Chapter Text
“Finally,” Shawn said without looking up. “You’re late, Gus.”
“Late?” Gus frowned, hanging up his jacket on the coat rack. “I haven’t been here for a week.”
“Exactly,” Shawn said, leaning back in his chair and picking up an obnoxiously green yo-yo from his desk. “You can’t stay away longer than that without getting ants in your pharmaceutical-sales pants and jonesing for some Psych time.”
“That is a rough estimation at best,” Gus argued. “I didn’t tell you I was going to be here at any specific time.”
“You didn’t have to.” Shawn pushed his rolly chair back from the desk to make space to give the yo-yo a lazy toss. “You’ve been trying to impress your new manager, so you doubled up your route on Wednesday and Thursday so you’d have time to make Friday a paperwork day and turn in all your homework, or whatever you call it, before everybody else.”
“Have you been following me again?”
Shawn ignored the question. “Your paperwork doesn’t take all day, though, right? Just long enough that you wouldn’t want to have to go out again, which is why you were checking the Psych inbox.”
“I don’t check that at work, Shawn. You know that. I don’t cross the streams.”
“Oh, really? Then why were our new messages already marked read?”
Gus exhaled heavily. “Okay, yeah, I read them. I thought I should come by because—”
“You read the one from the guy who’s coming over in a few minutes to talk about a matter of utmost sensitivity which I hope you will choose to engage.”
“Why are you doing a German accent for him?”
Shawn shrugged, throwing the yo-yo down again and letting it spin at the end of the string instead of pulling it back up. “He worded stuff funny. I just got a German sort of vibe.”
“I think he’s Czech, actually,” Gus said, settling into his desk chair. “The domain name for his email address ends in .cz. That’s Czechia.”
Shawn, now trying and failing to get the yo-yo to come back up, frowned. “Czechia? Like Czechia-self before you wreckya-self?” He started rolling the string back up.
“Czechia is the Czech Republic, Shawn,” Gus informed him. “The European country?”
“I think you’ll find it’s called Czechoslovakia, Gus,” Shawn chuckled, tossing the yo-yo again.
“It hasn’t been Czechoslovakia since 1992!”
The yo-yo came back up this time and hit Shawn in the jaw. He jumped back and scrambled to detach it from his finger, clearing his throat awkwardly as he set it back down on the desk.
“So he’s not German, then?” Shawn asked.
“I guess he could be,” Gus said. “Maybe he’s just using a foreign domain name for anonymity. The guy seemed really worried about his privacy.”
“How do we know it’s a guy? Maybe it’s a woman who doesn’t want us to figure that out right away,” Shawn suggested. “I’m looking forward to seeing what ‘my face may be disguised’ means, though.”
“I assume it means the client’s face may be disguised, Shawn,” Gus said. “How did you know I was going to come here for this, anyway?”
Shawn scoffed. “C’mon, son. He asked if we had any experience breaking into a safe. There was no way you were going to miss out on a safe-cracking case, but you didn’t want your boss to see you leaving work early, so you headed out as soon as the clock hit 5. But then you were late.” He narrowed his eyes and looked Gus up and down. “Did you stop at that new smoothie place?”
Gus pressed his lips together and shifted in his seat, but didn’t reply.
“Man, you know I wanted to go there together! Thanks for picking up one for me,” Shawn said sarcastically. “What did you have? Was it the kiwi-pineapple one?”
“It is none of your business how I choose to treat myself after a hard day’s work at my real job,” Gus said frostily. “When you make enough money to pay for your own damn smoothie, you can come with me.”
Suddenly, Shawn perked up, looking towards the window.
“What?” Gus asked, then he heard it too: a car pulling up in the space next to the office. Shawn hopped up from behind his desk and went to look out the window.
“Gus, check out this car,” he said. “That thing is fancy.”
The car was nothing compared to the man who emerged from it. He had the height of a professional basketball player, the build of a circus strongman, and the wardrobe of a couture model. Most of his face was obscured, but if he was aiming for anonymity, he had definitely missed the mark.
Shawn nudged Gus and nodded at the man. “What do you call that scarfy thing pulled up over his mouth? A neck-warmer?”
“A dickie.”
“Ha! Dickie. Gus, if you’re going to make things up, you should at least pick something less childish.”
“That’s what it’s called. Or a gaiter.”
“Gus, don’t be Lassiter’s worst haircut. Gators don’t live in California; they live in Floridian toilets and they definitely don’t make silky-looking neck masks.”
“Neck gaiters and alligators are not the same thing, Shawn, and alligators in toilets are a myth. They live in the southeastern United States and in China, but not in the sewer systems.”
