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.
Chapter Twenty
“I knew I couldn’t hide from your psychic powers forever,” Veronica Mason Steele said, sinking into the one folding chair that had been set up for her. “I never should have tried.”
“No, you shouldn’t,” Gus said.
If she heard him, she didn’t show any sign of it. Those deep green eyes never left Shawn. “Can you ever forgive me?”
Gus had so many responses to that. He struggled to pick the right one. He was trying to decide between “As soon as you pay us” and “Not until you confess” when he noticed that Shawn had gone over to her, knelt at her feet, and taken her hand.
“There’s nothing to forgive,” he said, “although I don’t think I’m supposed to say that when I’m wearing this suit.”
She seemed to notice for the first time that he was dressed as a priest. “Is this what I drove you to? Subterfuge, disguises, lies, all because I couldn’t trust anyone with the truth.”
She spoke in the same desperate, breathless tone Gus had found so much more convincing when she was describing her great love for Oliver Mason. Although her performance was no less emotional now, Gus was having trouble overlooking the coincidence of a second dead, rich husband in one year. To say nothing of the weeks of unreturned phone calls.
Shawn didn’t seem to share any of Gus’ misgivings. “Of course,” he said. “I can see it now. During the days of your travails, a phone call out of the blue. A colleague of your late husband’s, reaching out to give you condolence. A brief conversation that led to a meeting between two people facing challenges the masses could never understand.”
“Yes!” she said.
“You mean the challenges of living with the burden of hundreds of millions of dollars?” Gus said. “Give me a break.”
Shawn and Veronica didn’t seem to hear him.
“And then that understanding turned into love,” Shawn said. “A love that had to be kept secret from the prying eyes of a world that would unfairly judge these two souls. That’s why your entire relationship was a carried out in secrecy. Why you got married in the only place you knew no reporters could follow you—your private island.”
“Yes,” she said.
“You mean Oliver Mason’s private island,” Gus said.
“Which she inherited after her tragic loss,” Shawn said. “Try to keep up here.”
Gus grabbed Shawn and pulled him away from Veronica. “Don’t you realize what’s happening?”
“Yes, it’s a chance meeting,” Shawn said. “Although maybe it would be better to call it fate. Destiny. Kismet.”
“Don’t you dare think of Kismet—or any other kind of kissing,” Gus said. “This woman killed her husband.”
“Impossible. We already proved she’s innocent.”
“Not that husband.” Gus leveled an accusing finger at the mahogany box in front of them. “That husband.”
Veronica Mason took a lace handkerchief out of her tiny black purse and dabbed gently at her eye. “This is why I kept my marriage to Dallas a secret. Because if even close friends like you, Gus, can’t believe me, who can?”
Shawn patted her hand consolingly. “You can’t help it if you’re attracted to rich men with abnormally short life spans.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “You do believe me, Shawn?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then will you help me? Will you find my husband’s real killer and prove I didn’t do it?”
“I guarantee it,” Shawn said.
“No, we don’t,” Gus said. “If you killed Dallas Steele, we’re going to expose you.”
“I accept those terms,” Veronica said. “Thank you, Gus.”
“For what?” Gus reran the conversation in his head to see what he might have said that she’d find helpful. “What terms?”
“You’ll investigate Dal’s death, and if you find evidence that I did it, you’ll turn me in to the police,” she said. “I accept that because I know I’m innocent—and you two are the only ones who can prove that.”
Gus didn’t remember making that deal. He didn’t remember making any deal. He knew somehow that this wasn’t what he’d meant, but he couldn’t find the spot where her logic diverged from his own. “And you’ll pay us.”
“Every penny I owe you, and a big bonus on top,” she said, those huge green eyes lighting up in relief. “I felt terrible about not paying before, but Dal was so jealous of the way I gushed about you, he wouldn’t let me give you a penny, not even out of my own personal funds. Every time I brought it up, he just muttered something about shoelaces.”
Shawn glowed with triumph. “I knew it!”
“When he offered you that consulting position, he told me it was to reward you for saving me from prison,” she said. “He didn’t tell anybody what his real plan was. If only I had known . . .”
Veronica spared them the bus ride back to their office. As Shepler drove, she told them the full story of her whirlwind romance with Dallas Steele, their instant wedding, and the brief, troubled marriage that followed. Dal was not what he seemed. He always came across as a happy, confident, genial person, but inside there was darkness and insecurity. Somehow all of that had become focused on Shawn and Gus. Although he was grateful that they had rescued the woman he loved, it made him crazy that he wasn’t the one who could save her. He had to punish them for doing what he couldn’t.
