by Sarah Atwell
Ah. The bait. Making pretty lamp shades for the big cheese, while Maddy got all the glory. There must be more to it than that. “I assume he’ll pay for this?”
“Of course he will.” She mentioned a figure; I swallowed hard. For that amount of money, I might even make glass Mickey Mouses. Mice. Whatever.
But I’d still be stuck working with Miss Maddy, and it would probably eat up a lot of my time—time that might be better spent working on my own pieces. On the other hand, if the publicity was good . . . “There will be some press coverage, I assume?”
Did she look relieved? “Of course. I’m sorry, I thought you would assume that. Your name would definitely be associated with this project, and it will be highly visible, I assure you—in the right circles.”
It was tempting, particularly those dollar signs, but I still wasn’t convinced. “Maddy, before I sign on for anything, I want to talk to the guy, get his take on what he wants, scope out how much work this would take. I don’t know if I want to get involved if it’s going to eat up huge chunks of my time.” Or if he wanted me to turn out dreck.
She stared into space, as if thinking. It must have been painful, based on her expression. Finally she answered. “I think that could be arranged. Are you free tomorrow?”
Now it was my turn to be surprised. “He’s in town now?” I hadn’t seen any mention in the press, but then, I didn’t have a lot of time to read the papers, much less watch the local news.
Maddy nodded solemnly. “Don’t say anything—he’s trying to keep a low profile. He comes and goes, since the house isn’t quite livable yet, but he wants it finished within a few months. And he’s very hands-on. He wants to know what’s going into the house, down to the smallest detail.”
That could spell trouble, I reflected. If—and it was still a big if—I agreed to do this, I would insist on artistic control of my own products. No way was I going to turn out crap just to make Peter Ferguson happy, especially if it was going to get any publicity. But I decided to reserve judgment until I had met and talked to the man.
Whoa, Em. How cool is this? A one-on-one with a national figure, one who had more money than God, or at least the Vatican. Something to talk about, whether or not I took the job. Sure, I’d be happy to meet the guy, at least this once.
“I think I can clear my schedule for tomorrow, Maddy. What time?”
“Shall we say morning? Ideally you’ll have to see the place at different times of day, so you can see how the light falls, but I want you to have an idea of the space. And talk to Peter, of course. Let me tell you, he has a good eye. Oh, and I should drive. I don’t know if you could get in.”
I was afraid she would ask me to wear a blindfold next. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff seemed kind of silly to me—we’ve had celebrities and millionaires in Tucson for quite awhile, and they always kept a low profile.
“One condition, Maddy: I get to tell my brother Cam.” When she started to protest, I went on. “He’s completely trustworthy. And if he learns that I’ve met with Peter Ferguson without telling him, there’ll be hell to pay, and I’ve got to live with him the rest of my life. Deal?”
“Deal,” Maddy said reluctantly. “But no one else—not your shop people or your customers. Agreed?”
“Agreed.” I figured there was no point in telling her about Matt, who just happened to be Tucson’s chief of police, if she didn’t already know. And since I wasn’t even sure I’d be going through with this, I didn’t need to fill him in yet.
“Good.” She was definitely relieved now. “I’ll swing by about ten, all right?” She raised her glass. “To a rewarding collaboration.”
I raised mine in response, feeling a small tingle of excitement. If I could keep any control over my part in this project, it might even be fun—especially if I got to hobnob with someone of Peter Ferguson’s stature. Apparently I was a groupie at heart. “Hear, hear.”
Chapter 2
Maddy and I parted ways outside El Saguaro, after she had generously picked up the tab. I walked back slowly, turning over what she had said. Something still didn’t feel right. Why would a computer mogul worth millions pick artsy dabbler Madelyn Sheffield to execute an important commission? How had they even crossed paths? I’d have to ask—if I decided to get involved at all.