“We don’t have time for this, Gus. He’s coming in. Scatter!”
Gus rolled his eyes and sat back down in his desk chair while Shawn scrambled across the room back to his, where he assumed an uncharacteristically elegant posture. He drummed his fingers against each other and adopted a serene facial expression; as the door opened, he raised his hands to his temples elegantly and closed his eyes, then apparently changed his mind and returned to the generic look of spiritual superiority.
“Come in,” he called out.
The client swept into the office, removing his wide-brimmed hat and designer sunglasses, but leaving the peacock-green gaiter up. It covered him from the nose down until it disappeared into the collar of a deep blue cloak—an actual honest-to-God cloak, though not a very long one—which was fastened over a perfectly tailored double-breasted coat, with buttons the same rich brown as the calf-high leather boots that highlighted his muscular legs. What they could see of his face was strong-featured and serious.
“Good evening, gentlemen. I appreciate you making yourselves available. You may call me Ormstein,” he said. He had a very mild accent—nondescript, just vaguely European, like he’d been speaking English for a very long time. “William Ormstein.”
“Welcome, Mr. Ormstein,” Gus said politely, at the same time that Shawn said “Nice to meet ya, William.” Gus shot him a look; Shawn shrugged and mouthed what?
“My name is Shawn Spencer, and this is my partner, Budgie Smuggler,” Shawn said.
“Burton Guster,” Gus said firmly. “How can we help you, Mr. Ormstein?”
Ormstein’s gaze flickered over to the door, then the window. “Is there, perhaps, a more private area where we may speak?”
“Of course, Mr. Ormstein,” Gus said. “You can follow Shawn into the back room. I’ll lock the door.” As he passed Shawn on his way to do so, he hissed, “Do not bring the yo-yo.”
“Okay, okay,” Shawn whispered back. As soon as Gus turned his back, Shawn pocketed the toy and hopped to his feet, gesturing for Ormstein to follow him into the next room, which was significantly less spacious and mostly used for storage. He noticed the way Ormstein glanced nervously at the windows; when Shawn closed the blinds, Ormstein visibly relaxed.
Gus, returning from the other room, cleared his throat. “How can we help you?”
Ormstein took a breath deep enough to be audible through the gaiter. “Gentlemen, I’m afraid I am in danger of blackmail,” he said gravely.
“In danger?” Gus asked. “Not actually being blackmailed?”
Ormstein shook his head. “Not yet, but I have been warned by the potential blackmailer that it is a possibility. You see, some years ago, I had a relationship with someone who falls very much outside the acceptable sphere for someone of my social standing, and now my former paramour has been in touch to remind me about the physical evidence of that relationship.”
“Ah. You’re a baby daddy,” Shawn said, nodding wisely.
Ormstein bristled. “Of course not!” He huffed, rustling the fabric of the gaiter slightly. “I refer, gentlemen, to gifts and written correspondence I made the ill choice of sending. And now I must request that you swear to secrecy, for this is a most sensitive matter,” he said, his face grave. “This person…this relationship I had…it was with a man.”
There was a pause as Gus and Shawn waited for Ormstein to continue. When he didn’t, the two of them exchanged a glance.
“Is that it?” Gus asked.
“That’s not much of a scandal,” Shawn pointed out. “Was he married or something?”
“No, of course not,” Ormstein replied irately.
“Were you married?” Gus asked.
“Absolutely not! I would never stoop so low as to commit adultery.”
“So what’s the problem?” Shawn asked, semi-rhetorically.
Gus shot him a look before he addressed their new client again. “We understand this is a personal subject, Mr. Ormstein. Of course we’ll help you protect your privacy. Won’t we, Shawn?” His tone made it clear that the last sentence was more of a warning than a question.
Shawn sighed. “We will,” he agreed. “Don’t worry. The Cassel’s reputation is safe.”
The man flinched. “You know who I am?”
“I’m sorry.” Shawn raised a hand to his temple. “The spirits can see your true form; they told me as soon as you came in that you were the heir to Cassel’s, the noted auction house. For a small extra fee, I can offer you an astral shielding service that will prevent anyone else with the Gift from—”
“Shawn, no,” Gus snapped. “I’m sorry about my partner, Mr. Ormstein.”
The man sighed. Looking pained, he slowly pulled down his gaiter and tucked it into his collar. “William Ormstein is an alias I use at times for privacy, though I would prefer that you continue to use it in writing where possible. My name, in truth, is Carl Sigismond,” he said, looking between Shawn and Gus and lingering with concern on Shawn, who was struggling to pull the yo-yo back out of his pocket, as the string had tangled with his keys. “I am inheriting Cassel’s from my father, Wilhelm. My family and our investors are very traditional. Such a thing as an affair with a man could ruin me if it ‘came out’, as they say, no matter how wonderful a man he may be. And truly he is, to me, a wonderful man.”