Gus didn’t listen too closely. For one thing, he knew that Shawn would be repeating every syllable of it on a regular basis for the next few weeks. And while Shawn was too busy having all his prejudices validated to think it through, Gus couldn’t stop focusing on the huge problem this new development created for them. Their only hope for clearing Tara and thus themselves of Steele’s murder was to find the real killer. But they’d just promised their most promising suspect—their only suspect—that they’d prove her innocent, too.
As the Bentley dropped them off outside their bungalow office, Veronica promising to send Shepler back with a check as soon as possible, Gus tried to explain what a problem they were now facing.
“Either Tara killed Dallas or Veronica did,” Gus said. “And we’re working for both of them.”
“That’s terrific,” Shawn said. “They can’t both be guilty. So whatever happens, we’re coming out of this one with a win!”
Before Gus could begin to formulate the corollary of that theory, Henry Spencer’s pickup squealed up to the curb, and Henry jumped out.
“You must think this is pretty funny!” Henry said, grabbing Shawn by the arm and dragging him toward the truck. As Henry turned, Gus saw the seat of his khaki pants was striped green.
“I can see the humor in many situations,” Shawn said, pulling his arm away. “Those pants, for example.”
“That means a lot coming from a man in a dress, Father ,” Henry said through clenched teeth. “They painted my lawn chairs. They painted every room in my house. They painted the exterior. They painted my house number on the curb. If I hadn’t driven away, they would have painted my truck.”
“I thought you’d taken care of that elf problem,” Shawn said.
“These elves were sent by your friend Dallas Steele, and they won’t stop until he tells them personally. Which he can’t, because, as I understand it, you hired a psychopath to kill him.”
“I did not hire her.”
“No, you just enabled her.”
“And she didn’t kill Dallas Steele,” Gus added, although he knew neither Shawn nor his dad would hear anything he said until their argument was over.
Henry pushed Shawn toward the truck. “Meanwhile, I can’t breathe in my house for fumes. I can’t step anywhere, in case they’ve painted the floor. They have taken over my home.”
“And I have two women to prove innocent of murder,” Shawn said. “Maybe after I rescue them both from the gas chamber, I can help with your interior-decoration issues.”
“Oops, phone’s ringing,” Gus said, more for the record than in any hope they’d notice. “I’d better answer that.”
He slipped away before either father or son could enlist him in his cause. Gus knew how their arguments ran, and he figured he had time to go inside, get out of the filthy jumpsuit, wash his hands, put on his street clothes, and maybe even catch up on e-mails before they’d finish. But as he stepped into the office, the phone actually did begin to ring. Gus hit the SPEAKER button as he unzipped his grave-digging uniform.
“Psych Investigations. Burton Guster speaking.”
“Guster, you and Spencer have to get out of that office right now.” Lassiter’s voice sounded even tighter than usual. “Come down to the police station. We’ll find a safe place for you.”
“Like a jail cell?”
“Unless you’d prefer a pine box. We’ve done some checking on Tara Larison.”
“So you’ve figured out she didn’t kill Dallas Steele.”
“If she didn’t, that puts him in a distinct minority. She’s left a trail of broken necks across the country. And most of them belonged to phony psychics.”
“Phony psychics?” Gus said, already feeling the vertebrae in his neck cracking. Then he remembered who he was talking to. “In that case, we’re perfectly safe.”
“Whatever. She meets a psychic, declares that she’s his mind slave, does whatever she thinks he wants. And then at some point she decides he’s betrayed her, and somehow he falls down the stairs or trips on a skateboard or crashes his motorcycle.”
Gus could practically hear the sound of his own spine snapping. Which proved that you could find good in any catastrophe. As terrible as Dallas Steele’s murder was, at least it put Tara in jail before she could turn on them.
Or did it?
“That, um, matches our findings,” Gus said. “But why are you warning us now? She’s in jail.”
“She never made it,” Lassiter said. “Somehow she managed to break out of the prison bus. She killed the driver and disappeared.”
“You let her get away?”
“The SBPD didn’t let her out. The idiots who handle prison transportation did,” Lassiter said. “If she comes back into our jurisdiction, we’ll put her away again. Until then, the chief feels you two need protection. Because if Tara was ever going to feel betrayed by a psychic overlord, it would be the one who sent her to prison. Do you need us to send a squad car to pick you up?”
Gus glanced out the window and saw Shawn still arguing with Henry. “We’re okay,” he said.
“Not as long as that psycho is out there,” Lassiter said. There was a click as he hung up.
