XIX. The Death Dealing Rings

Gus's feelings of inferiority were complex and difficult to comprehend. When Juliet suggested that they have a "journal night," he demurred to her calculating wiles. It was, after all, supposed to be a way for them to work through their emotions without judgment: the sort of judgment they looked for in one another, or the unique, internal judgment they placed on themselves. It had helped them solve problems in the past, such as the uncertainty of explaining their relationship to their friends. At that time, Juliet had written that Carlton and Shawn were their friends, who'd love them anyway, and that they should tell them. Maybe, to execute this, they could have a fancy dinner, the kind with candles on the table in Liberace candlesticks, a touch of the vintage and a splash of glamor—make it look as though Mindy Weiss or David Tutera had planned the whole thing. It was while journaling that Juliet and Gus brainstormed the whole "swamp monster" storyline that brought their relationship and engagement to the forefront. It had, of course, started out as a "We should do..." joke that was exactly the opposite of what they'd really wanted to do. I mean, it was "Swamp Monster" verses "Mindy Weiss-style dinner party." But the Swamp Monster Case made them laugh so hard, on the couch in their apartment, where they were now sitting, that they had to go through with it. Besides, at a dinner party, all they could've done to bring Shawn and Carlton together was sit them next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, knee to knee. At least with the Swamp Monster, Shawn and Carlton needed to work together. Except for the fact that they almost didn't, and the whole thing almost didn't happen at all...

Gus and Juliet had a light repast of stuffed tomatoes baked to perfection, and a side of roasted chickpeas with herbs, and a nice white wine. They journaled as they ate, writing ideas down in their composition books—Gus's was green, Juliet's was yellow—when those ideas came. At the end of the meal, they took wine glasses, composition books, and about-to-be-revealed secrets into the living room. Wine glass down, Juliet had to clear from the sofa cushion a retro dress pattern she'd been cutting out, with the dream of a suit that would've looked great on Claudette Colbert in Since You Went Away, and Juliet thought it'd look good on her, too. Gus sat on the sofa's other end. He was mending a hole in the armpit of one of his pajama shirts, where the seam had gotten too close to the end of the fabric. His meticulous approach to mending meant that it was not quite finished by the time the chickpeas were done. He scooted the bundle of blue to the coffee table.

They were not allowed to talk until they'd read each other's entries. The silence was often refreshing, and there was no pressure on them to speak. They imagined that it was a Godly, almost monastic freedom, not having to talk and repressing the natural inclination to do so.

The exchange was completed without much ado. Juliet got a green composition book in her hands, and Gus had the yellow one. They opened to the latest entry, just a few pages in. Juliet had written in her preferred purple-ink Pentel RSVP RT. It was pretty against the white, blue-lined paper, in her swirly, gentle handwriting that moved like water. Gus used his favored Pentel LiquiGel pen in bright green—he liked his composition book and the interior ink to match as closely as possible. When they started hanging out together, before the date that turned into their first "date," they laughed about their common adoration for Pentel pens. They were a Pentel household. The day Juliet moved in, she'd presented them with a shadowbox she'd made of old Pentel pens she'd been collecting since high school. It hung on the wall between the living room and the kitchen, a keepsake, a reminder.

Juliet hiked up her knees to keep Gus's composition book there while she read. It was a short entry. His handwriting was precise, a mixture of cursive and print, like hers. But his was smaller, took up less space, and there were small hooks where he didn't quite lift up the pen nib in time before he moved it to form the next letter, the following word. She would know his handwriting anywhere—as ubiquitous to her world now as his shoes that he always left in the way by the door, the One Random Sock of his that she always found under the bed on laundry day, and how, if they got separated at Target, she knew to find him in Office Supplies. Gus could always find her in Intimates.

He was remorseful. That was apparent in his entry. His inability to bond with Shawn yesterday bothered him, left him feeling isolated, incubating feelings of guilt. If Carlton had not said he would take Gus's place, Gus might've been persuaded to go. But that was only augmented by their brief time together yesterday afternoon. He was filled with a panic. He'd wanted to talk to Shawn about his insecurities, but knew that Shawn's hurts were, at present, too big. They squashed Gus's worries. He couldn't flaunt his impending marriage, and its potential downsides, when Shawn had just gotten out of a relationship. He worried about Shawn. He worried what would happen to him in the future—after their wedding date in August. What was Shawn going to do? Juliet didn't have the answers.

