The detective novel must have a detective in it;
and a detective is not a detective unless he detects.

S.S. Van Dine
20 Rules for Writing Detective Stories, ca. 1928

4.

By the time Shawn started helping the teams' staff with the horses, he was fairly happy to be involved in something that required concentration. His mind had been wandering the last three hours, during the work meeting and after it. The majority of labor he'd relegated to Morrissey, but she went home at six—the busy life of a high school senior! Shawn spent an hour at paperwork (which involved the computer more than paper), bored though focused, beyond thrilled when the players started to show up. There were plenty of polo ponies to get out of trailers, equipment to ready, the field to go over (incidentally, the largest field in outdoor sports)—and Shawn was so busy he didn't have a chance to think about the sea chests, Gus or even picking up See-an and Jason at the airport.

Ten minutes before the seven o' clock match, Gus entered the big barn at the country club. Hunting for Shawn somewhere in his vast domain of equines was often so challenging it required a phone call and a "Where are you?" Not tonight. Gus walked in and found Shawn brushing down a pretty ebony-coated horse in cross ties. A polo player, presumably the rider of the horse, sat in a dusty chair nearby. Two staff members from the competing Malibu team applied their hands to inspecting the player's helmet and the horse's saddle. Polo was serious business, for all Shawn claimed to dislike it. One little oversight could lead to someone getting hurt. It was a wonder Shawn had the concentration for so much, though by then the teams knew him, and it'd be frustrating for them to break in someone else. There was no denying that Shawn was good with the horses, as odd as it was.

"Hello, Gus," Shawn said, perfectly chipper. "Come for some pony lovin'? Rubbing soft noses is a cure for what ails you."

"I came to see the match. Hugo Brennaman's son is on the Malibu team." Gus didn't say that he thought it'd look good to one of the higher-ups at the pharmaceutical company if he attended. Team support never hurt anyone in the corporate world. He would've told Shawn exactly that, if the player waiting for his horse wasn't also on the Malibu team. Maybe team support didn't hurt anyone, unless it led to the classification of flagrant kowtowing. That would not be so beneficial. "And I came to ask how it went with Lassiter. Did you talk to him about the—you know—the thing that we're planning to do?"

Shawn traded a rough brush for a hoof pick. He liked Zachi, Eric Moore's preferred horse. Zachi was one of the few on the Malibu team that didn't mind having his feet gone over and cleaned. "Of course I did," Shawn replied to Gus. "I'm not a coward—usually. Plus, there was mead involved. But I sweated while I asked him, if that justifies your worry about it, Gus. And I told him if that I caught so much as the stench of cordite, I'd quit."

Eric Moore's chair snapped back to all four feet. He'd been leaning into it, relaxing before the match, but at the mention of cordite— He knew Shawn Spencer used to work for the SBPD. Last he'd heard, Shawn had given that up. "Going back into the private investigator business, Shawn?"

"Just this one time, Eric."

Gus was flabbergasted by Shawn's casualness. That was Eric Moore, CEO of Five Star, a Los Angeles production studio that cranked out at least one blockbuster a year. And Shawn was calling him Eric, like they'd gone to high school together. Eric! Now Gus's pits prickled damply.

"Must be something worthwhile," Eric commented.

"Something that goes back to our childhood."

"Well," Eric lifted a shoulder—a brawny, hunky shoulder upon which rested Oscar nominations, "you gotta do it, then. You go off and talk to Gus. You're Gus, right? I figured you were."

Gus's throat tightened as he shook hands with Eric Moore. He managed to think of Eric Moore—Eric Moore, Eric Moore!—as another client to whom he was selling high quality chemistry and pharmacopeia. The underarm river dried up. "Yes, sir, I am Gus—Burton Guster. It's a pleasure to make your acquaintance."

Shawn's eyes lifted up to the sky. Gus was using his business voice, mixed with just a smidgen of his lower-pitched flirtatious voice. Gus argued that it was supposed to charm men who were not used to being charmed by other men. So Gus had learned something from Shawn's relationship with Lassie, even if it was how to make an ass out of himself in a new and exciting way. Eric Moore, though, didn't seem bothered. He was probably used to being charmed by men.

