Undercover and Overwhelmed

Casa de Orgullo was twenty minutes outside of Santa Barbara. Lassiter drove there in a rented Hyundai, which felt more appropriate to his cover as a history professor on sabbatical. He was dressed in his most casual attire: a short-sleeved blue plaid shirt, open at the collar, and khaki pants. His attempt to throw together a gay wardrobe had failed dismally. The rainbow muscle shirt had looked especially ridiculous. He’d finally decided to stay as close to his own style as possible, although he wouldn’t admit that he was taking O’Hara’s advice in that regard.

He stood by the car, stretched, and looked around to get his bearings. The main building was a Craftsman-style log structure surrounded by a multi-tiered flagstone patio. On the tiers closest to the dock a large group of men and women were having drinks. Paved walkways led to a series of smaller cabins along the shoreline.

This assignment isn’t going to be so bad, he thought. We’ll smoke out our thief in a few days, book the bad guy and please the mayor. And spending this much time with a bunch of gay men will just reinforce how ridiculous and impossible this whole thing with Spencer is.

He popped the trunk and removed his suitcase and fishing gear. Although Cachuma Lake was created by the construction of Bradbury Dam it was now home to a significant population of bass, crappie, walleye, and catfish. Lassiter had brought the custom Sak-Hart graphite rod and reel that Henry Spencer had given him.

Just because this is a working weekend doesn’t mean that I can’t squeeze in some fishing time, Lassiter reasoned. Early in the morning. As part of my cover.

He carried his luggage to the check-in area and O’Hara greeted him at the counter. She had gone ahead of him, and was now established as receptionist Julie Ohlsson.

“Welcome to Casa de Orgullo,” she said pleasantly. “Do you have a reservation?”

Lassiter looked around at the reception area. It had a grey rock fireplace, a plush sofa and easy chairs, and some wall hangings of Navaho design. It seemed deserted.

“You know I do,” he said, feeling his jaw tighten. Was she going to stay in character every moment they were alone? Was this some attempt to teach him a lesson for deriding her undercover skills?

“What’s the name?” she asked.

“It’s under Lasswell.” He watched as O’Hara perused the electronic database. “Oh come on. This is ridiculous. Just give me the key.”

“Please be patient, Mr. Lasswell,” she said. “This is my first day.” She looked meaningfully toward the sofa. “Yes, you’re here in the main building. Room 201. You’re here with GORN, aren’t you?”

“That’s right.”

“Did I hear you say GORN?” A man bounded energetically off the sofa where he’d been slouched down, out of sight. He was slight of build and dressed as if he were going on safari. “Hey there. I’m Chuck, your GORN retreat leader.”

Lassiter shook the man’s outstretched hand.

“I’m Booker Lasswell. Pleased to meet you.”

“Welcome to GORN, Booker. Here’s our schedule of events for the weekend,” Chuck passed him a detailed sheet from his clipboard. “We’ve got a meet and greet later tonight. But first we’re having a swim race down at the dock. Check in and get yourself settled. I’ll see you there in ten minutes.” It was a statement, not a question.

If anything was going to be difficult, Lassiter realized, it would be maintaining his cover with GORN and still making time to find the thief. He’d have be one of those guys nobody would notice if they were to say, disappear for twenty minutes several times a day.

Lassiter obtained his key from O’Hara and went to his room. He had to hand it to Rodriguez; the room was pretty nice. It had a queen-sized bed, some interesting paintings, and a good view of the lake. He put his clothes into the bureau and stowed his portable gun vault in the top drawer of the nightstand. The only thing he didn’t enjoy about undercover assignments was not being able to wear his gun. Being without the Glock just felt wrong. With practice he could open the vault and be armed in three seconds. Provided the bad guy didn’t get the drop on him, he’d be ready.

He peered out the window. The swim meet was already underway. He could see people on the dock, cheering on the swimmers. He changed into his swim trunks and put a t-shirt and cargo shorts on over top.

Before leaving Santa Barbara he had been anxious about blending in with GORN. This wasn’t like going undercover at Mrs. Fields, where just wearing the uniform meant he belonged. He didn’t really know any gay men, not counting whatever Spencer was. If he couldn’t play gay convincingly the assignment would be a failure.

Of course these aren’t just regular gay men, he reminded himself. They’re gay sportsmen. We’ll bond over the activity and the identity will be taken for granted. At least all my swimming at the Athletic Club will come in handy.

During the drive it occurred to him that he might blend in too well. That possibility was alarmingly new when it came to his undercover work. At no point during the Sunnyside Mall assignment did he ever wonder if he really was a cookie baker.

He locked the door and strolled down to the dock.