"Hey," she said, sticking her toes, in socks with little ice cream cones on them, against his thigh. He looked up from his reading, and the two of them offered one another gentle smiles. She closed the composition book, moved forward, looking him right in the eye. She was so full of seriousness that Gus's senses tingled, and, for a second, he stopped breathing to hold it in, out of fear and respect. He knew when life-changing moments arrived. "There's something I want to tell you."

Oh no, he thought. What had he said in the entry to bring this on? He didn't want to hear it, really. His blood curdled, his throat tightened. He was suddenly nauseous. He stayed still, eyebrows up in expectation and fear.

"It's not about you," she said, "me or you, me and you. It's about Shawn—Shawn and Carlton."

"Oh," he said, losing his glassy-eyed expression. He curled back towards his fiancée with an openness and willingness. "What about them? Did you find out what they were up to today?"

"A little," she said, still serious. She pulled back. "Look, I don't know how to tell you this because I don't know how you'll react to it, because it's a little—I acted a little—a little underhanded."

"Oh? Wow, I'm intrigued. My mind reels that you could ever think of yourself as underhanded. Do go on."

"It is underhanded. But I did it anyway. I knew that McNab and Dobson were working this afternoon. A ten-hour shift. They're still at work, working until nine tonight."

"Yeah," he said at this natural pause. "Continue."

"And this afternoon, I, um, called McNab and had him keep an eye on Shawn."

His eyelids narrowed, speculating. "That's interesting. It never occurred to me to—" He cut himself off, instincts roiling. "Wait a second! What's this have to do with Shawn and Carlton?"

"Not long after you dropped him off at the laundromat, Carlton showed up there."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." She still couldn't tell how Gus felt about this. "And then they went out. The bank, um—"

"Oh, that's right. Shawn mentioned something about needing to go to the bank. Completely forgot about it. Good, I'm glad Lassiter took him. What else?"

"You seem very interested all of the sudden."

Gus lifted a shoulder. "It's Shawn. I felt terrible leaving him. He's looked awful this week. I guess I would too if I lost the love of my life."

Juliet wondered if that's really what Shawn's problem was: Had Adrian Harris-Collins really been at the center of Shawn's despair? Unable to logic out that riddle, it'd been on her mind all week without an answer in sight, she went on with more enthusiasm. It helped that Shawn and Carlton's movements, those that were done together, brought Gus to her side of things. "After the bank, they went to the Museum of Natural History—"

"But that place closes at five o' clock! I doubt they had any time to look around!"

"True—they left when the place closed, then went to Lotusland."

The two of them eyed one another, and said, at the same time: "Succulents!" And laughed.

"Then what?" Gus had already told her about Shawn's business-date with Will from For Keeps massage. Shawn was probably getting ready to head over to the restaurant. Or, knowing Shawn, at 7:22 PM he was just getting out of the shower. Her little simper and impossibly ornery glow told him what had happened next. He was not enthused. "They went back to Lassiter's, huh?"

"So it seems."

"That's it," Gus said, grabbing his phone from the coffee table, "I'm texting him! I want to know if he's still going on that date!"

Juliet didn't try to stop him; she was too curious about it herself.

Shawn's phone blurted from its spot on the couch. Carlton glanced at it. His own phone had been ringing periodically throughout the day, and he'd been ignoring it. But this was Shawn's phone. He stared at it, full of an ancient curiosity mingled with a sense of protectiveness. If it was Adrian—what if it was Adrian? Carlton couldn't get it out of his mind, that spiel Shawn had given about Adrian's jealousy. He so, so, so wanted to believe that Shawn had made it up, but the emotional wrinkles in Shawn had been undeniable at the time he told the tale, and Carlton knew the truth when he saw it. Even if the truth came from Shawn, whose honesty, most days, was stuck between clouds and fog. It was always just warped enough to make it beyond recognition.

