A Fatal Frame of Mind

by William Rabkin

  The illusion was only enhanced by the man who stepped through a large glass door into the courtyard. His face gnarled with age and cloaked in a long white beard and framed by a cascade of white hair, he looked like he had stepped out of a painting by Rembrandt. Of course Rembrandt was Dutch, not Italian, and Gus had no idea whether the painter had ever set foot in Tuscany, but then there was a reason he’d failed Professor Kitteredge’s class all those years earlier.

  The old man raised a hand in greeting. “I had hoped you’d come to me, Langston,” he said in a voice filled with warmth.

  “If only it were under happier circumstances.” Kitteredge strode across the courtyard and embraced the man in a hug so hard Gus expected to hear bones snapping. “I hate the thought that I might bring the police to your doorstep.”

  “We’ll worry about that if it happens,” the old man said.

  “I’m afraid it’s not going to be if—it’s going to be when,” Kitteredge said. “Someone’s going to figure out before long that you’re my friend.”

  “Then we have no time to waste,” the old man said.

  “We have a little time to waste,” Shawn said. “The police are going to have to find their way in here. So maybe you can take a few seconds to tell us who you are.”

  Kitteredge glanced back at him as if he’d forgotten that Shawn and Gus had come along for the ride. The old man looked puzzled.

  “They came in the back way,” Malko said.

  “Ah,” the old man said. “That would explain why you arrived later than I expected. I’m afraid that when the police arrive they will simply drive through the front gate and right up to the house.”

  “The front gate.” Shawn glared at Gus, then at Kitteredge. “Wonder why we never thought of that.”

  “But there is certainly time for introductions,” the old man said. “I am Flaxman Low. This is my home.” He waved around the courtyard. “And of course, as long as you choose to stay, it is your home as well.”

  “That’s too generous of you, Flaxman,” Kitteredge said.

  “Not at all,” Low said. “Perhaps you’d like to introduce me to your friends—although I feel I already know them, thanks to the TV news.”

  Kitteredge motioned for Shawn and Gus to join him. “This,” he said, “is an old student of mine, Burton Guster.”

  “That explains why he was willing to risk his life and freedom to help you,” Low said. “I’ve never met a student of yours who wasn’t.”

  Kitteredge waved the compliment away and gestured to Shawn. “And this,” he said, “oh, Flaxman; you will not believe it. This is The Defence of Guenevere.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “He’s the killer.”

  Gus seriously considered ignoring Shawn’s declaration. All he wanted was a few minutes to close his eyes before dinner. And the room the hunchback had taken them to seemed to want the same thing. Its two queen beds were huge and firm and covered with deep down comforters. Its shutters were open, and the soothing sound of a fountain wafted through the soft air. And it was so large that Shawn’s voice seemed to be coming from miles away.

  Still, the accusation was so outrageous that some kind of response seemed obligatory. Gus cracked open one eye. “The old guy?”

  “Who else?” Shawn said.

  “What do you mean who else?” Gus said. “It could have been anyone else. There are billions of people in this world, and the only ones we know for sure didn’t do it are you and me.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, my friend,” Shawn said. “Well, it’s the place where you are most currently wrong. If we wanted to go back through the catalog of all the places you’ve been wrong, we’d have to start with Mrs. Peyser’s first-grade class, where you thought you were putting your hand over your heart and pledging your achievements to the flag. But this is the big one.”

  “I still think it would be better to pledge my achievements than just my allegiance,” Gus said. “That way I’m actually doing something for my country. And I don’t see how I’m wrong here.”

  “Look back on everything that’s happened on this case so far,” Shawn said. “Who have we dealt with? Jules and Lassie, of course, but I think we can rule them out pretty safely. That guy from the museum.”

  “Hugh Ralston, the executive director,” Gus said.

  “Right,” Shawn said. “But he’s pretty boring. I mean, he works in a museum. He’s going to start killing people? Not on my watch. Who else does that leave? A bunch of uniformed cops, not one of whom we met more than once. And that trucker guy with the crazy wife who wanted us to wait on them. I don’t think so.”

  Gus wanted to keep his head comfortably nestled among the down pillows. But the insanity of what Shawn was saying lifted him up like a possessed teenager levitating for the exorcist. “Those are just the people we’ve encountered,” Gus said. “Why does the killer have to be someone we’ve met before?”

  “There are rules to this kind of thing,” Shawn said.

  “You don’t believe in following rules,” Gus said.

  “I told you, I don’t believe in man-made rules,” Shawn said. “But even I can’t ignore the immutable rules of the universe.”

  “And which rule would this be?” Gus said. “Because I really don’t think that the key to this mystery lies in how many French fries I give you.”

  “Think about it,” Shawn said. “Think back on all our cases. Has the killer ever turned out to be someone we hadn’t met in the course of the investigation?”

  Gus cast his mind back over the hundreds of crimes they’d investigated. “What about that serial killer, Mr. Yang?” he said. “Not only hadn’t you met Yang earlier in the case—you didn’t even know she was a female.”

