"Got it,"
Gus looked up from his laptop with an irritated expression. It was a hot day in Santa Barbara, irritatingly hot, and all of the windows in the tiny, cramped office space had been thrown open to let, what Gus was now starting to realize, more irritatingly hot air in. It was only his self-respect and personal dignity that kept him from jumping across the table and snatching what Shawn was waving at him from his hand.
"You got a banana berry smoothie?!"
"Banana acai, to be precise. Good catch, though. I would've gotten you one but they ran all out of acai after making mine and I felt like getting you anything less would be below your dignity." Shawn looked at him while taking a long, noisy sip from his straw. Gus watched as the melting ice from the drink ran down the side of the Styrofoam cup in about the same manner that sweat was running down his face. Screw self-respect and personal dignity in 5…4…3...
"Well Shawn, while you were out buying yourself drinks and doing God knows what else I was sitting here all morning doing actual work. Come look at this."
Shawn closed the door behind him and moved over to his side, still sipping noisily. "Ssssssssssf Dude," he said, closing his eyes in frustration when he looked at the computer screen, "how many times have I ssssssssssssssf told you. Watching sfffffff YouTube sssssssssfffffff videos of sssssssssfffffff Luther Vandross interviews is not sssssssfffff considered actual sssssssssssfffffff sfffffffff sffffffffffffffffff work-"
"Sip that thing one more time, Shawn. Go ahead. I dare you." The low, poisonous venom in Gus's overly-sweet voice actually did make Shawn stop. "Anyway, I was taking a break. And Luther Vandross can be very inspiring."
"Yeah, he'll teach you how to sing like a chocolate covered cockatoo any day."
Gus chose to ignore this comment. He ran his finger along the mouse pad and opened a new tab. It appeared to be some sort of eloquent blog on different types of art and what people thought of them. Shawn couldn't help but notice that the words below par and exquisite kept popping up. "Check this out. You see this name right here?" Gus pointed to a tiny white print above one of the comments.
"Harris," Shawn read.
"Does that name sound familiar to you?" Shawn shook his head and then paused.
"Wait a minute - that was the name signed on all of the destroyed paintings in the rich guy's house. Harris was the painter."
"Mm-hm. And according to this site, Harris was big time art fanatic. He must've posted over a hundred comments on this site alone advocating for some new kind of agony art that he had come up with."
"Guessing people weren't buying it."
"Literally and figuratively. Not only were people repulsed by the idea, but I went on other art-related websites and found that he had been trying to sell this type of art for over thirty years. Not one buyer. People seemed to just ignore his comments whenever he posted them on a website." Shawn whistled. "Ouch. Poor guy. But that doesn't get us anywhere, Gus. You're goingta have to do better, man."
"I did Shawn, and here's the catch. I typed in Harris's name in Google search and get this, he had his own personal website complete with unused forums, communities, biographies, and prices, but about ten years or so after it was created it was completely changed to a one topic website..."
"Please not another Leave-Britney-Alone advocate."
"Well it could be possible. It's hard to tell. Just an hour after the rich dude was murdered the site was shut down."
"Hmph," Shawn paused, and Gus readied himself for the well-deserved praise, "That still doesn't get us anywhere."
"What-"
"Sssssfffff. Gus, Gus, Gus. Apparently, while you were here creeping on people's MySpace pages, I was outside doing the actual work." Shawn plopped a heavy manila document onto Gus's desk, making him jump. "What is this?"
"That, my acai deprived friend, is twenty-four solid pages of information on Richard Kusnick; the victim."
"Shawn, you compiled all of this?" Gus said in a voice filled with utmost incredulity as he rifled through the papers. Shawn paused.
"I…*mummblegrumblemumble*…"
"You what?"
"I…said…Imight'vestoleitfromLassie."
"Wh…you might have a bowling permit that's sassy?"
"Look, I might have stolen it from Lassie-"
"Shawn!"