“Apart from the whole blackmail thing,” Shawn said dryly.
“Peter and I met when I was in England many years ago,” Sigismond explained. “He was employed by my father, working with the agency that insured the art collections at the London branch of Cassel’s. He has now done very well for himself, but when I met him, he might as well have been a…a poor farm boy. Very well-schooled, of course, but he had no titles—not even a minor peerage,” he said, as if this was some kind of bare minimum for reputability. “He was lucky to have been employed in such a prestigious position.”
“If I might ask, Mr. Sigismond, how did he manage to get that position?” Gus interjected. He was using his work voice, the smooth salesman pandering to his prospective client’s worldview. Shawn toyed with the now-broken string of his yo-yo, eyebrows lowered thoughtfully as he looked back and forth from Gus to Sigismond.
“His connections from Eton, I believe,” Sigismond replied.
“Really? The public school?” Gus asked, looking puzzled.
Shawn scoffed. “What, you think people need to graduate from some fancy private school to be an unpaid intern?”
“A public school in England is a private school, Shawn,” Gus informed him. “A traditional private boarding school. There are less than a dozen, and they’re some of the most prestigious institutions in the country. It costs hundreds of thousands of British pounds to educate your child there.”
“I don’t know the metric system, Gus. What is that in American pounds?”
Gus glared at him. “It’s money, Shawn. Hundreds of thousands of dollars.”
“That makes no sense,” Shawn declared, now swinging the yo-yo back and forth in front of him like a bright green pendulum. “How is it public if it costs that much?”
“Because it’s open to the general public regardless of where they live, or what church they go to, or what jobs or affiliations their parents have,” Gus explained.
“Or titles,” Sigismond added.
Gus nodded. “Exactly. You don’t need to be a duke or an earl or baron. You don’t even need to have a parent who earned a title, like a knighthood or something; you just need to be able to afford it.”
Shawn snorted. “That’s what they call public? Not needing a knighthood?”
“Yeah. And Eton is right up there at the top of the public school hierarchy.”
“I see. Like the crème de la crumb de la creams,” Shawn said, nodding wisely. “So this guy Peter is basically a peasant to you because he went to a school that doesn’t exclusively admit Aristocats.”
“It’s aristocrats, Shawn,” Gus said.
“I’ve heard it both ways.”
“Yeah, but one of them is a cartoon!”
“Gus, I can’t do this with you right now,” Shawn said flatly. He turned back to the client. “Mr. Signalman…”
“Sigismond,” the man corrected him.
“Sigismond. May I call you Bill?”
“I would prefer you didn’t.”
“Okay. The thing is, Billy, I still don’t understand the problem here,” Shawn said. “My partner and I are always up for shenanigans, and tracking down old-school sexts could easily lead to some, but it’s not like you and Peter were doing anything wrong. What’s the big deal?”
“It is a very big deal,” Sigismond insisted, wide-eyed. “Perhaps this is not a problem in the business of psychic detecting, Mr. Spencer, but in my world, it is most important that this is something no one finds out.”
“Seriously?” Shawn raised a skeptical eyebrow. “The world of fine art?”
“The world of high society, Mr. Spencer, uncouth though that may be to say outright,” Sigismond said frostily. “I understand that nobility means little to most Americans in this day and age; this is why I introduced myself to you with only my name and not my titles, but you must understand that you and I live very different lives. If people discovered—if they even suspected that I could be homosexual, it would ruin me. No one can know.”
Gus said “I understand” at the same time Shawn said “You’re wearing a silk cloak.”
Gus turned and frowned at him. “What was that, Shawn?”
“Never mind,” Shawn said.
Gus turned back to Sigismond.
“We can help you, Mr. Sigismond,” he said. “May I confer with my colleague here for a minute?”
“By all means,” Sigismond said, gesturing graciously.
Gus stood and came over to stand by Shawn, facing away from their client and motioning for him to do the same. Shawn rolled his eyes and joined him, arms crossed stubbornly.
“He’s wearing a silk cloak,” he repeated in an undertone.
“The lining is silk, Shawn, not the whole thing,” Gus whispered. “And so what?”
“So what? So I think he’s missed the boat for nobody suspecting he’s gay.”
“Don’t be shitty, Shawn.”
“What? That’s not a stereotype, it’s just an observation.”
“Straight men can wear silk.”
“Yeah, but cloaks?”
“Yes, cloaks!” Gus hissed, glancing nervously back at Sigismond. “Though, granted, I’ve never seen one before on anyone of any sexuality outside of the Ren Faire.”