  “Really?” Shawn said. “That’s the best you can come up with? A serial killer I was in phone contact with for ages before she revealed herself? Of course we’d met. Just not face to face.”

  Gus wasn’t sure that counted, but he decided to let it go. There had to be another example. He just couldn’t think of one. “That doesn’t mean it couldn’t happen,” he said finally.

  “Think of it this way,” Shawn said. “Let’s say you’re watching Scooby-Doo—and I’ve seen you, so don’t bother denying it. Anyway, the gang tracks down the ghost that’s been haunting the old circus, they set a trap, and bang! They grab him and pull off his mask. Who’s under there? Well, it’s the developer who wants to put a shopping mall on the fairgrounds, of course. But how would you feel if they whipped off the mask and underneath was a guy you’d never seen before?”

  “This is not a Scooby-Doo episode,” Gus said.

  “Granted, our current adventure may lack the mastery and grace of classic stories like ‘Hassle in the Castle’ or ‘Foul Play in Funland,’ ” Shawn said. “But as I’ve always said, aim high.”

  Had it not seemed so far off the point, Gus might have noted that the only time Shawn had ever told anyone to aim high was in the last minutes of a seventh-grade dodgeball game when he was unsuccessfully imploring Malachi Rabinowitz to throw the ball over, rather than at, his face.

  “You can’t accuse this man of being a killer just because no one else we’ve met has seemed interesting enough,” Gus said.

  “That’s far from the only evidence I have,” Shawn said.

  “You’re half right,” Gus said. “It certainly is far from evidence. What else do you have?”

  Shawn waved his arms around the room. “How about this secret villain’s lair hidden behind a fake mountain?”

  “Apparently it’s only secret if you can’t find the front gate,” Gus said. “I don’t think SPECTRE’s volcano had a street address.”

  “Or this level of guest amenities.” Shawn checked out the grooming supplies that sat on a low table under a mirror. There was a matched set of razor, bowl, and shaving brush, all elegantly carved out of ivory. “Somehow I doubt this guy keeps the TV remote on a chain so people can’t walk off with it. And I looked in the robes. Ther
e’s no note about how we can buy one at the front desk but if we steal it we’ll get charged ninety-five thousand dollars.”

  “Yes, he’s rich and he’s generous,” Gus said. “That must mean he’s a murderer.”

  “What about his name?” Shawn said. He rapped his fingers against a framed diploma that hung on the wall, proclaiming in Latin to any guest who cared that their host had a doctorate in art history from Harvard University. Then he took a second look at it, as if noticing something interesting, before turning back to Gus. “Who names their kid Flaxman Low if they don’t want him to grow up to be some kind of villain? And then there’s his henchman.”

  “You mean his servant?”

  “Whatever,” Shawn said. “He’s got a one-eyed, gun-wielding hunchback working for him. Apparently hiring an albino with barbed wire wrapped around his midsection was too subtle for the guy. Either that or he was afraid of the advocacy groups. After every action movie in the eighties had an albino villain, they started to get a little testy.”

  “If hiring the handicapped makes you a villain, then we should be focusing our investigation on the March of Dimes,” Gus said.

  “I would, but we haven’t met any of them yet, either,” Shawn said. “And that brings us back to Flaxman Low, murderer.”

  “You keep saying that, but you don’t have any evidence,” Gus insisted.

  Shawn stared at him. “Haven’t you been listening to a word I’ve said?”

  “All of them,” Gus said. “With a mounting sense of dread that you’ve gone insane.”

  Shawn crossed the room in a few large strides, and for a moment Gus thought he was going to attack him physically.

  “Look around you,” he said. “The hair, the lair, the henchman. It even fits structurally.”

  “What do you mean ‘structurally’?”

  “Look at the events of the last day or so,” Shawn said. “We were there at the crime scene, we had rising tension as Kitteredge was interrogated, and then it was chase, chase, chase,” he said. “Now it’s twenty-four hours later, and we’ve got a break from the tension. We’re in a safe place with a good friend. According to every movie Alfred Hitchcock ever made, this friend has to be a bad guy.”

  “I thought we were in a Hardy Boys book,” Gus said.

  “It seemed like it at the time, but apparently we’ve been upgraded,” Shawn said. “Now we’re being lured to our doom by Eva Marie Saint. Except that Eva Marie was a lot prettier and wore her hair shorter.”

  “Does that inflamed brain of yours have any idea of why he murdered Filkins?”

  “No, but if we pay attention in the next few minutes, we may be able to put it together,” Shawn said.

  “How do you figure that?” Gus said, wishing he had never lifted his head from the pillows. At least that was one thing that could be easily remedied. He lay back down and closed his eyes.

  Then he heard the sound of a throat being cleared. And judging from the deep growling noise that came from the throat, it didn’t belong to Shawn. Gus sat up and saw the hunchback standing in the doorway.

  “Dinner is served,” Malko said.

  “That’s how,” Shawn said.

  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 m
ade 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.