***

Shawn Spencer sat on a lounge chair, wrapped in a fluffy bathrobe, drinking a raspberry smoothie. He and Gus had just finished a swim race and they were now sitting on the terrace overlooking the lake. One of the GORN members, a man named Evan, stretched out in an adjoining chair and began applying body oil. Evan had a tan like George Hamilton.

“Nice race, you two,” he said. Evan was addressing both of them, but looking at Gus.

“Really?” Shawn said, “I thought my second-last place finish was a little disappointing. I’m usually only third last.”

“Your boyfriend did pretty well.”

Is it my imagination, Shawn wondered, or did the way Evan say boyfriend turn it into a question?

Gus smiled. “I swam in high school. I guess I’ve still got it.”

“Of course you do,” Evan said, ignoring Shawn and smiling at Gus. “High school couldn’t have been that long ago for you.”

“It’s been a while,” Gus admitted.

Shawn sighed. Gus has no idea what’s going on here. He’d have to squash this Evan thing before it progressed to the clumsy pass stage and Gus’s heterosexual panic blew their cover.

“Gus and I went to school together,” Shawn interjected. “We were at camp together too. Doesn’t this weekend bring back memories, Gus?”

“I guess so.” Gus looked at Shawn, unsure where he was going with this.

“Remember that time you almost burned down the cabin?” Shawn laughed. He turned to Evan. “You know how kids are. That fart-lighting can really get out of hand.”

“I didn’t do that!” Gus hissed at him. He turned to Evan. “Seriously. I didn’t.”

“Then how did that cabin fire start?” Shawn asked. He innocently sipped at his smoothie.

“I was trying to dry my underwear out.” He spoke to Evan, who was looking increasingly put off. “I wasn’t wearing them at the time.” Gus crossed his arms and glared at his friend. It had been a very small fire, but he still felt defensive about it. Kids clothes are supposed to be fire retardant, but Gus had learned that they burn quickly enough if held over a Coleman gas stove.

“Right, right,” Shawn said. “You fell in the lake.”

“If you are referring to when you pushed me into the lake, then yes.”

“I had to push you. If you didn’t fall in the lake how was I supposed to impress everyone by rescuing you?"

“I’m glad to hear you admit culpability. By rights you owe me a pair of underwear.”

“Gus, sweetie, where am I going to find A-team Underoos in your size now?”

“It was the t-shirt that had the picture on it. The shorts were just regular underwear.”

Shawn smiled. Evan was now over at the bar, chatting up a man with tattoos covering both arms.

Chuck, their GORN leader, stood on the long t-shaped dock, lined up beside him were five men and three women, readying themselves for the next race. The tall form of Carlton Lassiter strolled down from the main building.

“Booker, you’re just in time!” Chuck shouted. “Four laps to the lie-out and back,” he pointed to a small floating raft anchored 100 metres or so offshore. Swimmers must touch the lie-out, and the dock on each pass. The winner gets a GORN t-shirt and coupons for free drinks at the social tonight.”

Shawn felt his breath catch in his throat as Lassiter stripped quickly out of his t-shirt and cargo shorts and joined the line of racers. The man was buff; even more so than Shawn remembered. His swim trunks were tight fitting and black against the pale skin of his hips. Although Lassiter’s suit was more modest than what the other swimmers were wearing. Shawn couldn’t take his eyes off it. He set his smoothie down on the terrace.

“Save my seat,” he said. “I’ll be back in a minute.”

“It’s a bad idea, Shawn,” Gus said, barely audibly. He didn’t know if Shawn heard him, but he was pretty sure it wouldn’t have made a difference either way.

Chuck blew his whistle and the racers dove in and swam toward the raft with strong strokes. Carlton came in third. He probably could have pushed himself more, but the goal was to fit in as a participant, not win prizes. He put both hands on the dock and pulled himself smoothly out of the water.

“Can I offer you one of these delightfully fluffy one hundred percent cotton towels?”

Lassiter took the towel and wiped the water from his head and face. Once his eyes were clear he looked down to see Shawn Spencer, dressed in a tiny swimsuit and open terrycloth robe. The sight of Spencer almost naked was enthralling; too much so. He wrapped the towel around his waist and did a quick assessment of his surroundings. Most of the swimmers had moved up to the terrace where employees were handing out robes, towels and drinks. He and Shawn were almost alone on the dock.

“You’re getting some grey there, Lassie. Pretty soon you’ll look like the abominable snowman. Do they make Grecian Formula for chest hair? I bet some of the guys here would know.” Shawn ran a finger playfully down Lassiter’s chest, toward his swimsuit.

“Stop touching me!” Lassiter slapped Shawn’s hand away. A few heads had turned in his direction at the outburst and he lowered his voice accordingly. “What are you doing here, Spencer?”

