe. Maybe he’s mentally retarded and they don’t trust him with the keys.” Shawn shoved Gus toward the grave.

“Maybe the priest is actually a phony in a rented costume.” Gus shoved Shawn toward the grave.

“At least he’s not a drunken, retarded phony.” Shawn shoved again.

Gus grabbed Shawn and tried to drag him to the edge of the hole. Shawn dug in his heels, but felt the wet grass slipping under his feet. His big toes were just sliding over the lip of the grave when there was a discreet beep from behind them.

Shawn and Gus sprang apart to see the Honda idling beside the grave site. The window cranked down, and a cherubic pink face peered out above a priest’s collar.

“Excuse me, Father,” the priest said. “I’m a little turned around. Can you give me directions to the final resting place of Dallas Steele?”

Gus pointed down the hill. “It’s right-”

Before he could finish, Shawn butted him out of the way. Arms cartwheeling for balance, Gus took one step backward and fell into the grave. Shawn leaned into the Honda.

“Now why would you be wanting to know such a thing?” Shawn said in the brogue he’d learned through careful study of Tom Cruise’s accent in Far and Away.

“I’m supposed to be performing the memorial service,” the priest said, reddening even further. “I’m afraid I’m running a little late.”

“Sure and the service doesn’t start until ten,” Shawn said.

“That was the public announcement to fool any reporters who might want to crash the ceremony,” the priest said. “The real service begins, well, almost immediately.”

Gus glanced down the road and saw the main gates swinging open to admit an immaculately polished hearse. Right behind it was a familiar black Bentley. Shawn knew that car well, having ridden in it up to Eagle’s View. Suddenly the middle step in his three-step plan became clear.

“Sorry, Father, but your services won’t be required. I’ve been sent to replace you.”

The priest goggled at him. “Sent by whom?”

Shawn reviewed everything he knew about the hierarchy of the Catholic Church. Since the vast majority of his knowledge came from repeated viewings of Britney Spears removing her Catholic schoolgirl uniform in the “Baby One More Time” video, that left him plenty of time for staring blankly at the priest.

“Begorrah,” Shawn said.

“Excuse me?”

“Erin go bragh?” Shawn tried. “Shillelagh?”

A voice floated up from the grave behind him. “Tell him it was the cardinal.”

“The cardinal,” Shawn said.

“Which cardinal?”

Shawn thought. “Excuse me for one moment.” He took two steps backward to the grave and whispered down into it, “He wants to know which cardinal.”

“There’s more than one?” Gus said.

Shawn stepped back to the car and leaned in. “Stan Musial?”

The priest glared at him, then shoved the gearshift into reverse. “I’ll be speaking to the archdiocese about this.”

The Honda executed a neat three-point turn and sputtered back the way it had come. Shawn reached a hand into the grave and pulled Gus out.

“I appreciate your help,” Shawn said, “especially after the whole ‘knocking you into an open grave’ thing.”

“I didn’t do it for you. I did it so I wouldn’t be sent to the gas chamber,” Gus said. “But if I’m called to testify against you, you’re on your own.”

The gate had finally opened wide enough to admit the Bentley. “Let’s go,” Shawn said.

Shawn and Gus sprinted down the hill to the site of Steele’s memorial. Gasping for breath, Shawn positioned himself between the open grave and the sole folding chair. “Quick, get in the grave,” he said.

“They’re going to put the coffin in there.”

“Hey, you were the one who wanted to get close to that phony.”

“Not close enough to spend eternity with him,” Gus said.

“Fine,” Shawn said. “Go maintain something.”

That was harder to do than it sounded. The section of the cemetery Steele’s widow had chosen for his burial was reserved for the richest of the rich. Service fees were double here what they were everywhere else, and the grounds were immaculate. There were no weeds to pluck, no grass that needed reseeding, no trash to pick up. As the hearse led the Bentley up to the grave site, Gus turned his back to the cars and started polishing the chain that surrounded the plot.

Gus heard the hearse pull to a stop. After a moment, doors opened, followed by the rear gate. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched two men dressed in black carry an elaborate mahogany coffin to the grave site and lay it across bands of nylon attached to a metal frame fitted over the hole. The two men got back into the hearse and drove slowly away. A minute passed, and then Gus heard the driver’s door of the Bentley open.

Gus risked a glance over his shoulder and saw Shepler, his gray pinstripes traded for simple black, go around and open the passenger door. After a moment, a woman’s legs emerged.

They were probably not the most attractive female legs Gus had ever seen. That honor still went to Tara. But they were close enough that Gus started formulating a theory on the relation between a woman’s appendages and her propensity toward homicide.

Gus glanced toward the grave and saw that Shawn was also watching as the widow emerged from what was now her car. Her hair and face were covered by a black hat and veil, her hands and arms by long gloves. Her black dress was simple and classically elegant, except for the neckline, which plunged almost to her shoes. Gus kneeled down, picking an imaginary flake of paint off the ground, and tried to get a glimpse under her veil, but all he could see was her tight, firm jawline.

The widow seemed to be lost in a fog of grieving. Paying no attention to Shawn or Gus, she walked directly to the coffin that rode astride the empty grave and draped herself over it.

Gus ordered himself not to look. It was bad enough to find his eyes moving involuntarily toward any cleavage, no matter how slight the exposure. This was much worse. The poor woman was here to mourn. It was positively indecent for Gus to be taking advantage of her.

But the part of the male brain that ordered eyes to cleavage had been around far longer than the notion of decency, and Gus could no more keep himself from looking than a dog could choose to ignore a steak someone had dropped on the floor.

At least he was enough of a gentleman to feel guilty about it. Apparently wearing a priest’s garb didn’t have any effect on Shawn’s behavior, because he was not only staring straight into Mrs. Steele’s cleavage-he was waving at Gus with one hand and pointing with the other. If his own sense of propriety wasn’t enough to keep Gus from sneaking a peek, Shawn’s schoolboy behavior certainly was. He crossed his arms, lifted his head, and conspicuously refused to look where Shawn was pointing.

Shawn grabbed a dirt clod from the lip of the grave and chucked it at him, then pointed again, this time even more urgently. Silently he mouthed a word. Gus tried to read his lips.

“Stag party?” Gus guessed. “This is a funeral!”

“Strawberry!” Shawn said.

Stunned, the widow straightened to stare at him. But not before Gus caught a glimpse of the familiar birthmark, and the freckle on top that looked like a stem. She whipped off her veil, revealing the red hair and green eyes they’d last seen in the Santa Barbara courthouse.

“Veronica?” Shawn said.