Still, if I was honest with myself, I was excited about the prospect of meeting someone of Peter Ferguson’s reputation, up close and personal. I didn’t hang out with a lot of celebrities, so it would be a new experience. That still didn’t mean I would agree to Maddy’s proposition. I took my work seriously, and I wouldn’t compromise it just for the glamor of the gig. After all, what good was terrific publicity if the product was trash?
As I approached my shop I could see that the interior lights were off, so Nessa had closed up and gone home, as she’d said she might. That was fine with me: She knew the business as well as I did, and there was no point wasting time on a slow day. Besides, I was itching to go home and call Cam to fill him in on my prospective brush with computer stardom.
I climbed the exterior staircase to my apartment above the shop. I had purchased the building more than ten years earlier, before the Tucson arts scene had taken off. It had been a risky investment at the time, but now I could pat myself on the back for a brilliant business decision. Right. At the time I had been scared to death, and the decrepit building was the only place I could afford that had both viable work and sales space as well as living space. I had done most of the rehab of the former factory by myself, and I was happy with the results.
As I unlocked my door, my doggie welcoming committee surged forward to greet me: Fred, who took his role as alpha male seriously, and Gloria, who was willing to wait for her share of affection while Fred ran in circles around my ankles. He tried to boss her, she mothered him, and I adored them both.
“Hey, guys, you ready for a walk?” Tails wagged in unison. I grabbed two leads, picked them up, and headed back downstairs. We spent a productive fifteen minutes investigating all the new smells around the trash cans in the alley behind the shop. I dutifully picked up the doggie by-products in plastic bags, deposited them in the trash, and then hoisted the pups one under each arm and carried them up the stairs.
“Food time.” More excited dashing in circles. I scooped out some wet food and laid it down. Finally, duty done, I went to the phone to call my brother.
My brother is the dearest person in the world to me. Our parents are both dead, but they had never been warm and fuzzy types, and as a result Cam and I had formed a tight bond. Eight years younger than I, Cam had been a quiet, studious boy, and had suffered the usual slights that nerds seem to attract. I had done all that I could to encourage him in his academic interests, and when, like so many of his species, he had discovered the wonderful world of computers, I had heaved a sigh of relief. He had been moderately successful with the environmental analyses that his California company was renowned for; and he was still unattached, even though he was a sweet and considerate man. At least, I thought so, but I have to admit I’m slightly biased. I had just begun to worry about him when he fell head over heels for Allison McBride on short acquaintance. I had no problem with that, since I admired Allison and considered her a friend. But rather than latch on to him, Allison was taking time to find out who she really was, which frustrated my brother no end. I was caught in the middle: I applauded her choice, but I ached for Cam. Still, I held on to the hope that things would work out for them in the long run.
I hit his speed-dial button. He answered on the second ring. “Cameron Dowell.”
“Hey, brother of mine—why so formal?”
“Oh, hi, Em—I didn’t look at the ID. I was working on a piece of code and I guess my head is in work mode. To what do I owe the honor of this call?”
“Hey, I call you regularly, don’t I?” I struggled to remember the last time and gave up. “Anyway, I’ve got something really neat to tell you. Only you can’t tell anyone else.”
“O
kay. Besides, I talk to about three humans a week, and I don’t think they know what a conversation is. What’s up?”
“Peter Ferguson is living in Tucson and I’m going to meet him tomorrow.”
Cam’s silence went on so long I was beginning to wonder if he’d passed out.
“You there?”
“What? Oh, sure. Hey, that’s really interesting. The whole cyber community has been wondering what happened to him. After he bailed out of PrismCo he sort of disappeared. So he’s in Tucson? For keeps?”
“I think so. Apparently he’s building a house, or fixing one up—that’s why I’m going over there.” Funny, I had expected more enthusiasm from my brother. “You don’t sound very excited. Is there something I should know?”
More silence. Then Cam said slowly, “I’m not sure. How much do you know about him?”
“Not much. I know the name, and the name PrismCo. He founded the company, right?”