“Who is this Spencer person you speak of? I’m Joseph P. Brennar and that,” he waved to Gus, who pointedly ignored him, “is my partner, John Kimble. He teaches kindergarten and I work for the Chicago mafia. What’s your cover story?”

“I’m Booker Lasswell, a history professor on sabbatical.” Carlton was proud of his choice of cover story. He knew enough about the Civil War period to pass in most situations, and being on sabbatical enabled him to claim that he worked at an obscure and distant university.

“I like the Lasswell part,” Shawn said. “It means I can still call you Lassie. But Booker? Like Booker T and the MGs? Where’d you come up with that?”

“If you must know, it’s a nickname my mother calls me.” Lassiter crossed his arms and straightened his stance. He would accept no teasing about his name.

“I got a small plastic parachutist stuck in my nose once and had to go to the hospital to get it removed.”

“And how is that relevant?” His forehead creased in irritation and confusion.

“Sorry,” Shawn said. “I thought this was the part of camp where we share embarrassing childhood stories.”

Lassiter sighed. “It’s easier to remember an alias if it’s something you’re already trained to respond to.” He smiled at Shawn without using his eyes. “Once again, if you were a real detective, you’d know that.” He scooped up his clothes, walked past him and joined the others on the terrace.

“Ouch,” Shawn said to himself. Lassiter might be giving him the cold shoulder now, but he was pretty sure that would change if he got Lassiter alone long enough. And a weekend could be a very long time.

***

The lighting was low, highlighted only by accent candles. Relaxing music flooded the room from hidden speakers. Shawn lay back in a reclining chair, his face covered in a fruit-scented chemical exfoliant and cucumbers resting coldly against his eyelids. He had just had an amazing 20 minute massage from Barry, the resort masseur, and he was now enjoying a facial and manicure with Tanya, the esthetician. Tanya adjusted her spotlight onto Shawn’s hands and began using an orangewood stick on his cuticles. Shawn noticed that she had a bandage on her wrist. It could be a suicide attempt, but he was pretty sure it had a more larcenous origin.

“Is this your first time at Casa de Orgullo?” she asked.

“Yeah,” Shawn said. “I usually like to do St. Moritz at this time of year. The skiing is great. At night we make this treat out of chocolate, marshmallows and Ritz crackers. I call them Smoritzes.”

“Sounds terrific,” she said with forced enthusiasm. She applied a moisturizer to his hands and began to massage it in. “You know what would be great for you? This new nail strengthener I just got. Give me a minute to find it.”

She released his hand and moved across to the other side of the room. Based on the sound of cotton shuffling, and the direction from which it was coming, Shawn was pretty sure she was rifling through his clothes.

Interesting, he thought. I may have found our thief already.

Shawn wasn’t worried about Tanya blowing his cover. All she was going to find in that wallet, apart from money and coupons for $5 off a double order of Jerk Chicken at Kingston’s, was his fake identification in the name of Joseph Brennar. Considering that most of his knowledge of forgery came from watching the Rockford Files, the end result was pretty convincing. His real wallet was back in his room, hidden in the battery compartment of the radio.

“Have you worked here long?” Shawn asked.

“Only a week. I worked at a salon in Santa Barbara before that.” Her voice was distracted.

Obviously, he thought, she’s engrossed in my belongings. Or maybe she’s jotting down the numbers on my fake credit cards.

“Nice town, Santa Barbara,” Shawn said, “what brought you to this isolated post?”

“I needed to get out of the city. Go somewhere relaxing. Rebecca, the hospitality hostess, told me about the job opening here and I applied.” Shawn remembered Rebecca, a small brunette with freckles and a friendly smile. She had checked them in when he and Gus arrived.

“So you’re in charge of the spa then?” Shawn asked.

“It’s a small staff. I do everything from run the spa to unclog the toilets.” Shawn heard the sound of paper rustling. She’s counting the money in my wallet.

“Are you dating Rebecca?” His memory quickly scanned the room. There was a picture of her with Rebecca, but the composition was tight on their faces and the background was just a beige cement wall. It could have been taken anywhere.

“No.” Her voice was amused, but slightly too forceful.

Either she really doesn’t like Rebecca, Shawn thought, or she isn’t into girls at all.

“Rebecca’s not too bright. But she’s a pushover, so if you need any favours while you’re here, she’s the one to ask.” His clothing shuffled again.

She’s putting the wallet back. I wonder how much is left in it.

“I am seeing someone,” she said, “but they’re stuck in Santa Barbara at the moment.”

A-ha! She’s playing the pronoun game. Given that we’re at a gay resort that can only mean she’s seeing a boy.

“Oh! Here’s that nail strengthener!” Tanya grabbed a container from the countertop. It was where it had been since Shawn had walked in: behind the nail polish remover and next to the buffing crème.

