“He said he was keeping it quiet,” Shawn said, fishing the cards out of the trash and slipping them back into Gus’ shirt pocket. “Billions of dollars buy a lot of privacy. But she’ll have to show up sometime if she wants to claim her inheritance.”
“That could be weeks from now,” Gus said. “Months even. If she’s smart, she’ll wait until Tara is convicted.”
“She may be smart, but she’s got one weakness,” Shawn said. “She loves the big dramatic moment. Why else would she stage her husband’s murder for an invited audience?”
“So what are you suggesting? We should hold auditions for a phony musical, and see if she shows up to read for us?”
For a moment, Shawn actually seemed to be considering the idea. Then he shook it off. He rapped on the plastic screen of the Santa Barbara Times box. Beneath the scarred Plexiglas, the paper’s front page was filled with a headline: “Private Services for Steele Tomorrow.”
“We don’t need to offer her a stage. She’s already got one. We just need to make sure we’ve got good seats.”
A quick scan of the part of the article visible above the fold strongly suggested those seats wouldn’t be easy to come by. Admittance to the service was strictly by invitation; apparently Steele’s fondness for privacy extended into the grave. To make sure there would be no press or other interlopers in attendance, the entire cemetery would be closed all morning, another one of the perks a few billion can buy. And while Shawn and Gus might have been able to make a plausible case for themselves as Steele’s old high school chums, their more recent friendliness with the woman accused of his murder suggested they wouldn’t be welcome.
Fortunately there was a costume-rental store within walking distance. Although tempted by a dented suit of armor-on the theory that if he was spotted, he could stand on a grave and look like a statue-Shawn ultimately decided on a Roman Catholic cassock, an ankle-length, close-fitting priest’s robe. That way, he pointed out, if their investigation took them to the Vatican, he could use the costume a second time, getting value for their money.
Since there was only one cassock, and Gus refused to wear the matching nun’s habit, Shawn dug through his own closet and dragged out a coverall he’d been issued on his first and last day working as a mechanic years ago. It was bright green and the embroidered name tag read LUBITY LUBE TRAINEE, but a quick pass with a Magic Marker blacked that out and brought an appropriately funereal accent to the ensemble.
Dallas Steele’s memorial service was scheduled for ten o’clock the next morning. Shawn declared they should be there no later than eight, so they could see everyone arriving. Since their transportation issues hadn’t improved overnight, that meant taking a series of local buses to reach the cemetery. Gus didn’t mind riding the bus, especially since he was unclear on several parts of Shawn’s plan, and looked forward to spending the time patching up the holes. But Gus hadn’t anticipated how popular a Catholic priest might be on a Santa Barbara bus. Shawn spent the entire trip taking confessions and giving absolution to their fellow riders. By the time they reached the cemetery gates, Gus was no clearer on what they were doing next than when he first dropped his dollar twenty-five into the fare box.
Getting through the employee entrance was so easy that Gus forgave Shawn for the poorly fitting jumpsuit. He grabbed a time card at random and jammed it into the machine, then passed through. It took Shawn a little longer to persuade the gate guard to let him in, but after a few shouted “Begorrah”s and the occasional mention of a lake of fire, he joined Gus inside.
“Begorrah?” Gus said. “When did you become Irish?”
“When the guy at the gate was named O’Malley,” Shawn said. “Besides, everything sounds convincing with an Irish accent. Now grab that shovel.”
Following the road that snaked through the cemetery, they found an open grave on top of a hill that looked down over the entire park. At the center there was a large lake. Off to one side, a large area, the size of at least eight normal grave sites, was marked off with chains.
“I guess they’re expecting a big crowd,” Gus said.
“Give the people what they want,” Shawn said. “Now get digging.”
Gus glanced at the temporary marker lying next to the open grave. “I don’t think Mrs. Lancashire is in any great hurry.”
“No,” Shawn said. “But that guy is.”
He pointed down the hill, where an aging pickup truck was hauling a load of white folding chairs toward them. Gus snatched the shovel and jumped into the grave as Shawn piously crossed himself. If the maintenance man driving the pickup thought there was something odd about a priest blessing an empty grave while dirt flew out of it, he didn’t stop to investigate. Shawn watched as the truck crested the hill, then chugged down toward the site of Dallas Steele’s eternal repose.
“Isn’t he gone yet?” Gus called from the grave after a few minutes had gone by.
“Better keep digging, just to make sure,” Shawn said.
The truck puttered to Steele’s site, and the maintenance man got out, unhooked the chain, and drove up to the open grave.
“If I dig any farther, I’m not going to be able to climb out,” Gus said.
“At least you’ll have Mrs. Lancashire to keep you company.” Shawn stepped out of the way as a dirt clod flew up at him. Down below, the maintenance man got out of the truck again and opened the tailgate. He pulled one folding chair off the stack and set it up directly in front of the grave.
“What’s he doing now?”
“Setting up the chairs for the memorial service.”
There was a strangled curse from the grave. “And you want me to keep digging all that time? It’s going to take hours.”
“Maybe not.”
The maintenance man shook the chair to make sure it was on level ground, then climbed back into his truck and started up the hill toward them. As soon as the sound of its engine faded away, Gus pulled himself out of the grave and looked down at Steele’s site.
“Wow,” Gus said. “When they said it was going to be a private service, they really meant it.”
“At least we don’t have to worry about picking the wife out of a large crowd.”
“Or being inconspicuous in one.”
Shawn and Gus watched the maintenance truck drive back toward the office. Gus nudged Shawn and pointed to the cemetery’s main gates. They were swinging open to admit a battered Honda Accord.
“I thought the entire cemetery was closed for the private service,” Shawn said.
“Maybe that’s Mrs. Steele.”
“If that’s her car, no wonder she killed her husband,” Shawn said. “Get back in the grave.”
Gus pushed the shovel at him. “You get in the grave.”
“That doesn’t make any sense at all.” Shawn pushed the shovel back at him. “What would a priest be doing in a grave with a shovel?”
“What would a maintenance man be doing in a grave with a shovel when there’s a backhoe parked six feet away?”
“Maybe his driver’s license was revoked for a DUI and he can’t drive a backhoe. Maybe he’s mentally retarded and they don’t trust him with the keys.” Shawn shoved Gus toward the grave.
“Maybe the priest is actually a phony in a rented costume.” Gus shoved Shawn toward the grave.
“At least he’s not a drunken, retarded phony.” Shawn shoved again.
Gus grabbed Shawn and tried to drag him to the edge of the hole. Shawn dug in his heels, but felt the wet grass slipping under his feet. His big toes were just sliding over the lip of the grave when there was a discreet beep from behind them.
Shawn and Gus sprang apart to see the Honda idling beside the grave site. The window cranked down, and a cherubic pink face peered out above a priest’s collar.
“Excuse me, Father,” the priest said. “I’m a little turned around. Can you give me directions to the final resting place of Dallas Steele?”
Gus pointed down the hill. “It’s right-”
Before he could finish, Shawn butted him out of the way. Arms cartwheeling for balance, Gus took one step