“Yeah. He was a real pioneer, and he had . . . has a very creative mind. But . . .”
His reluctance was driving me crazy. “But what? Come on, spill it.”
“There were some bad feelings when he left PrismCo. Like he took his profits out, and the company just imploded. It’s not really clear whether his leaving was cause or effect, but there were some unhappy people. What’s he want you to do for him?”
“Actually, it was Madelyn Sheffield who brought me in. You remember her? She does stained-glass, um, art.”
“Spacy blonde with ruffles? I think so. I didn’t think you two were buddies.”
I snorted. “We’re not. But she came to me and asked me to help. I haven’t said yes, but I’ll admit I’m curious to meet the man. I can still back out, if something smells.”
“If you want my opinion, make sure you get paid up front.”
That piqued my curiosity. “Why? Does this guy have a reputation for stiffing people?”
“I’d hate to go that far, but there’s something not right there. What does he want you to do?”
“Maddy tells me he collects stained-glass pieces, and he wants to showcase them in his house. She wants help with the lighting, or so she says. I get the feeling she’s scared to death of blowing the job and wants some backup. I said I’d talk to the man, look at the place. I haven’t committed to anything yet.”
“Well, that sounds tame enough. Have fun. You can fill me in over the weekend.”
“You’re coming back again?”
“Why, you tired of me?”
“No, of course not, idiot. Does Allison know?”
“Yes.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he didn’t. “Okay, I’ll look forward to seeing you. The usual time?”
“I think so—Friday dinner, latish. Okay?”
“Better than okay. Then I can dish about the mysterious Peter Ferguson. But I’m teaching Saturday afternoon, remember. The usual beginners class, and some of my advanced students wanted some furnace time, and probably some hand-holding to go with it, so I’ll probably be down in the studio most of the day.”
“Not a problem. I’ll find something to keep me busy. See you Friday, then.”
After we hung up, I wondered how things with Allison were going. We had an unspoken pact not to talk about it, period. I had given my blessing early on, and now all I could do was wait and see what happened. Allison was thriving; Cam was chafing with impatience. But there was nothing I could do about it. I couldn’t even provide wise counsel, since my own romantic life was a mess, or at least had been.
When I first arrived in Tucson, I’d devoted 110 percent of my energy to getting the business started. When I came up for air, Police Chief Matt Lundgren had drifted into my life, through a friend of a friend. We had enjoyed an intense few months of a relationship, and then his so-called ex-wife had appeared out of nowhere, and I had run in the other direction and plunged back into my work. That had been status quo until the past summer, when Matt and I had been thrown back together by an investigation. Luckily the almost-ex was now completely ex, and we were back together again, a bit older and wiser, and more careful. I wasn’t sure where I wanted us to go, and we were taking it slowly. But all in all, I had no advice to dispense; I was as clueless as Cam when it came to relationships.
As promised, I was downstairs in the shop early the next morning to open up for the day. I looked up at nine forty-five to see Allison arrive.
“Good morning, Em,” she said cheerfully, hanging up her jacket.
“Same to you. I thought you’d be later than this. Your meeting go okay?”
“Grand. The professor’s a lovely man, just wanted to know would I be up to the reading.”
Allison was taking literature classes, satiating a long-suppressed hunger. “That’s good. So your schedule is set, now?”
“That it is. I’ll let Nessa know when she arrives. You’re dressed nicely—have you plans?”
The fact that she noticed that I had put on something special for my audience with the great Peter Ferguson made me wonder how bad I usually looked. “I’m meeting a possible client. You’ll be all right here on your own?”
“Of course.”
I hesitated before saying, “I talked to Cam last night.” I watched for her reaction.
Allison dimpled. “As did I. He’ll be here tomorrow, right?” Then she laughed. “Em, don’t look so worried. We’ll sort things out in good time. Just let me enjoy my freedom for a bit.”
“That’s what I keep telling him, but I think he saves all his patience for computer codes.”
