There simply must be a corpse in a detective novel,
and the deader the corpse the better.

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

5.

In the morning, Carlton was unsuccessful at waking Shawn.

Well, waking him, yes. Getting him out of bed? No.

Carlton saw Shawn's writing paraphernalia littering the bistro table in the dining room, and figured Shawn must've gotten up and worked on an article. As usual, most of the notes were in a smattering of languages, most not English. Shawn preferred three languages that began with S: Swedish, Spanish and Slovak. The Swedish he'd learned while working under a team of ecologists in Canada in 1998. Shawn had been their assistant and had learned more Swedish than ecology. The Spanish was just sort of natural to him. The Slovak came from his stint in a Slovakian restaurant in Washington, circa 2000.

Shawn knew other languages, too, but those, along with ASL, were his three favorites, the three he used the most. Carlton had caught Shawn talking to himself in ASL, as if he couldn't help doing it. And one time, that'd happened while they were having lunch together at the station. Chief Vick saw the two of them exchanging signs, Carlton knowing only the primitive basics—enough to say "I don't know." Vick had asked Shawn to crime scenes mainly as an ASL interpreter. They had one on retainer, of course, but even he had to take vacations, and speaking Spanish was more common among the PD than ASL.

Shawn's brain amazed Carlton. So did Shawn's ability to sleep after a long night of writing. He tried again to get Shawn out of bed, leaving a hard smack on Shawn's butt, lessened in severity by a few layers of covers.

"I have to go to work," Carlton said, riling Shawn at the shoulder. Sleepy brown eyes finally reached his, a minuscule comprehension alive in them. "There he is. Good morning, sleepy head. Did you hear me? I have to go to work. Don't forget that you have company, and Gus is coming for you later. I set the coffee to brew in thirty minutes. It's half-caf. Should be enough to get you going."

Shawn grabbed the end of Lassie's tie. "Hang on, sugar cake."

It was a continuous game between them that Shawn's pet names be ever so much cuter and workable than Carlton's pet names for Shawn. Calling Shawn sweetheart seemed off somehow. And the grabbing-the-tie thing, Shawn had been doing that to flirt with Carlton for what seemed like eons.

Shawn managed to stick a couple of fingers between Lassie's shirt buttons, getting a feel for the cotton tee underneath. "You still meeting us for a late lunch?" His voice was thick out of his scratchy throat. The coffee would probably help.

"As far as I know. Cafe Del Sol. Two o' clock. I won't forget."

"Better not."

"I won't."

"I'm going to call you at one-forty-five just be sure."

"You won't have to. I'll beat you there."

Shawn tugged at the tie again, bringing them closer together. "I kinda love you, Lass."

"I more than kinda love you. Have fun with Gus and Sean today. I'm sure you'll find what you're looking for."

"Right," croaked Shawn. He wasn't quite as convinced as Lassie seemed to be. But he looped his arms around Carlton's neck before sending him off to the frequently dull world of policing. He received a much more perverse smack on the butt as Carlton walked out.

Lethargic, Shawn pottered around the house, slurping coffee and reading. Eventually, the guest room door opened, showing Sean the house in daylight. He'd seen photos of the new paint and decor in emails Shawn sent—he wasn't much of a social media person after his hospital stay. Sean liked the bright colors: "Very not like Carlton at all. Very like you, though."

His smiles were painful to look at. Shawn could see the agony in him.

"Don't you and Jason fight a lot? About little stuff?"

"We rarely fight," Sean answered, filling a mug of black single-source coffee. "That's why it's worse when we do."

Gus's arrival brought a needed supply of energy, almost of the celebratory variety. Shawn, as soon as his brain had been in working order, had sent Gus a message saying that Jason hadn't come and not to be surprised when he got at the house. Consequently, Gus overcompensated in his joy of seeing Sean again. Sean was a bit special to Gus, too, being the first case he'd helped Shawn solve—sorta—after marrying Juliet. Practically while marrying Juliet. Though what Gus actually remembered from that time was telling Shawn to kiss Lassiter and get it over with, not really so much with the case. But it was all a matter of personal perspective. Gus still felt like he and Shawn had solved it together—or, rather, the answer had more or less popped out of the ether and out of Shawn's mouth.

Sean and Jason Laramie had been together for years, and it was odd to see one without the other. Gus did his best, but he soon saw that Sean was a little too distracted to pour his wounded heart into the vacation.