"I hope that you boys solve your new case successfully. I got this, Shawn," Eric said, taking the pick. "It's about time we got on the field, anyway. Enjoy the match, Gus."

"Thank you, sir, I will!"

Eric pulled Zachi out of the barn with the reins, and his two servitors toddled off behind him. Gus shook his head, clicking his tongue.

"You do keep interesting company, Shawn. Why didn't you tell me you were on a first-name basis with Eric Moore? The Eric Moore?"

"It hardly comes up in conversation, and you know how I don't like to name-drop. Besides," he swung into a flannel shirt he'd left nearby, "this is my job, my place of business. In my professional surroundings, I don't like to seem—you know—"

"What? Don't want to seem like what? Like you're in charge around here? Most of the time, you really are in charge around here."

"Sycophantic. I don't like to act sycophantic." Shawn buttoned shirt cuffs, still trying to get his point across. "It's hard to be taken seriously when you shovel horse shit for a living, you gotta admit. The powerful and elite of Santa Barbara and most of Southern Cal are at my elbows, Gus, and I don't want to fawn all over them."

Shawn just wanted to do his job, and Gus knew that. Shawn was still pleased to be working there, even after taking two months off, though he could hardly help that. Being in a coma for a week, in the hospital for three—well, Jefferson Roberts, the club's human resources manager, couldn't exactly fire Shawn Spencer for being incapacitated. If Gus read people at all, Jefferson was pleased that Shawn had recuperated so quickly, and, what was more, pleased that he'd wanted to return to the country club. With Waylon Scobie, the equine manager, dead and gone, Jefferson had appointed Shawn as assistant manager of the stables and its grounds. A new manager had been brought in from a country club outside Seattle. Tina Athens really ran the business side of the barns, but Shawn still had the most interaction with the horses, their people, and the country club staff. Multiple times had Tina admitted that the stables would crumble without Shawn.

This being a polo match, not a baseball game, there were umbrellaed tables set up around the lawn, close to the field but not too close. And being a Wednesday evening event, attire was a little more casual, many jeans and, coincidentally, polo shirts. Gus hardly felt out of place in his gold polo and black twill trousers. Shawn, on the other hand… Shawn would've looked out of place had he been wearing a Santa Barbara Country Club Polo Team ensemble. This didn't bother Shawn. He found them a table in the back, but Gus was soon off to pay homage to Hugo Brenneman. To be fair, Brenneman did look gratified that one of his employees paid attention to the company policy that they treat one another like family.

Shawn had ordered them lemonades from Gerta, one of the servers at the upscale club events. He didn't know Gerta well, but Gerta knew him. She was still at the table, asking him questions about his life and if he was going to the Tanglevine Club anytime soon and if they were going to have any good shows and if—

Gerta talked a mile a minute. She was also gay. She was also a huge fan of Shawn's. Thankfully, she was a bit bashful in front of Gus, and wandered off as soon as Gus took his seat. Gus shook his head at Shawn again.

"How do you make people fall in love with you?"

"She's not in love with me—just—just a garrulous admirer. For a segue, it looked like Hugo was in love with you."

"Hardly that, just thrilled to see me. Guess I'm the only one from work that showed up. So, what did Lassiter say about the sea chests?"

"You mean Juliet didn't give you a verbatim account as soon as she got home? I'm astonished. And disbelieving. Mostly disbelieving. Surely Lassie would've dished the whole thing to her as soon as he was back inside."

"Why do you say that? Maybe they were busy."

"Maybe you're a big fat liar," Shawn threw at him teasingly. "I know they weren't busy because Lassie told me so when we were riding to the library. He said they'd been going over cold case files. That equals a boring day in Lassieland."

Gus steeled his eyes against Shawn's provocation. Finally, he had to give in. "She said that Lassie had said a few things, but not everything. So, what did he say? To you? Specifically?"

"Just that he was glad I was going to look into it—with you. That's really all. So, here's how I want this to play out tomorrow. You call me in the morning."

"In the morning? Like, nine-thirty, or eleven-thirty? My morning and your morning don't match up."