“Exactly, and gay people are famous for being fashion pioneers.”
“That’s a stereotype!”
“Okay, maybe so,” Shawn conceded. “The point is, Gus, other people are going to have that same stereotype. If this isn't some kind of crazy costume and his normal wardrobe really does include color-coordinated coutoure capes, I promise you there’s at least one person in this guy’s social circle who suspects he might not be straight.”
“That’s not the point, Shawn. What matters is that he's a man in distress who came to us for help and can probably afford to be pretty generous when he pays us for our services.” Gus raised his eyebrows pointedly.
“That doesn't necessarily mean he will. Rich people can be very stingy, Gus,” Shawn said. Then he sighed. “Okay. You have a point. We can give it a try.”
He patted Gus on the shoulder. They turned back around to face Sigismond, Gus clearing his throat.
“We're in,” Shawn announced, gesturing between himself and Gus.
A look of relief washed over Sigismond's face. “Thank you, Mr. Spencer, Mr. Guster. I cannot express how much I value your help.”
Gus inclined his head, smiling politely. “You're very welcome.”
“So what’s this rascal’s name, anyway?” Shawn asked. “You said Pete, right? What’s his last name?”
“Peter,” Sigismond said, his face softening, as if the name brought back the less frightening memories.
Shawn raised an eyebrow. “He’s called Pete Peter? That’s unfortunate.”
“No Pete, just Peter,” Sigismond corrected irritably. “He signs his name as Peter H. Gluck. I have reason to believe the H. may represent Hig.”
Shawn snorted quietly. “Gluck, seriously? Is that a common name in Europe or do people laugh at it there too?”
“He is the only one by that name whom I have met, but I have never heard him mocked for it,” Sigismond said, frowning slightly. “I must say, Mr. Spencer, your attitude to this remains disappointingly cavalier. Should I be concerned?”
“He’s just trying to lighten the mood,” Gus assured him, shooting Shawn a sharp sideways look. “I promise you, Mr. Sigismond, we will be perfectly professional once we begin our work.”
Sigismond surveyed Shawn skeptically. “Good,” he said after a moment.
“What work is it, exactly?” Shawn asked. “You need us to track him down? Rough him up? Because we can only really do one of those things.”
“Is there some specific material you want to get back?” Gus asked. “A letter or a photo or something?”
Sigismond sighed. “There is…a drawing,” he said tensely. “One which I drew myself and foolishly signed with my own name.”
“You could say he stole it,” Shawn suggested.
Sigismond averted his eyes. “The content of the image indicates, with regrettable clarity, that I was…involved with Peter,” he said delicately. “We are both depicted.”
Gus raised an eyebrow. “I see.”
“Couldn't you say it was someone else in the picture?” Shawn asked. He gestured up and down at Sigismond. “Some other skyscraper of a gentleman with majestic calves? Or that it’s a lovesick admirer drawing himself some wish fulfillment porn?”
“I am not an artist of the caliber one might see at Cassel's, by any means, but if I may say so myself, I am skilled enough to have produced an undeniable likeness of us both,” Sigismond informed him. “And while I do not sell my work, I do display it in my own home, where many of my colleagues have seen it and become familiar with my style.”
Shawn pursed his lips. “Hmm. Could you say someone was trying to imitate you? I’m sure someone like Peter would know some talented counterfeiters.”
“The drawing bears my signature,” Sigismond reminded him. “In my business, as you may imagine, the authentication of signatures is very important, so I cannot simply claim it is a forgery.”
“Couldn't you say that someone took a piece of paper with your signature on it and—”
“Mr. Spencer, you must believe me when I say I have considered all of these possibilities. There is…” Sigismond inhaled deeply, lips pressed together, pinching the bridge of his nose and shaking his head with palpable regret. “There is an inscription, not merely a signature, and it is addressed to Peter in what is clearly my handwriting.”
“You know, it would probably save us a lot of time if you just told us all the incriminating stuff about this picture up front instead of waiting until we run into snags like this,” Shawn suggested.
Gus glared at him. “Shawn could have put that a little more professionally, but he has a point,” he said gently. “Can you tell us more about this drawing?”
Sigismond, palm still covering his eyes, nodded tersely. “I suppose I must,” he conceded. He bought his hand back down to rest on the arm of the chair, drumming his fingers, and took a deep breath. “It depicts myself and Peter in a distinctly amorous position. Its creation was an impulse of mine while I sat at my desk, so it is drawn on paper bearing the monogram of the Groupe Bohême, to which Cassel’s belongs. The page is not large; I gave it to him as a surprise, slipped between the pages of a book I had borrowed from him, so that he might find it later and think of me. I now realize, of course, that this was most unwise,” he said. “Anyone might have seen it. But I was much younger then, and my feelings had made me rather reckless.”