Shawn planned a little breakfast on the patio. He was getting good at hosting get-togethers, the more spontaneous the better. He threw together (literally) a cassoulet with diced ham, green onions and broccoli. While it baked and whetted their appetites with its odor, they sat in the morning sunlight and talked about their plans. Sean was enthused by the idea of tagging along while they investigated a mysterious sea chest. He was intrigued by the stories Gus and Shawn told about their childhood meeting with identical chests. Shawn told him about the second one, using more detail than he'd given Gus ages ago.

"You never told me that was Lassiter!" Gus burst out saying.

"Yes, I'm sure I did."

"You did not. I never knew it was Lassiter who'd let you look at both of them! Those chests! Shawn, you told me it was Dobson! Now why would you lie about something like that?"

Sean was good at picking up on people's reasons. Perhaps it was the actor in him, always vigilant of the reactions of others, always wanting to know what they were doing and why they were doing it. "Maybe he liked Lassiter then and didn't want you seeing into him."

Gus huffed, feeling exposed and angry about it. "I wouldn't have judged you," he said softly to Shawn.

"I didn't like Lassiter then—but there was something about him, something about that time. I can't quite put my finger on it. And I didn't mean to lie to you, buddy." He clapped Gus on the shoulder. "All these years, I really thought I'd told you it was Lassiter who'd let me into the Unknown Room, and the Unknown Room in the Unknown Room. Forgive me?"

It was easy to forgive Shawn. Sometimes Shawn really did have the memory of Dorrie in Finding Nemo. Amazing what people wanted to remember, opposed to what had actually taken place. He'd been through something like that with Juliet just the other day. Unfortunately, when he tried to tell the tale to Sean and Shawn, it was only funny to him. His frequent pauses to cackle at himself left Sean and Shawn regarding one another, embarrassed for him.

After the meal, and with Sean away for a minute, Shawn confessed to Gus that he'd sent Jason an email.

"Shawn, what do we always tell you about interfering?"

"I'm guessing 'Do it as often as you can, Shawn, because you're so good at it' didn't make that list?"

"You know better. It's Sean's and Jason's fight. Not yours."

"Yeah, but when you say it like that, it sounds like I should be involved. My name's Shawn, too."

Gus let this go. He couldn't really argue against it. Curiosity and hope overcame him. "Well, since it's done, did Jason email you back?"

Shawn checked email on his phone, but shook his head. "Not yet. He might've emailed Lassie back, though."

Gus gave a Huh? Face.

"I'm pretty sure Lassie emailed Jason, too. Oh, hey, the Reds won last night. Padres lost. Juliet will be disappointed."

"Juliet says that the Padres are digging themselves into a hole and they're not going to make the post-season now. And how'd you get me to stop reprimanding you?"

"Because I'm clever, and that's what clever people do. And I mentioned your wife. It always distracts you."

"I should try it on you sometime."

"Neither mentioning Juliet nor my wife will help. I'm too used to Juliet, and I don't have a wife."

"You should get one. Why won't you marry Lassiter?"

"You know my reasons."

"I really don't. Neither does Jules. She thinks it has something to do with you having been shot."

"She can say that, if it makes her feel better. Mets won. So did Toronto. H'mm, didn't see that one coming. All these seasons later, and I'm still not sure how I feel about interleague play. Does it really do anything for the League?"

Gus grew frustrated at Shawn's unwillingness to discuss it. Shawn played it cool whenever Gus mentioned one of two things: marrying Lassiter, and the reasons Shawn wouldn't marry him—and that usually involved mentioning the multiple gunshots Shawn had miraculously survived. Gus was still sorry he hadn't been there, and still sorry that Juliet had been part of the first team to show up. She'd been the one who'd put a bullet in Waylon Scobie. From what Gus had managed to squeeze out of his wife, Shawn was already unconscious when she took out Scobie. The whole saga had remained convoluted, and, the least-favorite word in police lexicon, unsolved. No one had been able to determine why Scobie had gone after Shawn. If Shawn knew, it was his secret. Gus understood Shawn's silence.

Often, Gus used the "Why don't you marry Lassiter" card as a means of teasing Shawn. Only in the last couple of weeks did Gus seriously wonder if Shawn refrained from matrimony because of the shooting, and not for, as he used to say scoffingly, political reasons.