With Shawn in the shower down the hall, and Carlton able to hear it, he felt safe picking up the phone. For a private detective, Shawn did not lock his phone. Carlton remembered once that Juliet had chided him on this absence of security. "What are they going to do?" Shawn had retaliated. "Order the Fifty Shades box set off Amazon? Can't happen. I already own it and Amazon will know and they'll refund me, and case closed. Come on! Security is for the insecure! I prefer my jeans more secure than my phone!" It had made Carlton snicker at the time—they'd been having lunch at Tom Blair's—and now he was thankful that even a breakup hadn't made Shawn rethink his iPhone security strategy.

Unlike the previous text, two minutes ago, that was from Henry Spencer, this one was just a text from Gus. Lassiter did not read it except for the preview on the screen. He dropped the iPhone and answered Gus using his own phone.

"Yes, he's still going on the date."

"Why are you answering the text I sent to Shawn's phone?"

"He's in the shower. I wanted to be sure it wasn't ... you know."

"Ah, yeah. Gotcha. He still at your place?"

"Yeah. I'm going to drop him off by the restaurant whenever he's ready to go. He'll probably be late."

"You're dropping him off?" Before he sent that text, which was invasive enough, he'd deleted the statement "That's weird." He didn't want to rile Carlton Lassiter's feelings at all. Like they were all idiots who couldn't see what was happening, who were supposed to be ambivalent to the whole thing. As good and healthy and well-adjusted adults, they were properly ignoring it. Phrases like "their closeness..." and "what the hell is going on..." and "those two..." only seemed to be popping off in Gus's and Juliet's heads, not Shawn's or Carlton's—neither in first- nor third-person.

"I am. Unless you wanted to do it. How else is he going to get there? I am NOT lending him my car."

"Oh, I see. He doesn't have the bike out there."

"Bingo." Carlton didn't pretend that he was happy about dropping Shawn off for a date. Truth be told, in his wee heart of hearts, it bothered Lassiter. It was awkward.

It was a little more awkward when Shawn emerged from the bathroom all clean, polished, smelling nicely of aftershave. He looked better in a newer pair of jeans that had been mysteriously tucked away in the guest room closet—at that point, Carlton had rolled his eyes and wondered what else Shawn had "tucked away" at the house, like a dormouse readying itself for hibernation. Carlton had lent Shawn a pale orange shirt—Shawn had said it looked like a creamsicle and wondered if Will would try to lick him later, and at that point Carlton had rolled his eyes as well. But now Shawn looked put together and almost perfect, except for his hair that still had to be cut, now hanging over the elfish tips of his ears and pathetically swooped back with whatever substance he'd found in Carlton's bathroom that could accomplish such a thing. Shawn hadn't found anything miraculous, he'd only been smart enough to leave a haircare product behind. He couldn't go out of the house without slightly perfect hair. It simply wasn't done. When Shawn made grumblings to that effect, Lassiter wondered aloud why it was that Shawn often showed up at a crime scene or at the station "looking like you just got out of bed." It was a look, Shawn had defended, grabbing his keys, his wallet, and feeling that he was forgetting something. A coat, he guessed. It was too chilly that night to wander around in a shirt with a t-shirt underneath.

He turned around to ask Lassiter if he could borrow a coat, only to find one hooked on a forefinger. It was leather, did not dangle stiffly, but hung there limply. Shawn took it, and the leather was soft and squished in his hands. It smelled like a recent cleaning and conditioning. It was vintage, that was easily determined, but it fit all right and was of a classic bomber cut that didn't go out of style. Even Lassiter had to hold on to things, Shawn guessed. More than the Russian Lit books, too, with someone else's name in them. It was possible the coat had belonged to Lassiter, but more likely it'd been Victoria's, or the name in the books—

Carlton hadn't worn it in years. Victoria had always been on him to get rid of it. It was a morbid reminder. Those were as handy to have around, too, as mementos that only protected and shielded and offered a buffer from the bad. He couldn't help getting gruff with Shawn. It was his own defense. "If you mess up that jacket, Spencer, so help me—I will find a way to kill you that looks like an accident. And I'm a cop, I can do things like that." Not entirely seriously, yet feeling it for a split second that surged through his system, he gave Shawn a hearty clap on the shoulder. "Ready to go?"