"I don't care, pick one! I think See-an—"

"Please stop calling him that. It's Sean."

"It's See-an. I think See-an and Jason will be staying with us, at least that was the last I heard."

Gus picked at this. He couldn't help it. Something about it went against his need to have everything as clear-cut as possible. "Wait a second. You haven't talked to them today?"

"I got a message from See-an—"

"Please stop calling him that."

"From See-an this morning that he was packing and that he'd see us later. But, no—no, haven't heard from either of them. They're probably somewhere over Nevada right now. Maybe Utah. Hang on. Which one's shaped like a big square with a big hat? That's Utah, isn't it? I bet that's what they're flying over right now."

Giving no answer, Gus sipped his lemonade.

"What I'm thinking is that you pick us up tomorrow—"

"You're bringing them with us?"

"Gus, don't be the Poky Little Puppy. They're coming with us. I'm not bringing them. It'll be like a field trip. They swore that if I ever visit them in New York I could follow them around at their jobs all day."

"Jason's a corporate mastermind. His real job would bore you. And I don't think Sean should let you follow him to the set where he works. We all know what happened the last time you infiltrated a soap opera."

"That was a Spanish-speaking soap opera, Gus! Completely different! And we're only trying to find a sea chest. It's not like we'll—" Palish, Shawn cut himself off.

"You don't want to say it, do you?"

Shawn rapidly wagged his head.

"You're afraid of jinxing it."

Shawn nodded. He wasn't going to jinx their simple little investigation into an old sea chest. He started talking again. "We'll go over to Mrs. Glass'—Glass's? Glass'? Hey, what's the word on that, grammar swami?"

"You're asking me? You're the big freelance writer now, shouldn't you know?"

Shawn studied the middle distance as if his life depended on it. "I think tirelessly of apostrophes when I'm editing an article, Gus. Do I really have to think about them when I'm speaking, too? They're, like, totally invisible when we're talking. Why should I pay attention to them? There's some rule of thumb about apostrophes. Is it how your pronounce it? Yes, I think that might be it. And the fact that the grammar swamis back in the day did not like having more than two S's in a word. Probably didn't want Shakespeare, et alii writing out their plays looking like it was full of typos. So—we're going to Mrs. Glass'—S-apostrophe—house and kindly ask her about the sea chest. It sounds simple."

"Which means it'll probably be very difficult."

"Let's hope not. I don't want difficult, not with See-an and Jason in town. But it would be nice to know if I was right all along."

"And by 'all along' you mean since 1994."

"Precisely. That I was right all along and there are three sea chests, not just two. Huh! Maybe I really am psychic! No, no, that'd be too ironic. I couldn't handle it. I'd have to put that panoply back on, and then I'd really be ironic. Get it? Because of the iron and the—"

"You're not psychic. And this sea chest will be different than the other two: this one won't a goopy dead body in it."

Shawn twitched, trying to rid the air of the curse Gus might've just put on their investigation. "Yeah," he whimpered, "yeah, without a goopy dead body in it." That wasn't a jinx so much as a prayer. He politely applauded when the the Malibu team scored. At least, he thought they scored, but he really didn't know a whole lot about polo but that it was like field hockey on horseback.

"Really hot guys on horses," he text to Lassiter. "Wish you were here."

"I wish you were here," Lassiter texted back. He was slowly getting a hang of texting. Sexy texting? Not quite.

Shawn smirked, thumbing of a better reply. "Actually, I wish I were at home and we were in bed!"

"Yes me too."

"You know, Pooch, if wishes were polo horses I'd have a whole pitch full of them. O what do you know, I do, I do!"