Returning to his friends on the patio, Sean wasn't subjected to the sensation that they'd been talking about him. He was glad for it. In private, he expected Gus and Shawn to whisper about his intense fight with Jason. If Gus and Shawn did engage in that kind of talk, they'd would never show it. It was a relief to be there with a distracting activity planned. The sea chest sounded Scooby-Doo worthy. The last time Sean had been in a mystery, there'd been a script and rehearsals, an actor played the villain. Prior to that, his poor old self had been saved from felony charges by Shawn. Knocking on a lady's door and asking to see an antique sea chest seemed way less stressful.

-x-

"It isn't here," Mrs. Glass informed a party of three very handsome men just entering the prime of their lives, and, luckily for her, the front hall of her dashing house. "As much as it pains me to say no to you, Shawn Spencer, and dear Mr. Guster, I'm afraid the trunk's not currently in my possession—technically speaking."

The fact that it wasn't there stung. It stung less because Mrs. Glass, like many in Santa Barbara who followed such goings-on, was a fan of Shawn's and Gus's. And, not withholding any judgement of herself and ample free time, she was more than a little intimidated by Sean Laramie. He was far more good-looking in person than he was on television. Shorter, though that didn't bother her. She appreciated short men. They always felt like they had to compensate for it. Shame about the gay thing—and the wedding ring. He would've made a nice memory to have in her collection.

Shawn was immediately aware of Mrs. Glass'—how could he put it?—vixenish qualities? Mad cougar skills? Rapacious need for sexual gratification? Then again, the moon was nearly full, and that was inclined to make people friskier than usual. In Mrs. Glass' case, however, Shawn was unwilling to admit this was Mrs. Glass friskier than usual. And that was rather creepy. He tried not to be repulsed, only grateful that he had someone at home, and it was no longer required that he stare at people like they were screwable pieces of meat. Eek. Had he ever been like that? No; he'd met toasters more likable than some people.

His mind took a zipline back to the missing trunk. "Do you know where it is, Mrs. Glass? It's important that we find it. We're trying to attach some history to it. A—you know—what's that thing called—when you have a piece of paper that tells you where an antique came from and—"

"It's called provenance, Shawn," said Gus. He was perfectly aware that Shawn knew the word. Who stayed at home all day and watched Antique Roadshow reruns on Ovation? Shawn did. But it was nice of Shawn to give him an in. "Forgive us for barging in here like this, Mrs Glass," he used his smoothest, butteriest voice, "but we are looking into the provenance of the chest for a client of ours."

"I'll save you the trouble of asking," Mrs. Glass said. She wished she'd take them up on her offer of sitting down and sipping mimosas, but sipped hers alone. "I don't have any provenance papers on that trunk, delightful as it is. I bought it at a yard sale years ago. I hardly thought the thing a worthwhile antique. Can I ask, who's looking for it?"

"We can't tell you that," Shawn said. "Not without the permission of our client."

Sean played along. "I'm their client." His arms folded, muscles bulging. Many a charming quadragenarian had ogled him in a fashion quite like Mrs Glass exhibited then. He was used to being a favorite among her age group, and, oddly, of her socioeconomic standing. It was always the rich and bored one had to look out for. "I was thinking of adding it to my own collection. I have a couple of trunks from the early part of the twentieth century, and even a portmanteau from the Twenties with a provenance that links it to William Carlos Williams." He could just about hear Shawn's and Gus's heads whirling. "If you're willing to sell your item, Mrs. G, I'd be an interested buyer."

Bothered to be softened by Mr. Laramie's suaveness, and his delicious bedroom eyes that'd seduced many a woman on Gotham Splendor, Mrs. Glass kept her outward cool. "If you can find any provenance for it, Mr. Laramie, I'd be happy to entertain your offers. If, on the other hand, you cannot provide any decent authenticity regarding its magnificent origins, then I will take no less than five hundred for it. If, as you say, you wish to add it to your reservoir."

Sean, after glancing at Shawn, agreed to the deal.

Shawn clapped his hands. "Bu-ut, we still have to find the darn thing, don't we, guys?" He gave his best fake-laugh. "Yes, we do! So! Let's get on that! Where'd you put it, Mrs. Glass? And you don't have to show off your inviolate Scorpio side to me. I can see right through you."

"Of course you can, dear," Mrs. Glass responded. How'd he know she was a Scorpio if he wasn't psychic in some way? With a pad and pencil taken from the telephone table, also covered in little old antiques, she wrote out an address, but gave her telephone number directly to Sean Laramie. "I sent the chest off for reconditioning. My friend Homer has it. You can see the chest at his place. Then, if your search ends fruitlessly, I'll be happy to see you again, Mr. Laramie. I'd be happy to see you in either case." She spoke next to Mr. Spencer. "If you can't find Homer at that address, that means he's gone off to that damn house to do some work today. He does that whenever he has a free hour or two. You'll probably find him there."