It was awkward, Shawn finally decided. He'd been debating the awkward level in his inner monologue since Lassie offered to lend him a nice shirt. Now that most of his upper torso was covered in Lassie bits, Shawn knew it was awkward that this was happening. Not only was he doubting his ability to entertain Will Lissner, and Shawn half-panicked that, with the similarity of their last names, he'd wind up calling Will something like Lissie, but Shawn wasn't sure he could stand Lassiter dropping him off in front of the restaurant, either. He requested, and was granted, being dropped off the next street north. That broke most of the tension. He wasn't sure what to say when it came time to leave the vehicle, either. How would he get home? Back to the laundry basket, to Lassiter's? To his dad's? His dad had texted him while he'd been in the shower, and Shawn didn't answer yet. If Dad got it in his head— Shawn trembled in frustration, squeezed his eyes shut, and felt sheltered in the dim light of the car.

Lassiter thought that niceness made things easier between them. "Call if you need a ride."

"Thanks."

"Unless that Norton of yours shows up. You know what that thing reminds me of? Hagrid's bike from Harry Potter."

Shawn snickered, finally undoing the safety belt clipped at his hip. "I get that."

"No, I'm serious. I mean, it shows up everywhere, like it has a mind of its own. I never know where it is one moment to the next. It's part magical, right?"

Shawn didn't know if they were still talking about the bike. A switch in the energy of the car told him that Lassiter had meant to imply the bike, the bike only, but had somehow veered into the bike's owner. "I get that," he repeated, "because the bike actually belonged to Sirius, not Hagrid. Hagrid just ended up with it somehow."

Lassiter let that sink in, not sure what was what. "Have a good date."

Shawn made a listless hiss, getting out of the car. He shut the door behind him, walked in the opposite direction. He could hear the engine disappear around the corner. Even that part of Santa Barbara, a couple of blocks from the Psych office, seemed oddly foreign to him. Nonetheless, mind removed from most of reality, he found his way to the restaurant.

Will had already been seated, and the host seemed to know who Shawn was looking for. Several booths in the capacious space were built into their own little chambers, walled from the back of the booths up to the ceiling. Will was in one of these, looking rather small as he toyed with the straw in his dark soda. He raised his gaze when Shawn appeared. Shawn was still afraid that he wouldn't know what to talk about. He took off his coat, it was a little warmer in the restaurant than he was expecting, and set it down—very gently, as if it was made of glass—in the empty space next to him.

Pleasantries were spoken.

Will had dressed decently in a loose shirt of strange fabric that made Shawn want to be very tactile. Will's hair was combed, sleek, lifted off his forehead in a little mess, as was the trend that year. Shawn's hair was less of a mess than usual, but he was self-conscious of his shiny, long locks all the same. Why had he not remembered to get a haircut? A subconscious tactic, he thought. Adrian had liked his hair shorter, and now Shawn endeavored to do the exact opposite of what Adrian had wanted. He would've hated Shawn spending so much time with Lassiter. He would've hated that he was sitting across a table in a private booth from a cute guy who'd asked him to dinner. Whether that was business or pleasure, Shawn wasn't sure. It might be halfway through the meal by the time he really knew.

"Thanks for asking to meet with me," Shawn blurted out, after just dislodging them from the topic of the cool weather and rambles about Santa Barbara not living up to California meteorological ideation. Business? Pleasure? Either or neither, it was going to be an interesting way to spend an hour or two.

"Yeah, thanks for agreeing," Will said. He drew his elbows on the table, one arm gently lying over the other. His expression was one of deep thought. When his eyes rose up, he'd made a decision—Shawn just didn't know what that decision was. "Look, um—I know who you are. You're Shawn Spencer."

Shawn had that creepy feeling hit him, first in his gut, then at his knees, and lastly in his throat. "Sorry—what?"

"I know you're Shawn Spencer," Will repeated, but he was light and airy—with a shred of seriousness that spooked Shawn even more. "And I know the guy with you this morning was Carlton Lassiter."

It was going to be an interesting evening, just more interesting than Shawn had thought, and a whole lot sooner than he'd thought, too.