“I can relate to that,” Shawn piped up. “I once showed up to my ex's apartment for a midnight booty call wearing only—never mind,” he said, cutting himself off hurriedly when he saw the sharp warning look on Gus’s face. “Go on.”
Sigismond only gave him a brief look of disapproval, lips pressed into a thin line, before continuing. “Even more unwise, I wrote the date and a few words of affection, commemorating the time we spent together after a business conference in St. John's Wood—a conference that numerous records show he and I both attended.”
“What was the date?” Gus asked.
“August, 1987. Although the affair had begun the previous year.”
Gus raised his eyebrows. “Wow. And he’s been carrying a flame for you all these years? Or vice versa?”
“That's impressive for long-distance,” Shawn remarked.
Sigismond sighed. “I do not know how he feels about me today. If, indeed, he is still…attached, shall we say, I worry that some sense of jealousy or possessiveness might inspire him to sabotage me if I am fortunate enough to find a suitable woman to marry—which is something I have been pursuing of late, with some success.” He didn't seem to notice the look Shawn and Gus exchanged at that. “Alternatively,” he continued, “I fear that he may still be hurt by the way in which our final affair was ended, when I made it clear that we could never again reunite. I admit that I handled the issue poorly at the time. He would be well within his rights to feel vengeful.” His voice had grown quieter as he recounted this, and he averted his gaze and drummed his fingers uncomfortably against the arm of his chair. When he eventually looked back up at them, there was a shadow of shame in his blue-gray eyes.
“Okay, so we have the motivation,” Shawn said, breaking the uncomfortable silence. “What’s the demand? Couldn’t you afford to pay him off?”
Sigismond shook his head. “He has not asked for money. I have offered.”
“So what would he be blackmailing you for?”
“I suppose I was wrong in calling it a threat of blackmail,” Sigismond admitted. “It is simply a threat.”
“Have you tried threatening him back?”
“Shawn!” Gus snapped.
“Sorry. Have you tried stealing it back?” Shawn asked.
“Five times,” Sigismond said gravely. “I once had his luggage diverted from its courier when he was moving from England to Belgium; twice I employed, I am afraid to say, rather unsavory persons so that I might have his primary residence searched while he was away on international business. I thought surely he would not have brought it with him as far as Switzerland or South Africa, but this was when I realized just how precious it must be to him, as there was no sign of it in any part of his home. Most recently, after he contacted me to remind me once more that he had it in his possession, I was able to track him to Canada, where I went so far as to have him accosted when I believed he might be carrying it on his person, and confronted him myself when this was unsuccessful.” Here he faltered, as if uncertain whether he could say what happened next.
Shawn, running out of patience for the man’s nervous hesitation, prompted: “And?”
“It was perhaps the most foolish thing I have done in this whole affair,” Sigismond admitted. “I thought I might appeal to his sentiment; that perhaps, if he could be reminded of the tenderness we once shared, he might relent. Instead, it was I who was reminded. He is still, after all these years, as beautiful to me as any of the women I have courted…”
Courted? Shawn mouthed. Gus made a shushing motion; fortunately, Sigismond was still staring forlornly into the middle distance, not looking at their juvenile exchange.
“But he is still also as resolute as any man I have known, and instead of persuading him, I began to persuade myself. I was tempted to forgive everything, if only we…”
He shut his eyes and shook his head as if to clear that train of thought.
“Fortunately, he would not entertain my advances, which suggests to me that if he does still—in Mr. Guster’s words—carry a flame for me, it has been stifled by his resentment of my behavior in the past decades. He told me that recovering the drawing would be impossible and advised me to capitulate.”
“Wait, hang on,” Shawn interrupted. “He turned you down, but he still wanted to have sex?”
Sigismond’s brows drew together. “I’m sorry?”
“He wanted to capitulate with you,” Shawn repeated. “Or was he telling you to hook up with somebody else to help you get over it?”
“Capitulate means surrender or comply, Shawn,” Gus said.
“I’ve heard it both ways,” Shawn said.
“No, you’re thinking of ‘copulate’. ‘Capitulate’ is a completely different word.”
“I can’t do this with you right now, Gus. We have a client,” Shawn whispered.
Gus spread out his hands incredulously; Shawn ignored him and returned his attention to Sigismond.
“So let’s talk strategy,” Shawn said brightly, clapping his hands together loud enough to startle the other men, then scrubbing his palms together with enthusiasm. “Where is Pete now?”