Shawn's lungs tightened. A tingle shot up and down his spine. The hairs along his forearms stood on end. "The—which house? The—not the—the Hayworth house." Unable to breathe a second ago, he could now feel himself—literally feel himself—turning green. He already knew they wouldn't find Homer the handyman at his regular address. They'd find him at the Hayworth house.

"Someone has to mow the grass at that damn place," Mrs. Glass said, herding the striking trio of masculinity toward the door. "Homer's father used to be their groundskeeper, so he thinks he owes it to them. Not that anyone pays him, mind. He does it because he can't help himself. Well, happy sea-chest hunting, boys. I look forward to another visit from you. Especially you, Mr. Laramie. Make it at a time when you can stay for lunch. I do enjoy watching handsome men enjoy wonderful food."

Shawn was a mixed bag of emotions, many of them fairly rotten ones. Gus made sure that Shawn was capable of reaching the car. He seemed to be walking sufficiently enough, but he was still pretty pale, and, uncharacteristically of Shawn, his hands shook all the way up to his elbows. Gus got him into the front seat of the car. He and Sean stood off to the side, discussing possibilities.

"Think we should call Lassiter?" Sean inquired, not sure what else could be done.

"No, don't think so. In about five minutes, Shawn's going to be really mad at Lassiter. He just doesn't know why yet."

"I don't even know why." Sean waited as long as he could. Gus avoided eye contact. "Are you going to tell me?"

Gus tugged at Laramie's arm, inching them even further away from Shawn. He lowered his voice as low as it could possibly go, the ultimate Limbo Voice. As soon as he explained it to Sean, there was a concession between them. Lassiter should definitely not be telephoned.

Gus, kneeling by Shawn in front of the open car door, asked what he wanted to do. "You want to go and find Homer and that sea chest, or do you—"

"It's better if we just go to that house."

"Are you sure? You hate the Hayworths."

Shawn's look was potent, his decision unalterable. "But I can't get away from them, either. Let's just get it over with. I'd have to go eventually. Might as well be now. And I don't hate the Hayworths. What's to hate? They're all dead."

That was an inarguable statement. Back in the car, Gus tried to work out on his phone how to get there. It was the sort of place one knew, one drove by every once in a while, but, when actually trying to figure out how to get there, the mind was too challenged. "I don't know the address. I'm having a hard time finding it."

"It's twenty-two, fifty-one Nova Place." Shawn sighed. "I saw it enough when I was up to my eyebrows in research. And you tend to remember the address of the place where somebody shot you. Repeatedly. Until you— Never mind. Just drive, Gus."

Gus put the phone aside. This was one of the few times Shawn had ever mentioned it, and Gus didn't know if it was an opening he should take, or if he should let it lie. Maybe letting it lie was better. As soon as Shawn put everything together, which, eventually, he would, he was going to be too pissed at the rest of them to think straight. And they were going to be sorry. Really sorry. How were they to know the sea chest would lead them back to the Hayworths, the one thing they were trying to so hard to get Shawn away from? Maybe Shawn was right, and he couldn't get away from the Hayworths.

Thankfully, Sean knew what was going on now, and, what was more, he had Lassiter's phone number. He was also in the back seat of Gus's still new-smelling Chevy Spark, unseen by Shawn. He sent his thumbs to work typing off a message to Lassiter. Lassiter's response might've been predictable to anyone who knew the situation, whether or not he was a psychic.

"Shit. I'll meet you there."

That was reassuring.

But Lassiter didn't quite get there to meet them. Instead, they pulled up to the front gate of the Hayworth mansion. Gus parked the vehicle they called the Strawberry, for its slightly pinkish-red coat, and everyone managed to roll out of their seats onto the steep incline of drive in the mansion's bumpy shadow. It was made of dark gray stone, with dark tiled roofs even gargoyles at the corners. It was a gothic castle, horrid and frightening and disturbingly beautiful.

"Do you suppose Edward Scissorhands is at home?" Sean joked.

"If I see Danny Elfman anywhere around here playing a violin and looking creepy, I'm leaving. I mean that," said Gus, feeling a little sweaty in his shoes, always a sign that something was wrong. "I think we should forget about this, Shawn, and get out of here. I really doubt anyone's home."

