Ellen Svaco froze at the door. When she turned around, Gus was surprised to see there were no actual icicles hanging off her ears. “Excuse me?”

“That’s what you should have said if you wanted the police to take your case,” Shawn said. “An accusation of murder always gets their attention.”

“But there is no murder,” she said.

“Are you sure?” Shawn said. “Because that would be a hell of a case. Especially if you were the victim.”

“If I’d been the victim of a murder, how could I go to the police?”

“I have no idea, but it’s a great way to start a story,” Shawn said. “Gus, take a note in case someone ever wants to write a seemingly endless series of fictionalized accounts of our cases.”

“Maybe the fictional version of you won’t be an idiot,” Ellen said, turning back to the door.

“Yes, but would the fictional version of me know how to find your necklace?”

For the first time since she came through their door, Ellen Svaco didn’t appear to be suffering from stomach pains.

“What about my necklace?” she said dubiously, almost exactly at the same time as Gus.

“Not much,” Shawn said. “Just that you ordered the head detective of the Santa Barbara Police Department to find it for you.”

“I did go to the police station to request help in finding my necklace.”

Gus sighed and settled back in his seat. It looked like they were getting a client. “Where was the last place you saw it?” he asked.

Shawn held up a hand to stop her before she could respond. “If she knew that, she wouldn’t have come to a psychic-detective agency,” Shawn said. “A regular detective is perfectly capable of asking the same questions your mother did every time you lost your mittens.”

“I grew up in Santa Barbara,” Gus said. “I never had any mittens to lose.”

“Which made your perpetual search for them even more pathetic,” Shawn said, then turned back to Ellen Svaco. “I don’t want you to tell me anything. I just want you to think about the necklace. Think about how much it means to you, about all the good times you’ve had together.”