“So, Tanya, give me the run-down on the guys who work here,” Shawn asked. Some insight on her fellow employees could come in handy when he had his psychic vision and revealed her as the thief.

“Andy’s in charge of housekeeping. You’ll meet him soon if you haven’t already.” She sat in her chair and began applying the strengthener to Shawn’s nails. “He’s the freckled redhead who brings you towels or extra pillows. He’s handy with tools, too and does general repairs. Andy’s dating Raj. He’s the lifeguard and he takes care of the boats and the dock. He’s gorgeous, but don’t let Andy catch you flirting with him. Raj cheated on him last summer and he’s a little paranoid about it now.”

“There’s Barry. He was your masseur, but he also takes care of the web site and all the electronics in the resort. Barry’s single, in case you care.”

“I’m involved at the moment,” Shawn said, thinking of Lassie, not Gus.

“It never hurts to keep your options open,” Tanya said. “Let’s get you out of that peel now.”

***

That evening all thirty of the GORN members, now fully dressed, sat in the dining room enjoying the first course of their meal—a choice between clam chowder or potato leek soup. Shawn had spoken to Rebecca Martin, the hospitality hostess, and arranged to have her seat him and Gus near Lassiter. Lassiter took one look at the table and moved his chair so Gus was between him and Shawn. The other people at the table looked at him oddly.

Stare all you like, Lassiter thought. At least this way I won’t have to worry about fending off any under-the-table games of footsie. Or thighsie. Or crotchsie.

The other three seats at their table were occupied by a man in his thirties named Clark and a lesbian couple in their twenties named Juanita and Barb. Clark had gotten the ball rolling by introducing himself and mentioning that he wrote horror novels for a living.

“Did you write The Unmarked Grave?” Gus asked.

“Yes,” Clark said, pleased to have his work recognized. “You’ve read it?”

“No, Gus said. “But I saw the cover in a bookstore and it gave me nightmares for a week.”

“Uh, thanks, I think.” Clark adjusted his glasses and turned to Lassiter.

“My name is Booker Lasswell,” Lassiter said. “I’m a history professor specializing in the Civil War period.”

“Was that you I saw teaching calculus to Lou Diamond Philips?” Shawn asked.

“No, that wasn’t me,” Lassiter said, looking sharply at Shawn. “Like I said, I teach history.”

Was Spencer going to pull this shit the whole weekend? People were going to wonder if they knew each other.

“Do you know a history teacher named Ralph Hinkley?” Shawn asked. “Because I have an instruction booklet that belongs to him.”

“The Civil War sounds like an interesting specialization,” Clark said.

“So basically,” Shawn said, “you focus on a period of history where all the men were crowded together away from all the women. Interesting.”

Oh, so now my interest in the Civil War is some kind of evidence of my repressed homosexuality?

“It wasn’t just men,” Lassiter said. “There were hookers that would follow the troops. Lieutenant Colonel Spaulding created the country’s first legal prostitution system trying to deal with them all.”

“So it wasn’t a big gay lovefest then?” Clark asked, amused.

“No,” Lassiter said. “Although Confederate president Jefferson Davis was dressed as a woman when he was arrested. But it was an attempt at disguise. He didn’t normally…that is, he wasn’t a …a transvestite.”

“Good to know,” Shawn said. “Slave-holding redneck, certainly. But not a transvestite.”

“There were a few transvestites in the war,” Lassiter said. “But they were women dressed as men.” He turned to Gus. “But don’t let me prattle on all day. I believe it’s your turn.”

“My name is Gus, and I work in pharmaceuticals. This is my partner, Joe.” He turned to glare at Shawn, who glared back. All the way from Santa Barbara, Shawn had laid out the cover story he had built for them. But Gus insisted on playing himself.

“My name is Joseph Brennar,” Shawn said. “Call me Joe. I like pineapple, long walks on the beach and writing Barney Miller slash fiction.” He smiled a welcome at the woman next to him.

“I’m Juanita, and this is my wife, Barbara. She just immigrated here. Barb speaks mostly German, so if she seems quiet, it’s not because she’s ignoring you.”

“Oh.” Shawn turned to Barbara. “Ich heisse Joseph Brennar, nenne mich aber ruhig Joe. Ich mag Ananas, lange Spaziergänge am Strand und schreibe gerne Barney Miller Slash-Romanzen."

Barb laughed and spoke briefly in German. Shawn turned back to the group. “Barb says she’s a computer programmer, but that doesn’t mean that she won’t kick all your asses in capture the flag tomorrow.”

“How is it that you speak German?” Lassiter asked.

Shawn waved a hand, as if it were nothing. “I picked up some words from watching David Hasselhoff in Dodgeball.”

“So how do you ladies feel about GORN?” Clark asked Juanita and Barb. “I’d have thought the name alone would be off-putting for women. Or do you identify as gay instead of lesbian?”