Now that he was there, Shawn didn't mind so much. A morbid fascination touched him as he saw the front door hanging open a good three inches. "Someone's been here."

"Yeah, the crew that came to clean up your blood." Gus said it without thinking of the consequences. He winced and whimpered when Shawn hit him with an expression of anguish and anger, a rare sight. "Sorry, I didn't mean, I—" Gus faltered, having no choice but to follow Shawn and Sean up the flight of shallow stone steps to the double front doors of deep orange-red. "It was a scary time for me, too. Please tell me we're not going inside."

"Dude, I'm totally going inside," Shawn replied, eerily upbeat. His cheerfulness was ripped apart as his fingertips pushed the door in and scattered the numerous pigeons using the foyer as a roost. He shied back, waiting for the birds to calm and the feathers to stop flying.

"That place is full of bird poo," Gus said. "I'm not going in there. It's disgusting."

"At least it's not my blood," returned Shawn, feeling satisfied with so witty a riposte that had to do with his own bodily fluids. His three bold steps landed him inside. It did stink, but the smell wouldn't stop him. If anything did, it'd have to be something worse than piles of guano.

Something crunched under his shoe. He paused, deciding it couldn't be that awful.

"Owl pellets," he whispered to Gus and Sean. Then shrugged. "Still, not my blood, and that makes me happy." He brought out his phone, screen alight with a solid white glow to illuminate their surroundings. There wasn't much to see. "It was more exciting before."

Gus and Sean also had their phones out. All three screens lit the place well. The closest windows were in the parlor, up a step and more than sixty feet away, on the north side of the mansion. They passed the wide staircase. Gus commented that it still looked stable enough to hold somebody. "Not me," he said, "just somebody stupid enough to climb them." He jumped when Shawn started shouting.

"Hello! Homer! Are you here? My name is Shawn Spencer! With me is my associate, Harry Cox!"

Sean let out a huge laugh, making the pigeons restless again.

Gus was less than pleased. "Like I've never heard that one before."

Shawn went on talking to the shadows and the pigeons. "We just came from Mrs. Glass's! Not Missus Glasses! I mean we came from seeing Mrs. Glass! We were at the house of Mrs. Glass! That's what I mean!"

"I told you, Shawn: S-apostrophe. Why can't you remember everything?"

"I'm not a human Rolodex, Gus. And I don't think Homer the handyman is here."

"The lack of response must've been your first clue."

"I mean, surely he would've come for someone named Harry Cox. Am I right? Well, we've made it this far. Wanna be greater than Chester Copperpot? Then let's look around some more. It's strange being here again. I only saw the police photos of the scene."

"You actually looked at those?" Gus was disappointed, and a smidgen frightened for Shawn's sake. Gus had vowed he'd never look at them. "Lassiter was supposed to have those locked into the archives to keep you from snooping."

"He's my soul mate, Gus. You think he can hide much from me? He's terrible at hiding Christmas and birthday presents. How's he going to hide the file of my attempted murder? I want to go out back for a sec. Just want to see if it's true that they really had an oleander tree. Seems I vaguely recall that from when I was here before, but, I—I can't be sure."

His energy was starting to slip a little. Putting on a brave face in front of Sean and Gus was one thing, but feeling the atrocity of standing in that place again was something he had to do for himself. As far as his friends and family knew, he'd been saved there. As Shawn saw it, he'd died there. That tended to change a person's perspective.

Up in the raised parlor, Shawn paused on his way to the back entrance to the garden. The phone's screen had gone out, leaving only the eerie light of the dirty windows to radiate the shapes of his friends.

"Do you guys hear something?"

"Yeah," Sean said, "like running water."

"Sounds like," Gus paused, "a creek or a fountain or something."

Shawn sucked in a startled breath, having it hit him. "There's a fountain in the back."

He ran to the door, shoulder pounding against it to pop it out of the tight frame. The force sent him shooting forward through the suddenly open door and into the yard. Gus and Sean came up quickly from behind. Shawn came to an abrupt stop. The fountain was in his line of sight. Near it stood a lanky and attractive gentleman—Carlton. But there was anomalous pale thing hanging out of the fountain's bottom pool. It bobbed weightlessly as the shallow waves hit it. A four-foot cascade dribbled across the torso of a corpse.

"You three stay there!" Lassiter commanded. He needed the coroner, a forensics unit, and he needed someone to get Shawn far, far away from the Hayworth mansion.

Shawn's gaze was fixed on the body. Only one sentence seemed to circle in his thoughts. "This time, that's not me."