Gus looked out the window again. Shawn and his father were still at it, arguing over something either of them could have resolved with a simple apology or kind word. If they knew how close Shawn had come to sudden, violent death, would they keep on like this? Gus took a step toward the door. He was about to find out.
Something grabbed Gus around the neck and yanked him backward. His heels dug for purchase on the slippery hardwood, but he couldn’t keep his balance. He was going down.
At the car, Henry glanced up to the bungalow’s window and saw Gus waving at them with both hands. “I think Gus wants to say something.”
“You know how he is,” Shawn said. “Can’t stand to see Mom and Dad fighting. Needs to make peace.”
Gus pounded the window with both fists, his mouth contorting as he struggled to pull a breath of air to his lungs.
“Poor Gus,” Henry said. “That soft streak is what’s always let you take advantage of him.”
“I don’t take advantage of Gus.”
Inside the bungalow, Gus was sliding back from the window. He grabbed the windowsill and tried to pull himself forward.
“If you want to make it as a priest, you’re going to have to learn to be honest with yourself,” Henry said. “Look at that poor kid. He’s got the same naive, trusting spirit he had when you were ten. The same bright, hopeful attitude.”
Gus slammed his head against the window, then was dragged back again.
“He didn’t always have three arms, though, did he?” Henry said.
Shawn looked at the window. Gus did seem to have three arms. But the new limb was tanned bronze and wrapped around his neck.
“It’s Tara!”
Shawn sprinted to the office and kicked the door open, Henry right behind him. Gus was bent over, trying to shake Tara off his back.
“Let him go!” Shawn shouted.
At the sound of his voice, Tara jumped back. Gus grabbed his throat, grasping for breath.
“She tried to kill me!” Gus wheezed.
“No, it was an accident,” Tara said. “He fell down the stairs and broke his neck.”
“This is a bungalow,” Shawn said. “There are no stairs.”
“And we saw you with your arm around his throat,” Henry said.
Tara backed away, tears forming in her eyes. “No, I’d never hurt anyone. It was an accident. Shawn, you have to believe me. Please!” Her last word extended into a howl of pain.
“I can see how she fooled you, Shawn,” Henry said. “No way I’d ever guess she was crazy.”
Shawn took a step toward Tara, holding out a hand to her. “It’s all right, Tara. We know you didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”
She sniffed back a sob. “I knew you’d understand.”
“And now we have to make the police understand.”
“No!” She stepped back from him. Her back was up against the wall.
“Come on, Tara,” Shawn said as gently as he could. He reached out and took her hand. “Everything’s going to be all right.”
She seemed to melt under his touch.
“Easy, Shawn,” Henry said. Gus gasped his agreement.
Shawn waved them back. He had this under control. Slowly, calmly, he took her other hand in his. “It’s all going to be okay,” he said.
She gazed up into his eyes, and he felt a buzz of electricity running up his arm. Then she squeezed her hand shut, and he got the entire shock.
Shawn collapsed to the ground, his arms and legs twitching uncontrollably.
“Shawn!” Henry shouted, rushing over to him.
“Ack!” Gus agreed, still trying to regain control of his vocal cords.
Tara let out a piercing scream and ran right at them, waving the stun gun wildly. Gus and Henry fell back on the floor, trying to avoid the crackling weapon, and she blasted out the front door. Scrambling to their feet, Gus and Henry got to the door just in time to see a red Mustang screaming away down the street, a blur of orange jumpsuit all they could make out of the driver.
Shawn let out a groan and managed to pull himself to his feet. “I do not want to know where she was hiding that thing when she was in jail,” Shawn said.
“I’m thinking she picked up a new one since she got out,” Henry said. “You’d be on the ground for an hour if she hit you with the same one she used on me.”
“We have to call the police,” Gus said. Actually, it came out sounding more like, “We ah oo leese,” but both Spencers were able to make sense of it.
“We do have to call the police,” Shawn said. “And tell them we now have proof that Tara is innocent of both murders.”
The outrage flooding Gus’ body was enough to bring back his power of speech. “She just tried to kill me!”
“Absolutely,” Shawn said.
“Not to mention Aunt Enid and Fred
Larison and all the other phony psychics who broke their necks in tragic accidents,” Gus said.
“Phony psychics?” Henry said, cocking an eyebrow at Shawn.
Gus filled them in on what Lassiter told him. Henry’s scowl got more disapproving with every new detail. But Shawn was completely undaunted.
Psych: A Mind is a Terrible Thing to Read Page 23