“We’re not really into politics,” Juanita said. “We like a good game of baseball. With GORN we don’t have to play with a bunch of homophobes.”

“And if we tried to add lesbian and bisexual then we couldn’t pronounce the name, could we? “ Clark said. “It gets even worse if we try to add the TTIQ.”

“GQ-TILT-BORN,” Shawn said. His tablemates stared at him, slightly confused. “What? I think it sounds interesting. And fashionable. Or you could say QuILTT-B-GORN. But that sounds like a product to get rid of unwanted comforters.”

“I don’t have a lot of time for politics,” Juanita said.

“Politics has its uses,” Clark said. “Remember what Stonewall taught us.”

“Would that be never retreat,” Lassiter asked, “or the benefits of relentless drilling and rapid troop movement?” Although it could just as easily be not to approach your own side in the dark or the importance of early treatment in cases of pneumonia.

“Nice one, Lassie,” Shawn laughed. “But I think he means Stonewall the bar.”

“I haven’t been to that bar.”

“Hey, how about this camp thing?” Shawn changed the subject. “Anyone else here been to camp before?”

“I went to writing camp as a kid,” Clark said. “But it didn’t have sports. I only got into that recently. How about you, Joe?”

“I did go to camp as a child,” Shawn said. “I try not to think about what happened at Camp Arawak, although Angela and I are still penpals. I was her date for senior prom.”

“He’s joking,” Gus said.

“I like the sports angle,” Shawn said. “I’m just hoping we can beat those snobs across the lake at Camp Mohawk.”

“A Meatballs reference? “ Gus gave him a sharp look. “Really? Are you trying to get that awful song stuck in my head again? You know how long it takes me to get rid of that. I had to push it out using the Macarena.”

They glared at one another as the wait staff came to take their dishes and serve their entrees.
***
Early the next morning Lassiter sat on the end of the dock, Sak-Hart fishing rod in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.

“Mind if I join you?”

Lassiter looked up to see Clark, the horror writer.

“Please do.”

Clark pulled a pack of Marlboros out of his breast pocket and offered one to Carlton, who declined.

“I don’t blame you. I’m trying to quit but I still like to have a few puffs to start the day. I actually look forward to it.” He looked at the cigarette thoughtfully. “Why do I love something that I know is bad for me?”

If I knew the answer to that, Lassiter thought, I’d have taken care of this Spencer problem by now.

“Are you having a good time?” he asked. With all his years on the police force, he could tell when someone wanted to talk. Of course that someone was usually a criminal being held in an interrogation room, but the principle was still the same.

“I don’t know. This whole weekend is a little weird for me,” Clark said. He leaned against a bollard and lit his cigarette.

“How so?”

“My boyfriend made me go. He says I need to connect with my gay culture.”

“And you’re not? Connected, that is?”

“We’ve only been dating for seven months. I don’t feel gay the way he does. I mean, I accept that our relationship is gay. But it’s just weird thinking of myself as gay.”

“Yeah,” Lassiter agreed. “It’s like there should be some other word for it.”

“I’ve tried thinking of myself as bisexual, or pansexual, or queer, but I just don’t see why there has to be a word for me just because I’m with a guy now. I’m exactly the same as I was before. I’m just…”

“Gayish?” Lassiter suggested.

“Yeah.” Clark laughed as he exhaled smoke. “I’m gayish.” He took another drag on the cigarette. “Maybe it’s just the timing. Hell, my divorce from my ex-wife just became final.”

“Really? Mine too.” Normally when he went undercover Lassiter didn’t share personal details. But this one seemed safe enough. It would be perfectly reasonable for a gay history professor to have an ex-wife.

“Oh, sorry to hear that,” Clark said. “Was it a happy marriage?”

“I thought so,” Carlton looked off across the lake. “But apparently I was wrong.”

“I know what you mean,” Clark said. “Are you seeing anyone now?”

It suddenly occurred to Lassiter that Clark might be flirting with him. He probably thought Lassiter was interested. He’d moved his chair last night to avoid Spencer and sat next to Clark. It might have looked like he was initiating something. He’d have to pretend to be involved.

“I am sort of seeing someone.” Think of Spencer as a boyfriend and just answer the questions. That way it’ll seem natural and not like you’re just making it all up.
“It’s complicated,” Lassiter added. “We work together.” It was only now that he realized he welcomed the opportunity to tell someone about the Spencer situation.

“Is he in the department?” Clark asked.

“What?” Lassiter felt his spine stiffen as adrenaline shot through his system. Did he know?

“The history department?” Clark asked hesitantly. “You’re a history professor, right?”

“Oh. Yeah. No, he’s not in the department. Well, sort of. He’s more of a consultant.”