Maddy chose that moment to make her entrance. She seemed fidgety. “Ready, Em? Oh, good morning, uh, Allison, is it?” Maddy’s eyes darted to me, asking if I’d spilled the beans already.
“Yes, I’m ready. Allison, I should be back by lunchtime.” I looked to Maddy for corroboration, but she shrugged. “Or later.”
“Don’t worry, Em—I’m sure I can manage. Madelyn, lovely to see you again.”
I suppressed a smile. Maddy was too oblivious to catch the sarcasm in Allison’s voice. As we approached Maddy’s car I asked, “Where are we going?”
“I told you—east, out past South Houghton Road.” Her curt response discouraged further questions.
I settled back in my seat and watched the scenery—being chauffeured was a luxury I seldom enjoyed. Tucson boasts several pockets of exclusive and prestigious homes, primarily in the Catalina Foothills to the north, with incredible views—and price tags in the millions. Of course, such houses were in high demand, and empty lots had filled up rapidly in the ten years I’d lived in the area. I was surprised that somebody with Peter Ferguson’s reputation—and money—hadn’t opted for the obvious location but had instead gone for a different but no less expensive enclave on another side of the city. Still, the views of Saguaro National Park should be impressive from there, and privacy was guaranteed. In any case, the people I hung out with were more like me—hardworking tradespeople who didn’t have a lot of money to spare, and I’d never had the privilege of visiting one of the spectacular homes. I was looking forward to the treat.
As we approached I could understand Ferguson’s decision to locate there. We reached the foothills and began climbing. Apart from the security that the neighborhood offered, the vistas sprawling below seemed to roll on forever, and most of the homes took full advantage of that. In fact, in concept it seemed almost a waste to interpose ornate glass barriers, no matter how rare and valuable. I was getting more and more curious about what approach our reclusive genius planned to take.
It was hard to see many of the houses, carefully concealed behind walls or deliberately chosen plantings, or just set far back from the roads. There were few other cars. Finally Maddy pulled up at the entrance to a long driveway and leaned out of the car to push a button on a discreet security box I hadn’t even noticed. When someone responded, she said, “Peter? We’re here.” Then she shut the window and began moving forward. I wondered about the absence of fencing, but realized
how out of place that would look here.
“What was that about? It’s not as though there’s a gate or a pack of dogs. Or is there? A pack, I mean?”
Maddy glanced quickly at me, then away. “There’s a security system. If it’s breached, alarms go off.”
I stared at her. “Is that really necessary? I mean, he hasn’t even moved in yet. Most homeowners around here settle for a house alarm and leave it at that.”
“Peter’s concerned about his collection. He just wants to be careful.” She didn’t volunteer anything further.
I studied the house as we neared it. Like so many of the homes in this exclusive neighborhood, it was a sprawling stucco affair, a curious blend of medieval castle and humble pueblo, stretched along the contour of the hill like a tawny sleeping cougar. Since we were approaching from below, I could see that most of this side—the one with the view— was made up of floor-to-ceiling windows. For a moment I thought irreverently how glad I was that I didn’t have to pay for heating or cooling a place like this: That cost was probably bigger than my entire household budget—for the decade.
Maddy pulled into a paved parking area around the side and shut off her engine. She turned to look at me critically, and I almost expected her to tell me to stand up straight and mind my manners. “Let me do the talking. If you have any questions you can ask me later. I just want you to get a sense of the layout, so you know what you’re working with.”
I bit back a snarky reply. What did she think I was—the hired help? “Okay,” I said, my voice tight. She gave me another look. Was she really nervous about having me here? Why?
We approached the front door, flanked by another low-key but complicated-looking security panel. Apparently Maddy knew it had been disarmed, because she went straight to the door and opened it. A rush of cool air poured out at us, and I was immediately sucked into the building by the promise of the view. Maddy looked annoyed as she pushed by me and called out, “Peter?”