-x-

As Gus was in no state of mind to watch Shawn "put away" (Gus's phrasing, not Shawn's) the polo ponies, Shawn had to find a way of getting home. More than any other night, aside from his first back at work after being hurt, he wanted to get home. He wanted a cup of tea, a little quiet time in a nice, quiet house before it was disrupted by very welcome visitors, and, possibly, the dirtiness that came with a case. Shawn remembered littering the dining room table with debris, newspaper clippings, notes, pens, even the detritus of dirty laundry as he tossed aside his "sloppies" in the middle of his study. If Carlton thought this willy-nilly side of investigating an odd practice for a man who danced among the innate talents of observation, magic, determination and just a touch of healthy psychosis, he never said as much. Carlton had long ago assumed that Shawn wasn't exactly psychic, not exactly not psychic, either. Shawn solved cases using feats too extraordinary for everyday, run-of-the-mill humans. And, anyway, to Carlton, Shawn was no more disgustingly idiosyncratic than Sherlock Holmes. All the greats had their quirks. Shawn vowed he'd keep the house a lot cleaner than he did during his final days rooting around in the history of Santa Barbara's first great family, the Hayworths. It was only a stupid old sea chest they were after.

That's what Shawn kept telling himself while he brushed down horses and doled out grain and hay, and while walking horses into their trailers and sending them on down the road. Malibu had toppled the perfect record of the local favorites, and Timothy Westcott, the Santa Barbara Team Hunk if ever there was one, had been tossed off his horse. All and all, it was a lot of excitement, a lot of work, and Shawn was a sweaty mess by the time Gerta came round to offer him a ride home.

He loathed to accept, hoping a better offer might come his way. He was saved from lying to her, telling her he'd already been promised a ride, when her phone rang and she waved a farewell at him. Aside from the cater-waiters stacking lawn chairs beneath the faint white strand lights, Shawn was virtually alone at the stables. If worse came to worse, and he had no way home now the buses had quit running for the night, he'd get Lassie to pick him up on the way to the airport. That'd defeat the object of getting home, showering, changing clothes, having a cup of tea before greeting their visitors. But it'd be better than staying at the stables all night.

To his surprise, it was Westcott who came into the stables with the offer of a ride. The two were mild acquaintances, as much as Shawn, the stables' assistant manager, could be acquainted with anyone who paid for premium membership at the club. And Westcott wasn't entirely unknown to Shawn. His family's history was sufficiently and curiously intertwined with that of the Hayworths. The two families had been at one another's throats in the first fifteen years of the twentieth century. Each wanted to buy up as much acreage as they could. Westcott's ancestor had helped design much of the city's layout. The Hayworths, meanwhile, had donated much of their land to the country club. While the Hayworths had all but vanished from Santa Barbara following the Second World War, the Westcotts remained active and recognizable. There'd even been a cop in the clan, an uncle of Timothy's that Shawn remembered from his childhood spent in and out of the SBPD. Timothy continued to support the SBPD as often as he could, and used it as a conversation piece while driving Shawn home. Westcott was considering a run for City Council, thinking it'd be the best way to do the most good. Shawn said nothing encouraging and nothing degrading. He probably would vote for Westcott regardless; Timothy was much better at business than a lot of the people currently in the Council. He'd certainly get the cop vote, and probably that of a lot of other union workers.

Shawn nearly lost his breath as Timothy, parking the car in the driveway of Shawn and Carlton's small bungalow, made a point of mentioning the Hayworths.

"I want to do something with that damn old house of the Hayworths', too. If nobody else is going to do anything with it."

Way too familiar with the castle-like structure on the northeast side of town, Shawn tried to think about it more rationally than he had in months. A part of him had grown to hate the Hayworths, and a part of him felt like they'd been haunting him. "You should. Somebody should. It just sits there. Takes up space. It could be making some kind of tax revenue for the city."

"That's exactly the point I mean to make. I thought I might try to find some investors and buy the place myself. Turn it into a museum. 'Founding Families of Santa Barbara' maybe." He saw the porch light blink on, Carlton probably wandering who Shawn was sitting in the car with. Not too many Ferraris landed in Shawn and Carlton's driveway. "Better get out before he gets suspicious," he laughed. "I know better than to rile Carlton's jealousy."

"It's nice to feel wanted," Shawn said. And it did, too. Carlton's jealousy wasn't so bad. Worse than some, maybe, better than others. "Sorry about the loss. And Rosewater throwing you off, too."

"I'll live. Good work tonight. I always say we wouldn't have scored half our goals if our staff weren't so talented."

