describing her great love for Oliver Mason. Although her performance was no less emotional now, Gus was having trouble overlooking the coincidence of a second dead, rich husband in one year. To say nothing of the weeks of unreturned phone calls.
Shawn didn’t seem to share any of Gus’ misgivings. “Of course,” he said. “I can see it now. During the days of your travails, a phone call out of the blue. A colleague of your late husband’s, reaching out to give you condolence. A brief conversation that led to a meeting between two people facing challenges the masses could never understand.”
“Yes!” she said.
“You mean the challenges of living with the burden of hundreds of millions of dollars?” Gus said. “Give me a break.”
Shawn and Veronica didn’t seem to hear him.
“And then that understanding turned into love,” Shawn said. “A love that had to be kept secret from the prying eyes of a world that would unfairly judge these two souls. That’s why your entire relationship was a carried out in secrecy. Why you got married in the only place you knew no reporters could follow you-your private island.”
“Yes,” she said.
“You mean Oliver Mason’s private island,” Gus said.
“Which she inherited after her tragic loss,” Shawn said. “Try to keep up here.”
Gus grabbed Shawn and pulled him away from Veronica. “Don’t you realize what’s happening?”
“Yes, it’s a chance meeting,” Shawn said. “Although maybe it would be better to call it fate. Destiny. Kismet.”
“Don’t you dare think of Kismet-or any other kind of kissing,” Gus said. “This woman killed her husband.”
“Impossible. We already proved she’s innocent.”
“Not that husband.” Gus leveled an accusing finger at the mahogany box in front of them. “ That husband.”
Veronica Mason took a lace handkerchief out of her tiny black purse and dabbed gently at her eye. “This is why I kept my marriage to Dallas a secret. Because if even close friends like you, Gus, can’t believe me, who can?”
Shawn patted her hand consolingly. “You can’t help it if you’re attracted to rich men with abnormally short life spans.”
A tear trickled down her cheek. “You do believe me, Shawn?”
“Absolutely.”
“Then will you help me? Will you find my husband’s real killer and prove I didn’t do it?”
“I guarantee it,” Shawn said.
“No, we don’t,” Gus said. “If you killed Dallas Steele, we’re going to expose you.”
“I accept those terms,” Veronica said. “Thank you, Gus.”
“For what?” Gus reran the conversation in his head to see what he might have said that she’d find helpful. “What terms?”
“You’ll investigate Dal’s death, and if you find evidence that I did it, you’ll turn me in to the police,” she said. “I accept that because I know I’m innocent-and you two are the only ones who can prove that.”
Gus didn’t remember making that deal. He didn’t remember making any deal. He knew somehow that this wasn’t what he’d meant, but he couldn’t find the spot where her logic diverged from his own. “And you’ll pay us.”
“Every penny I owe you, and a big bonus on top,” she said, those huge green eyes lighting up in relief. “I felt terrible about not paying before, but Dal was so jealous of the way I gushed about you, he wouldn’t let me give you a penny, not even out of my own personal funds. Every time I brought it up, he just muttered something about shoelaces.”
Shawn glowed with triumph. “I knew it!”
“When he offered you that consulting position, he told me it was to reward you for saving me from prison,” she said. “He didn’t tell anybody what his real plan was. If only I had known…”
Veronica spared them the bus ride back to their office. As Shepler drove, she told them the full story of her whirlwind romance with Dallas Steele, their instant wedding, and the brief, troubled marriage that followed. Dal was not what he seemed. He always came across as a happy, confident, genial person, but inside there was darkness and insecurity. Somehow all of that had become focused on Shawn and Gus. Although he was grateful that they had rescued the woman he loved, it made him crazy that he wasn’t the one who could save her. He had to punish them for doing what he couldn’t.
Gus didn’t listen too closely. For one thing, he knew that Shawn would be repeating every syllable of it on a regular basis for the next few weeks. And while Shawn was too busy having all his prejudices validated to think it through, Gus couldn’t stop focusing on the huge problem this new development created for them. Their only hope for clearing Tara and thus themselves of Steele’s murder was to find the real killer. But they’d just promised their most promising suspect-their only suspect-that they’d prove her innocent, too.
As the Bentley dropped them off outside their bungalow office, Veronica promising to send Shepler back with a check as soon as possible, Gus tried to explain what a problem they were now facing.
“Either Tara killed Dallas or Veronica did,” Gus said. “And we’re working for both of them.”
“That’s terrific,” Shawn said. “They can’t both be guilty. So whatever happens, we’re coming out of this one with a win!”
Before Gus could begin to formulate the corollary of that theory, Henry Spencer’s pickup squealed up to the curb, and Henry jumped out.
“You must think this is pretty funny!” Henry said, grabbing Shawn by the arm and dragging him toward the truck. As Henry turned, Gus saw the seat of his khaki pants was striped green.
“I can see the humor in many situations,” Shawn said, pulling his arm away. “Those pants, for example.”
“That means a lot coming from a man in a dress, Father,” Henry said through clenched teeth. “They painted my lawn chairs. They painted every room in my house. They painted the exterior. They painted my house number on the curb. If I hadn’t driven away, they would have painted my truck.”
“I thought you’d taken care of that elf problem,” Shawn said.
“These elves were sent by your friend Dallas Steele, and they won’t stop until he tells them personally. Which he can’t, because, as I understand it, you hired a psychopath to kill him.”
“I did not hire her.”
“No, you just enabled her.”
“And she didn’t kill Dallas Steele,” Gus added, although he knew neither Shawn nor his dad would hear anything he said until their argument was over.
Henry pushed Shawn toward the truck. “Meanwhile, I can’t breathe in my house for fumes. I can’t step anywhere, in case they’ve painted the floor. They have taken over my home.”
“And I have two women to prove innocent of murder,” Shawn said. “Maybe after I rescue them both from the gas chamber, I can help with your interior-decoration issues.”
“Oops, phone’s ringing,” Gus said, more for the record than in any hope they’d notice. “I’d better answer that.”
He slipped away before either father or son could enlist him in his cause. Gus knew how their arguments ran, and he figured he had time to go inside, get out of the filthy jumpsuit, wash his hands, put on his street clothes, and maybe even catch up on e-mails before they’d finish. But as he stepped into the office, the phone actually did begin to ring. Gus hit the SPEAKER button as he unzipped his grave-digging uniform.
“Psych Investigations. Burton Guster speaking.”
“Guster, you and Spencer have to get out of that office right now.” Lassiter’s voice sounded even tighter than usual. “Come down to the police station. We’ll find a safe place for you.”
“Like a jail cell?”
“Unless you’d prefer a pine box. We’ve done some checking on Tara Larison.”
“So you’ve figured out she didn’t kill Dallas Steele.”