"Ssssssssssffffffffff- g-Hey!" Gus thought that he was very justified in smacking the drink across the room. "That is so coming out of your Christmas money." Shawn mumbled. Gus's only response was a well-rehearsed sneer. "Richard Kusnick," Shawn said, "Exceedingly rich, exceedingly obsessed with art which therefore also makes him exceedingly rare. This guy lived, breathed and ate art, Gus. There wasn't one painting in that place that wasn't the representation of all of its class. This guy practically made a living off of buying and critiquing art."
"He have a wife or children?" Shawn pssssshed.
"Psssssssssh, Gus, what do you think?"
"Oh, do you want me to smack your lips off, too?"
"Gus, don't be a sour cactus. It just goes to show than in a span of a little less than two hours I can get more done than you could possibly ever imagine. 1-0 for Shawnie boy!"
"You stole a document from Lassiter! That's not considered work!"
"Come on, let's go visit this Harris-guy's sister. I'm feelin' juiced!" Shawn called, already halfway down the street.
Part Two
Shawn and Gus parked in front of a huge mansion dotted with white flowers and tall, green hedges. A large fountain depicting something that only rich people could ever really appreciate took up the majority of the circular lawn while everything was kept neat and guarded by black spear-tipped fences. Shawn whistled. Squished in Gus's tiny little blue echo, surrounded by wealth and tall things, he felt very out of place.
"We'll probably be dealing with an avaricious female somewhere between 69 and 70 that has way too many dogs and a really bad temper," he said, eyeing the looming mansion withn squinted eyes.
"Ssssssssfffffff. You know that's right."
"Okay and…dude, I'm sorry, but did we really have to go to the smoothie store and lecture them about the importance keeping their acai stocks full?"
"No, especially since you lied about that one little bit."
"Man," the two got out and descended the marble steps. Shawn glanced anxiously at the freaky Lions-Head knocker before scoffing at Gus and knocking twice. They could hear the low, heavy sound reverberating through the – what sounded like empty judging by the echoes – house. There was a silence, and then –
"Can I help you?"
"Hi, I'm Psychic Detective Shaw-…whoa…"
"Whoa," Gus repeated, his eyebrows jumping off of his head.
"Whoa,"
"Hel-lo,"
The young woman glanced worriedly between Shawn and Gus with a confused look on her face. She was hot, Texas sun hot. Chocolate brown curls blown back from her heart-shaped face, one honey-tinted, slender hand placed warily on the doorframe, and a body that both petite and robust, she might've actually been hotter than Iliza Sclesinger covered in pudding. Actually, maybe not Shawn thought indecisively, I'll have to ask Gus later when he's not gawking at her.
"Dude, you're smiling like a dope."
"Psychic Detective Shawhoa?" she repeated.
"N-yes! And this is my partner Shaho. We hope to form a band using those names in the future. Maybe a little alternative, a little rock, eh?" She smiled timidly at him and glanced at Gus, who was now doing something with his eyebrows that was either meant to be flirtatious or he was having a seizure, "we're here to talk to you about to you about your brother, Jonathan Harris."
"Oh! Well, come in," seemingly relieved, she pulled them inside and led them down an ornately decorated corridor. "There are two other detectives here that I was just talking to, if you don't mind. Um, Detective Lassiter? Detective O'Hara? This is Psychic Detective Shawhoa and his partner...I'm sorry, what was your name again?"
"Whoa…."
"His partner Whoa…they wanted to talk to me about Jonny." Much to her surprise, instead of smiling and welcoming the two new detectives, Detective Lassiter groaned and put a hand to his temple.
"What part of go, 'die in a not-so-tragic hiker's incident involving a motorized bear and a couple of jack hammers don't you understand'?" he demanded of Shawn.
"Carlton!"
He and Juliet were standing in a small living room (one of many) looking very awkward and out of place amongst the bright pink curtains and china cats. Shawn looked at Gus who shrugged, equally baffled. "None of it," he admitted truthfully. Jules rolled her eyes.
"Well I've got bad news," she said
"What is it?" Gus asked, still looking at the woman and using a voice that, Shawn thought, bordered on sexual. The woman, Tsia Harris, sighed and opened her mouth.