“Peter,” Sigismond said pointedly, “is in Santa Barbara, and I believe he plans to attend Cassel’s this month. The auction provides a booking assistance service for attendees coming from abroad; I discovered travel arrangements under the name P. H. Gluck, but the accommodation arrangements for the same account are booked for Duncan Grant, with no indication that these are separate individuals. Peter has, at times, adopted pseudonyms to protect his privacy; I believe that both Gluck and Grant are he. I will provide for you the details which are currently accessible to me, including a description of his appearance to aid in your search, and I shall inform you if any further information comes up.” He reached into his cloak, which apparently had inside pockets, because he produced a folded note with Psych printed neatly on the outside.
“And now, gentlemen, I must take my leave,” he concluded, standing up and adjusting the fastening of his cloak before offering Gus his hand. “I hope you will prove to me that my trust in you was not misplaced.”
“We will,” Gus said smoothly, accepting the handshake.
Shawn scrambled to his feet and cleared his throat. “Uh, Billy, about our fees…”
“Ah.” Sigismond nodded. “You may name your price. And for expenses, in the meantime…” He reached into his cloak again and brought a checkbook and a fountain pen, filling out a check with a flourish and tearing it out smoothly. He handed it to Gus, along with the folded note; Shawn rushed to his side to look, and his eyes widened. “I hope that will suffice,” Sigismond said.
“Yeah—no, yeah, absolutely, it suffices,” Shawn babbled. Gus nodded rapidly. “Thanks, Bill. You’re a peach. We’ll get right to it.” He clapped Sigismond on the shoulder and shook his hand heartily.
When their client had departed, Shawn and Gus turned to each other, wide-eyed.
“That’s so many zeroes,” Shawn squeaked. Squeaking was not one of his usual noises, but it was a lot of zeroes.
“So many zeroes,” Gus repeated, even higher than Shawn, possibly qualifying as a squeal more than a squeak. He began bouncing on the balls of his feet. Shawn joined him, the two of them jumping giddily until Gus noticed the blinds were still very much open.
“Right. Good,” Shawn said, clearing his throat. “I think that’s, uh…that’s a great start.”
“A great start,” Gus agreed, staring reverently back down at the check.
Shawn flopped down onto the couch and grabbed a pillow, hugging it to himself and grinning again. “I don’t even know where to start now,” he confessed. “I think I need some celebration snacks to calm down before I can get my mind moving. Gus, where are your secret emergency pretzels?”
Gus clicked his tongue. “You must be out of your damn mind, Shawn,” he said. “Get your own pretzels.”
Shawn rolled his eyes and set the pillow aside with unnecessary force, standing back up and stretching. “Maybe I will,” he said. “Maybe I’ll stop by the smoothie place.”
“Be my guest.”
“I’m not getting you one,” he warned Gus. “Traitors don’t get smoothies.”
“I don’t care, Shawn,” Gus said smugly. “I already had mine.”
Shawn snatched up Sigismond’s note. “I’m taking this with me,” he declared, glaring at Gus on the way out.
When he returned, smoothie in one hand and note in the other, Gus was finishing a bag of his emergency pretzels. Shawn gestured angrily at them, as if to say what the hell, man? Gus popped the last one into his mouth and crumpled up the empty packet, throwing it into the trash with a mocking smile. He dusted off his hand, opened his laptop and a notepad, picked up his pen and tapped it thoughtfully on the page.
“How’d you know who he was, anyway?” he asked.
“Who, Billy?”
“Sigismond,” Gus corrected, without much hope that Shawn would follow suit.
“I saw an article about Cassel’s that had a profile of him,” Shawn explained. “Wait, hang on.” He set his alarmingly chartreuse smoothie down perilously close to his computer and began rustling through his desk drawer, pulling out a cat toy, a rhyming dictionary, the name tag from McNab's uniform, a past-due phone bill (Gus bristled at this but decided to put a pin in it), and a birthday card reading ‘Today You Are 3!’ before finally producing a glossy magazine. He tossed it haphazardly over to Gus, who narrowed his eyes when he spotted a sticker reading ‘Please Do Not Remove From Clinic Waiting Room’ on its cover. “Page 23,” Shawn said, nodding at the magazine before picking up his smoothie again and taking a long, satisfied drink.
Gus found the article and whistled. “That is some distinctive fashion sense,” he remarked, studying the photo. Sigismond was pictured at an art gallery opening wearing charcoal checked trousers and a burgundy velvet smoking jacket with richly embroidered lapels, accessorized with a mulberry silk cravat. The lack of cloak showed off a surprisingly muscular neck and shoulders.