“That’s tough,” Clark said sympathetically. “If it doesn’t work out then you’ve pissed in your own swimming pool,” he gestured with the cigarette, “figuratively speaking.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it. I’ve put a lot of work into getting where I am. I could be, uh, head of the department someday. Unless, of course, I get outed at work.”

“That’s the great thing about being a writer,” Clark said. “As long as my books scare the hell out of people and sell like crazy nobody cares about my personal life. I can’t be fired.”

“It’s not that I’d be fired,” Lassiter explained. He was pretty sure that Vick wouldn’t care. “I just don’t want everybody knowing my personal business. I have no intention of being the topic of water cooler gossip.”

“What’s he like?” Clark asked. “This sort-of boyfriend of yours?”

Lassiter took a sip of his coffee and surprised himself by telling the truth.

“He’s brilliant, young, and good looking. To tell you the truth I wonder why he’s even interested in me.”

“Don’t sell yourself short there, Booker.” Clark said, stubbing his half-smoked cigarette out on the post. “Remember, I’ve seen you in a bathing suit.”

***

O’Hara and Lassiter met up in Lassiter’s room after lunch, while the others were out playing capture-the flag. Shawn hadn’t been invited to the briefing, but he showed up anyway. Lassiter stood near the door. O’Hara leaned against the writing desk, perusing a file folder, while Shawn splayed himself across Lassiter’s bed.

“Please,” he said sarcastically to Shawn, “Make yourself at home.”

“Thanks.” Shawn said. He adjusted the pillows and leaned into them, moaning exaggeratedly. It was disturbing and slightly arousing. Lassiter tried to keep his back to Spencer, focussing on O’Hara.

“Where are we on this missing watch?”

“I just got the background checks on the employees,” O’Hara said. “This place is chock full of suspects.”

“Great,” Lassiter said, “we’ll be stuck here for weeks.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing, Lassie.” Lassiter glanced over at him. Shawn was bouncing up and down, testing the mattress.

“It’s not as big a task as it seems,” O’Hara said. “Only five employees were here for all the thefts.”

“So who’s at the top of the list?” he asked.

“Rebecca Martin, hospitality hostess. She worked here for five years, left for six months, then came back. She told everyone that she needed the time off to take care of her sick grandmother, but she actually spent it in county jail. The thefts started about four months ago and really escalated over the past month. I say she’s our best suspect.”

“Terrific,” Lassiter said. “Let’s talk to her. Where is she?”

“It’s her day off,” O’Hara said. “Nobody’s seen her all morning. She doesn’t have a car. She may have taken the bus into town, but she can’t go more than fifty miles away or be gone for more than 48 hours without checking in with her parole officer. He’s promised to call if he hears from her.”

“She’s probably already in Mexico or Canada,” Lassiter muttered. “Of course if she has done a runner that’s a pretty clear sign of guilt. Who else is a suspect?”

“Tanya Becker. She’s the beautician here. She’s on parole as well. She did a year for petty theft.”

“I think she did it,” Shawn said, bounding off the bed. “There’s something fishy about her. Her aura’s all wonky. Plus, she did a good job on my manicure, but look what she did to my pores.” He moved in close to Lassiter, who backed away quickly.

“See Spencer, this is where actual police work is better than picking suspects based on crystal balls or horoscopes. We did our homework. She wasn’t present for all the thefts.”

“Maybe she liked stealing from here so much she got herself hired.”

“That makes no sense whatsoever.” He turned to O’Hara. “Is there anyone working here who isn’t a criminal?”

“There’s Andrew, he oversees the cabins. Everyone calls him Andy. He doesn’t have a record. And there’s his husband, Raj, who’s the lifeguard and fishing guide. As far as I can tell he’s just a guy who really loves watersports.”

Shawn snickered and O’Hara and Lassiter looked at him sharply.

“Sorry. You said watersports.”

“You know what?” Lassiter said. “Get out of here.” He pointed to the door.

“Okay, fine.” Shawn raised a hand in surrender and walked to the door. “But when I solve the case I’d appreciate it if you could gather everyone in the lounge. I like to do my wrap-ups Murder She Wrote style.”

***

Shawn and Gus were in their room. Gus was picking out warmer clothes for the evening. Shawn was perusing the GORN events schedule.

“According to this we have our choice between board games in the dining room or a marshmallow roast at the fire pit,” Shawn said. “That’s perfect. While everyone’s occupied we can search the beautician’s room for evidence.”

“You go ahead,” Gus said. “I have to be at the campfire pit in fifteen minutes. I’ve organized a Broadway sing-along.”

“What?” Shawn looked at Gus with confusion. “Who are you? And what have you done with Gus?”

“It’s part of my cover.” Gus began applying copious amounts of insect repellent to his long-sleeved shirt.