Shawn thanked him, exchanged pleasantries, and hurried into the house. Exhausted, he was pleased to have Lassie to lean against for a solid minute—even slightly more than a minute. Shawn engaged him in a few intense osculations, finally remembering that time was zooming right by.

"Quickie in the shower?" Shawn asked, already taking off his shirt and heading down the hall.

Again, Carlton was reminded of Hector in Imagine Me & You. He rammed into Shawn, picked him up, carried him four feet into their room, and dumped him on the bed. "How long do you think it takes me to get my clothes off?"

An answer wasn't required. Acting with precision and sped on by familiarity, they had all the important clothes out of the way in seconds. Even though Shawn felt far more disgusting and dirty than usual, stinking of horse, barn and sweat, his partner didn't seem to mind so much. It was flagrantly awful in a way that made it humorous and enjoyable.

Shawn was in the shower having his scalped scrubbed by shampoo and Lassie's fingertips. "Remind me next anniversary not to have anything going on. We can go away somewhere. That, what we just did, was exactly the way we don't like it, quick and hard." He blew suds off his face, right into Lassie. "At least I smell better now."

"That's a matter of some debate." But Carlton always did like the smell of the outdoors on Shawn. His inamorato's outdoor work, and their lovely, lovely bed, happened to combine two favorite things. It would be nice not to feel rushed next anniversary. He took down the handheld shower head. "Hold your breath, rinse time."

When they were rinsed, cleansed and toweling off, Carlton asked him what he planned to do with Jason and Sean while investigating the sea chests tomorrow. Shawn said what he'd said to Gus.

"I'm taking them with me, if they want to come along. I know Sean's doing something in LA on Friday, but that gives us Wednesday and Thursday to stagger around town. I gotta take them to the Breezeway Bakery. And they want to see where I work. The idea of See-an on a horse, though—well, it tickles my funny bone." He felt Lassie's fingers twiddle against his ribs, and jerked away from the torture. The two winced playfully at one another. "If we didn't have somewhere to be, I'd be chasing you around the house right about now. Revenge is my sweet mistress."

"It'll be a few days before we can do something like that."

"I know. I'm sorry about the polo match."

"That's not your fault. I could've taken the day off, too. But I didn't."

"But you didn't." Shawn poked him in the belly. "Fine, it's your fault we didn't have better sex on our anniversary. I tried to allocate blame fairly, but no, you wouldn't have it. I concede."

"I love it when you talk like a grownup."

"Gus and you both hurl excessively at my Socratic irony. So every once in a while, I do try to act like the kid who was nearly class valedictorian. Alas, that was many years and many hours of Beavis and Butthead ago." He spit out toothpaste, rinsed, and grabbed Carlton for a very involved kiss before leaving the steamy bathroom.

Carlton tugged on clean trousers, his former clean trousers now wrinkling like a raisin on the bedroom floor. His shirt, however, was in pristine condition. Wearing non-work attire in public still felt weird to him, such as his current shirt with a tiny knit collar and short sleeves—very odd. Even Shawn had donned a nicer shirt in order to impress their affluent guests. Though Carlton worked every strand of his hair to a shape of absolute precision, Shawn left his hair wet with a bit of gel in it. It wouldn't matter: Shawn's hair would obey the will of its master to look both messy and fetching. Annoyingly so. Shawn had always had the wondrous ability to look ready to go while simultaneously appearing as if he'd just rolled out of bed. At least Shawn was showing that he cared to make a decent impression on the Laramies.

At the airport, they parked then waited in the baggage claim, a building that resembled a high-quality carport. Minutes after the arrival of the Laramies' flight from L.A., Shawn saw the buff, big-shouldered Sean Laramie enter—alone.

Shawn squeezed him tight, as if knowing that there was a reason he should dish extra affection to his visiting friend. When Sean had hugged Carlton, he looked at the two of them and felt his face heating up again.

"He's not coming," Sean started, then paused to catch his words before they wandered off again. "Jason, I mean. He's not coming. We had a fight this morning. So—here I am. I still have that screen test in L.A. Friday—and I didn't know how to tell you he wasn't coming, and I kept hoping he'd change his mind and show up in time for the flight—but that didn't happen, so—so—"

Shawn dragged him out of the depths of mindless rambling and heartbreak. "It'll be fine. I promise. It'll be fine." Because intuition, whatever he had of it, told him that Sean and Jason couldn't break up. They couldn't. It went against everything in the cosmos. Jason had to show up and make everything better.