“They've called him an eligible bachelor,” Shawn quoted, wiggling the straw in the lid of his smoothie so it made little plasticky squeaking noises. “I mean, I guess it’s technically true.”
“Look at this woman behind him. I think that’s Tilly McCallum.”
“McCallum?” Shawn frowned. He got up and came over to look. “Like McCallum Textiles? The McCallums from our first case?”
“Yeah, but a different branch of the family. Clotilde, or Tilly, von Saxe McCallum is Camden Sr.’s niece,” Gus explained. “Her father, Ross McCallum, married into a very wealthy, very traditional European family, who didn’t approve of the lifestyles people led on Camden’s side. Apart from business dealings, Ross and Camden didn’t speak for years; I think that was partly what inspired Camden to pressure Camden Jr. to clean up his act. He was trying to keep his in-laws investing in the company.”
Shawn’s brows furrowed. “Gus, how do you know all this?”
“I like to revisit our old cases sometimes.” Gus shrugged. “Kind of a ‘where are they now’ thing. Sometimes it turns out there was a lot of intrigue going on that we missed out on because it wasn’t relevant to the case, especially with the rich families. It’s like following a soap opera with those people.”
Shawn narrowed his eyes. “I feel like I should make fun of you for that, but I’m not sure why,” he said.
Gus shook his head irately, looking askance at Shawn before returning his attention to the magazine. “Tilly McCallum’s parents are very devout Lutherans. They pretty much single-handedly funded the construction of a new church a few years ago.”
“Do you think she was the ‘suitable woman’ Siggy was pursuing?” Shawn asked, popping the lid of the smoothie open and shut absent-mindedly.
“You should use his actual name, Shawn,” Gus admonished.
Shawn snorted. “Okay, Miss Manners,” he said mockingly. “Why don’t I just use everyone’s actual names from now on?”
“That would be a good call. I’ll write them down for you.”
“Gus, I was being sarcastic.”
“I know,” Gus said. In lieu of a retort, Shawn held direct eye contact and took an obnoxiously loud and prolonged sip through the straw, followed by an exaggerated aaaah of satisfaction. Gus just rolled his eyes and began scribbling in his notebook; when he finished, he peered at the list, brow furrowing.
“Gluck,” he said experimentally. He lowered his voice and frowned as he repeated the name to himself. “Gluck. Gluck.”
“Gock-a-doodle-doo,” Shawn said. “Why are we being dyslexic chickens?”
“I’m not clucking, Shawn. Gluck—I’ve heard that name before. I’m trying to remember where.”
“Isn’t it an Arthur Ransome book? One of those, uh…Swallows and Amazons sequels?”
Gus looked at him with a mixture of surprise and confusion. “When did you read Swallows and Amazons?”
Shawn scoffed. “I’ll have you know that I’m very well-read in the English interwar children’s adventure novel genre,” he said. “I read the Ransome ones during my pirate phase.”
“I don’t remember you having a pirate phase.”
“You wouldn't remember. I was in Argentina.”
Gus frowned. “Wait, how old were you?”
“27. Oh, never mind—Duck,” he recalled. “Peter Duck. Okay, yeah, not a novel about child pirates. Did you Google him?”
Gus glared at him. “I was just about to.”
“Sure you were, Gus.” Shawn sat on the couch again, crossing one ankle over the opposite knee and picking up the pillow again. “What’s the machine saying?”
Gus peered at the screen. “There are a bunch of Peter Glucks on LinkedIn and social media. I don’t think Sigismond’s guy is any of these ones, though. I don’t see any gay English auctioneers.”
“We don’t know that he’s gay,” Shawn pointed out. “All we know is that he had one boyfriend. That’s not very definitive.”
“Shawn, less than half an hour ago, you were insisting that a guy’s clothes made him gay.”
“I didn’t say that. I just implied it.” Shawn took a noisy slurp of smoothie. “Have you looked up his full name yet? What was it, Big Gluck?”
“Hig. Peter Hig Gluck, or H. Gluck,” Gus reminded him, typing out the extra letter. “I don’t know if that’s a middle name or a mother’s maiden name or something like that, but I don't think adding three letters will make a dif—oh.” He cut himself off, looking sheepish.
Shawn crossed his arms while Gus scrolled through the new results. “Let me guess: it made a difference,” he said dryly.
“Yeah, but I still don’t know if it’s what we’re looking for,” he said, frowning at the page. “The only thing that comes up is this English painter, who I do not think was this guy’s boyfriend.”
“Why not?”
“Well, for one thing, this Gluck only had relationships with women.”
Shawn shrugged. “Could've been in the closet.”
“Definitely not in the closet.” Gus turned the laptop towards Shawn.