“Right. And you just happen to know the words to Shy and A Girl Named Fred?”

“Those lyrics are common knowledge, Shawn. Once Upon A Mattress was a very popular show.”

“This sucks.” Shawn threw up his arms in protest. “You’re having more fun being gay than I am.”

“Maybe that’s because I’m doing things I enjoy that actually have a chance of working out and you’re trying to seduce a straight cop who would rather shoot you than kiss you?”

“Well you’re wrong there. He’s already kissed me. Several times. It’s the running away afterward that he needs to work on.”

“I did not need that mental image, thank-you very much.” He picked up his flashlight. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have a sing-along to run.” He exited, leaving Shawn alone.

Minutes later, dressed in a black t-shirt and pants, Shawn walked casually along the paved path to Tanya Becker’s cabin. He let himself in with a key he’d lifted from the reservations desk while schmoozing with Jules. He switched on the overhead light and took a quick glance around. It was rustic, but comfortable. Most of the personal items were strewn carelessly across the dresser. He flipped through a stack of mail, mostly credit card statements and love letters. Whoever was writing to Tanya needed a crash course in the difference between romance and porn, but what could he expect from somebody named Rod? He looked at the bills. She had maxed out her cards with cash advances. He made a mental note to work that into his vision. A financial crunch was a good motive for the thefts. The sound of crunching gravel alerted him that someone was coming along the pathway. He dropped the mail and looked around for a place to hide. Under the bed was too obvious, plus in the movies the hero was always trapped there while the badguy had loud sex above him. He ran into the bathroom.

Tanya was home. She was talking loudly into her cell and didn’t even notice the light was on. Shawn put his ear to the door but he could only catch bits of the conversation.

“I miss you,” she said in a babyish voice.

Great, Shawn thought. Talking to her boyfriend was not the kind of incriminating evidence he’d been hoping for.

“…I’ve got twenty, and I’m waiting to hear on another ten….”

This sounds promising. Of course she could be talking dollars or Pokemon cards.

“I promise, it’s only a matter of time before I get you out of there.”

Shawn frowned. Maybe her boyfriend was in jail, and she was planning to meet up with him. The more he thought about it the more he was sure she was their thief. But suspicious conversations weren’t going to cut it. He needed something that Juliet and Lassiter would accept as evidence.

“Hang in there, baby. Love you. Bye.” Shawn tensed. Footsteps approached the bathroom and he launched himself behind the door. Tanya came in, washed her face, and applied some kind of clay masque. Shawn remained perfectly still, breathing shallow, hoping she wouldn’t close the door. He looked around the small room. There was one window.

The moment Tanya left the room Shawn was at the window. He slid the frame up and wriggled through, his hips just barely clearing the narrow span. He stumbled away from the cabin, tripping over a coiled hose and rolling across the lawn. He lay sprawled on the grass and caught his breath. He stood up and dusted himself off. There wasn’t any more he could do here; she was clearly in for the night. He may as well go back to the GORN group.

Then, moving through the darkness, he saw something more interesting than either Broadway songs or Trivial Pursuit.

***

Lassiter, Maglight in hand, moved stealthily across the dark resort grounds toward Rebecca Martin’s cabin. Most of the GORN folks were inside, playing board games or at the campfire on the opposite side of the property. He was pretty sure he had slipped away without anyone noticing.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Shawn’s voice whispered hoarsely into his right ear.

Lassiter jumped. “Jesus, Spencer! You scared the hell out of me. What are you doing here?”

“I’m following you. I thought that was obvious.” He gestured toward the cabin. “Should you be doing this?”

“We don’t need a warrant,” Lassiter said. “Martin’s on parole. Penal Code Section 3067. Parolees are subject to search or seizure by a peace officer—”

“I know. I know,” Shawn said. He’d had the damn thing memorized since he was fourteen. “I mean should you risk blowing your cover? Jules could be delivering towels or something.”

“I’m not here to have fun, Spencer. This is my job. I just have to be discreet about it.” Besides, Juliet was gathering more background on Tanya. Shawn might be annoying, but he was often annoyingly right.

Lassiter let himself in with the master key that Tim Rodriguez had supplied them, and Shawn followed after him. The detective donned gloves and began to quickly search the places people usually hid incriminating evidence – the underwear drawer, the nightstand, under the mattress. He came up empty. He frowned at the dark cabin. Tim had assured them that he hadn’t alerted the staff to their assignment, but maybe he’d let something slip. If she thought the cops were on her trail she might have taken any evidence away with her. He played his light across the room. Maybe he should try the desk.

He flipped open a jewellery box that sat on the top of the dresser.

“Well what have we here?” Lassiter said triumphantly, holding up a necklace. Shawn recognized it from the list of stolen items.