Carlton patted Sean on the back. "Let's get your suitcases and get you home. You're probably more tired than you think."

It was an accurate assessment on Lassie's part. Sean was asleep in the guest room forty minutes later, after a cup of tea, the necessary sympathy, and a hot shower.

In their room, Carlton was endeavoring to read a new book about Lincoln, and Shawn was endeavoring to go over his plans for tomorrow, while taking notes on his next astrology article. A large portion of his creative laziness wanted to fill it up with breakup bullshit, because that's where his mind kept going. Sean and Jason, fighting so awfully that they would treat each other so disrespectfully. The look on Sean's face—

Shawn slammed his notebook shut and slithered into the sheets. "What do you think, Pooch?"

"I think I'm not sure I like this book yet. Seems to be written by an author with the intelligence of a sixth-grader. Or do you mean about Sean and Jason? Or you going out amongst the masses tomorrow with Gus, just like old times?"

"Both. Wait, no. Make that all three. Honestly, though, I'm not all that interested in what you're reading. Do you think we should call Jason?"

"It's probably better not to stick our oars in."

"You have better uses for your oar. I could email him."

"If you have to do something, my dear, I condone the use of email—if you twist my arm. It seems personal but not as imposing as a phone call. But I still don't think you should do anything. It's their fight."

"What if it were us? Fighting like that? Wouldn't you expect Juliet and Gus to impose on our behalf?"

"Yeah, but it's all moot, isn't it? We don't really fight. We disagree. I always say I'm sorry. So do you, when you're actually the one to blame—which, sadly, isn't often the case."

That was true. Their arguments, brief and heated as they were, often were the result of an action or careless phrase of Carlton's. Shawn fought for the sake of having a fight. He needed to yell once in a while, so did Carlton. It got the tension out that sex, alone-time, stress and work couldn't—and sometimes created. Sean hadn't put forth a lot of details on his and Jason's fight, merely saying it'd been coming for weeks and that they were not surprised by it. Shawn and Carlton understood. Their fights came like that, too. Shawn had tried once to find some celestial connection to it, but it was really no more than the ebb and flow of emotional tides. Nothing accounted for it.

"They do have funky Mars placements," Shawn said, snuggling up to Lassie's hip and curving his arm around Lassie's thigh. "I remember looking that up once."

Carlton chuckled, finally bookmarking his spot in the lame tome. "You and your astrology, always hilarious. For someone who doesn't believe in ghosts, you put a lot of stock in planets that don't even impact Earth."

Shawn's brow wrinkled. "Who says I don't believe in ghosts?"

"Uh, you do!" He clicked off the reading light and turned to grasp Shawn's hands. He made them clap together limply. "You, Shawn, don't believe in ghosts." But he quit clowning around when Shawn's silence morphed into a deep, untouchable thing. The pain was so intense and so eerie that Carlton wanted it to go away. "What, you do now?" He tried to laugh, but it was flat, deadening into awkwardness. "Shawn?"

"It's nothing." Shawn tucked his head under Lassie's chin. "Just that sometime I think the Hayworths are running around Santa B as ghostly apparitions. Stalking my footsteps. Pissed that I couldn't solve their case and nearly got myself killed in the process."

Or had gotten himself killed. He'd stopped breathing. His heart had quit beating. By the grace and willpower of some otherworldly being, he'd breathed again and his heart had started again. He'd believed in ghosts ever since.

He couldn't quite tell this to anyone. Not Gus. Not Lassie. Not even his therapist. Maybe the Hayworths really were following him.

This didn't tell him what he should do about Sean and Jason, though. With Carlton snoozing on his shoulder, Shawn stared into the ceiling, dappled by the neighbors' lights through the trees and mini-blinds. He had to think about this.

By midnight, Shawn was asleep, and Carlton was in the living room with Shawn's laptop, typing a short email to Jason Laramie.