“Often described as a rare example of a public lesbian relationship in early 20th century Britain, Gluck openly rejected gender norms and honorifics, including titles such as ‘Miss’,” Shawn read. “Okay, yeah, maybe not.” He frowned. “‘A rare example from the 20th century’, though? There are plenty of public lesbian relationships these days. Is Britain suffering from some kind of lesbian deficiency?”
Gus paused, his brows drawing together. “Shawn, you know we’re in the 21st century, right?”
Shawn chuckled. “Gus, your futuristic whimsy is adorable. I would scruff your hair if it was longer than the thickness of my thumbnail.”
“I'm not being whimsical, Shawn. This is the 21st century,” Gus said.
“How come we haven’t had the year 2100, then? Y2.1K?”
“You start counting the centuries from zero, Shawn. The zeroes are the first century, the 100s are the second—”
“I can’t do this with you right now, Gus. You and the person who made this website can get together for a meeting of the I’m Wrong Society when you’re off the clock, but right now, we need to get down to business.”
Gus clicked his tongue. “Whatever, Shawn. The point is, this person was too old to be Sigismond's ex by a long shot. It’s a weird coincidence, though, don't you think? It’s not like Hig and Gluck are common names.”
“Maybe it’s a pseudonym,” Shawn suggested. “Maybe Billy’s ex—”
“Sigismond’s ex,” Gus corrected.
“Maybe his ex was just really into pioneering queer artists. Queer pionartists, if you will. Or pioqueertists. Quartoneers.”
“Stop saying queer, Shawn. It’s offensive.”
“I'm pretty sure the jury’s still out on that one, Gus,” Shawn said. “How does the saying go? Two gays, three opinions?”
“That saying is about Jewish people!”
“Then why does it say ‘gays’?”
“It doesn’t say—never mind.” Gus shook his head wearily. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe Duncan Grant is his real name.” He typed it in. “…Nope. Just another dead white guy.”
“Great. Back at square one,” Shawn quipped.
“Maybe both of them are pseudonyms. Or maybe one is a chosen name,” Gus suggested. “I mean, Gluck was a mononym shortened from Gluckstein. Peter and Hig weren’t first or middle names, they were just Gluck’s earlier nicknames.”
“I think I would've stuck with Peter, personally,” Shawn mused. “Or maybe zhuzh it up a little bit. Go French.”
“Like Pierre?”
“What?”
“Pierre is the French form of the name Peter.”
Shawn raised his eyebrows. “Huh. I never knew that.”
Gus fell silent as something visibly dawned on his face.
“What is it?” Shawn asked, nudging him with his now-empty smoothie cup.
“How did Sigismond describe Peter in his note?” Gus asked slowly. “I mean, physically.”
“Uh…light hair, five ten, and…what’d it say? Something weirdly poetic.” Shawn pulled the note out of his pocket. “Eyes like the sea after a storm. Which I assume means blue,” he said, showing it to Gus. “Why?”
“Think of that description,” Gus instructed, “and add it up with an extremely elusive English dude who has experience with insuring famous paintings, has recently done some shady shit in Canada, and uses the names of artists as aliases.”
Shawn lifted an eyebrow. “You mean—no,” he chuckled, shaking his head. “Not him. He’s…”
His eyes widened slowly, the smile fading from his face.
“Yeah,” Gus said.
“No.”
“I think so.”
“You’re kidding me.”
“Maybe I’m wrong, Shawn, but you have to admit, it does sound like him,” Gus pointed out.
“Okay, as a basic profile, sure,” Shawn conceded reluctantly, “but not the blackmail stuff! That's not like him.”
“He’s a criminal, Shawn! We personally witnessed him threatening to kill someone. Isn’t that a little worse than blackmail?”
“I mean, not necessarily, if the person dies instantly,” Shawn argued. Gus clicked his tongue angrily.
“Shawn, be realistic. I know you have this whole thing with him,” Gus said, ignoring Shawn’s affronted look, “but you gotta take off the heart-shaped glasses.”
“I would never wear heart-shaped glasses in the first place, Gus,” Shawn retorted. “My eyesight is just fine, so what would I use them for? Sunglasses? The heart shape would offer zero protection. It’s missing a whole section from the top, and you know where the sunlight comes from? Yeah. The top.”
Gus just crossed his arms and narrowed his eyes. He was trying a new tactic with Shawn’s bullshit: letting him tire himself out to embarrass him into being serious. It did not usually work, but this time, it seemed to be the right approach.
“Are you done?” Gus asked flatly.
Shawn’s shoulders sank. “I—okay, yeah,” he finally admitted. “It does sound like Pierre Despereaux.”