“There’s no way you found anything. Lemme see that,” Shawn hurried over.

Lassiter held the necklace up, out of his reach. Shawn stepped in close and tried to grab it.

“This is my evidence, Spencer, go find your own.”

Shawn’s keen ears picked up the sound of footsteps coming up to the front door. He grabbed Lassiter by the back of the head and pulled him into a kiss. Lassiter was momentarily frozen in shock. Shawn’s arm slipped around his waist and held him firmly as his hips gound into him. Lassiter made a low groan and dropped his arms to Shawn’s waist, unsure if he was going to push him away or pull him closer. Almost immediately they were bathed in a blinding light as Andy switched on the overhead.

“What’s going on in here?” He stood frozen by the door with an armload of colourful quilts.

“Oh, Andy, hey.” Shawn stepped back from Lassiter and used the back of his hand to wipe his lips. “What are you doing here?”

“I’m returning some quilts to Rebecca.” He put them on a chair and turned back to Shawn and Lassiter. “What’s going on?”

“It’s not what it looks like,” Lassiter said. He quickly slipped the necklace into a pocket. He was sure Andy hadn’t seen it, but the last thing he wanted was to be accused of pilfering from the staff cabins.

Andy looked from one of them to the other then smiled at Shawn with an unconvincing grin.

“Can I have a word with you outside?” he asked.

“Sure,” Shawn said. “Just give me a minute.”

Andy stepped outside, casting a sharp look over his shoulder at Shawn.

“What the hell, Spencer?” Lassiter said.

“Well, what would you rather be caught doing, sneaking a bite of the nookie cookie or ransacking the cabin of one of his fellow employees?”

“I’m thinking about it. Give me a minute.” He ran a hand over his hair. “You’re right. You’re right.”

“I know I am.” Shawn stepped outside. Andy was leaning against the cabin, his arms folded and his brow furrowed.

“Andy!” Shawn smiled his most charming smile. “What’s up?”

“Save it Joe. I know what I saw.”

“No, see that was, uh, he was…” Shawn feigned embarrassment.

“I don’t know what you think you’re doing,” Andy said. “But Gus really cares about you. And I’d hate to see you throw that away for a fling with Booker.”

“I appreciate your concern. And you’re right. Gus and I have a very special bond. I would never do anything to risk that.”

“Good. I’d hate to see anyone get hurt.” Andy stepped close to Shawn and leaned in. “And just so we’re clear, you so much as touch my man and someone will get hurt.”

“Understood. I’m glad we talked.”

Shawn waited for Andy to leave then went back inside the cabin.

“Everything okay?” Lassiter asked.

“We’re good. He’s convinced I’m a total whore. He didn’t even wonder how we got in here.”

The light on, Lassiter turned off his Maglight and quickly sorted through the papers on Rebecca Martin’s desk. Shawn, seeing that Lassiter wasn’t going to resume their clutch, joined the search by half-heartedly opening drawers and picking things up off shelves. To his sharp eye the room revealed a series of facts about Rebecca Martin: she played tennis, she loved Jodie Foster, she donated money to a foster child in Togo, she didn’t have many friends, and she was taking Paxil. He shuffled through a pile of photos on her dresser. Several were of her and Tanya, only these ones were obviously taken in front of the Santa Barbara county jail.

Shawn was pretty sure that necklace had been planted. He continued to be sure right up to the point when he opened the closet and found himself looking at Rebecca Martin’s body, hanging by her neck from a belt attached to the clothes bar.

“This looks like a confession,” Lassiter was engrossed in one of the letters he’d found on the desk. “I think we’ve found our thief.”

“Actually,” Shawn said, “I think I found your thief. It looks like Timmy’s not the only one in the closet.”

Lassiter dropped the letter he’d been reading onto the desk and hurried over.

“Well so much for keeping things discreet.” He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. A dead body, even if it was a suicide as this one appeared to be, meant forensics people, uniforms, and probably press attention. He could see that future Chief’s job melting away.

“Unless…” Shawn said, “you just want to pop her into a freezer and pretend we never came in here?”

“Don’t even tempt me.” Lassiter pulled out his cellphone and called O’Hara.

Three hours later Lassiter had talked to O’Hara, Tim Rodriguez, Chief Vick, the coroner, and the Santa Barbara Country Sheriff’s Department. The coroner and forensics people had agreed to come in quietly, do their thing and leave before morning. The sheriff’s department, after a call from the mayor, begrudgingly handed the case off to the SBPD. As far as Lassiter was concerned, the case was pretty much closed. The evidence of the letter and the necklace was pretty damning, but the Chief wanted him and O’Hara to stay on location until the coroner’s report confirmed suicide. Lassiter felt relieved. It looked like the case was closed.