"Johnny-" Shawn suddenly squinted at a paper that Lassie carried in the crook of is arm. It was a list of all of the comments that this Jonathan Harris person had made spanning from ten years ago to the present day. In his head, the older comments including the words exquisite and below par were highlighted while modern day comments including the words awesome and not so bad stood out equally bright.
"- is dead." he said for her, putting a hand to his head, "I am so sorry." Tsia nodded, looking surprised. "Wow, how did you know that?"
"Oh, just a little bit of this –" Shawn tapped his noggin, "and a whole lot of this…" he then gestured to his torso, doing a Michael Jackson move that made everybody in the general vicinity cringe.
"How did he die?"
"Lung cancer, a couple of years ago," Tsia said, "It took the family by surprise. Believe it or not, some family members still don't even know that he's dead!"
"I am very sorry for your loss. If ever you need someone to lean on-"
"Gus, do no give her the fake business card that you carry around in your pocket with your phone number written on the back that you say is there just to show off your good penmanship." Gus snickered in an 'oh, please' manner and hurriedly stuffed the card of which he had been pulling out back in his pocket. Tsia sighed and looked from Lassiter to Juliet. "I don't know what his paintings were doing in that house," she said, "I mean, obviously, when he died there was no one who really wanted to buy or sell them. I mean, I can't really blame them. He came around and gave me a few for my birthday – this thing called agony art that he came up with – but as you can see, I couldn't bear to put them up on my walls," she leaned forward and lowered her voice conspiratorially, "they truly were agonizing."
"Ms. Harris, what happened to the paintings after he died? Who would've had access to them?"
"I…" she paused, "I'm sorry, I don't really know. I love my brother, but-"
"Is that my Richard Kusnick file?!"
Shawn looked up at Lassiter and back down at the manila folder which he had been leafing through with an innocent face, "W-wait - I'm getting something else!" Shawn quickly slapped his hand on Lassie's face before he could look closer, "Not only did Harris die of a terrible, terrible disease but I sense that he was also being impersonated!"
"Are you sure?"
"Jules, have I ever lied to you before?"
"Yes, actually. During the countless cases when I told you to stay put and you promised me that you would."
"She has a point, you know," Gus said
"I can't do this with you right now. I have a feeling you won't be needing these," Shawn quickly snatched the files from Lassie's hands and began to quickly step back, "I may need to pore over them a bit, see if I can glean anymore psychic vibes from their fine…..detail. Meanwhile you all should go bask in the sun, get some lollipops, enjoy yourselves, maybe, while Gus and I figure this out."
"Shawn!"
Shawn and Gus quickly ran out of the mansion before Jules and Lassiter could come after them, but on the way out Shawn noticed something rather odd in the corridor. A picture, framed in gold, depicting a happy family: mother, daughter, son, father, but it had been folded along the side and you could just barely make out the stringy blond hair of whoever it was whose face had been folded over.
"How did you figure out that somebody was impersonating Harris?" Gus asked as the two got in the car and locked the doors. Shawn glanced at the big house and quickly opened the Jonathan Harris files. "Dude, check this out," he whispered, rifling to the pages that he had been looking at earlier, "You see this here? August 15, the day that Swope was alive, he says, 'Anybody looking for exquisite, emotional art to set a room blazing with agonizing fire?'"
"Yeah…that painting didn't sell too well."
"Now look at this: November 30th, he comments, "I have some really cool art to sell that I think you'd love.' Does that seem fishy to you?"
"No – wait a minute…Maverick's supposed to be dead around this time. You're right, Shawn, someone is trying to impersonate him!"
"And they're doing it badly. 'I have some really cool art to sell?' I mean, psh, come on."
"Out of all the dead artists to impersonate, who would try to steal and sell this guy's art? It's the worst of the worst!"
Shawn suddenly remembered something else odd, something that he had noticed about a rather peculiar salesman.
"You in the mood to donate some money to children in need of furry animals?"
Helpful Chart
Jonathan Harris: The man who painted the pictures that were found in the dead man's house ('member the ones that were ripped and had the words 'nonsense' written on them?)
Richard Kusnick: Dead guy who was strangled.
Tsia Harris: Johnny's sister.
