by Sarah Atwell
I took a deep breath. “Matt, I’m at Peter Ferguson’s. He’s dead.”
As chief of police, Matt had long since learned not to ask stupid questions. “You sure?”
“Yes, I’m sure he’s dead,” I said with some asperity. “The blood’s been dry for a while.” Actually I wasn’t sure how long, since the dry Arizona air sucks moisture out of everything—fast. I knew when I had last talked to him, but after that, it could have been any time. “I haven’t touched anything. At least not this time. Not even the body.”
Matt sighed. “Okay, stay there. I’ll get the team together.” After an infinitesimal pause, he added, “Are you all right?”
“I guess. Better than Peter, anyway.”
“We’ll be there in fifteen. Sit tight.” He rang off after getting the address from me.
I wished that I hadn’t known how a murder investigation worked, but at least I had friends in the right places. Matt was on his way, and he would figure this out. I stuffed my phone back into my bag. The initial shock had worn off, and I began to look around from my spot on the floor. That was when I realized that the glass panel that should have been in the room was gone.
That got me to my feet. I pivoted slowly, checking the rest of the room. After all, Peter could have moved it for some reason. No, it was not in the room, and there was nowhere to hide anything that size. Nor was there any packing material in evidence.
At that point I turned without thinking and ran to the adjoining room. Same thing: no panel. It was as though it had never been there. I went from room to room, and the story was the same. Peter’s collection was definitely not here.
Maybe he had sent them out for cleaning. Or framing. Or he had stuck them in some special vault while he finished construction on the house. No, that didn’t make sense—he had asked me out specifically to see the last one today. So it should be here, and it wasn’t. Stolen?
I shivered, despite the heat. Peter dead, the artworks missing. But making off with multiple panels of stained glass would not have been easy. You didn’t just pick one up and walk out with it under your arm.
I made my way slowly back to the entrance hall in time to welcome the police, with Matt Lundgren leading the pack. And to my eternal shame, I flung myself into his arms and said to his broad and manly chest, “Oh, Matt, it’s gone!” before dissolving into sobs.
Chapter 8
Matt proceeded to demonstrate the aplomb that had facilitated his rise through the ranks of Tucson’s police force: He straightened his shoulders, patted me on the back with one hand, and pointed toward the front room with the other. “In there, and be careful.”
When his crew had moved on, he stopped patting my back and said, “You found him? You’re sure he’s gone?”
I gathered the shreds of my dignity and stepped back, wishing I had a handkerchief on me. “Yes, I found him.” I sniffed. “But what I said was, ‘It’s gone.’”
Matt looked blankly at me. “It?”
“Yes. The glass collection. All of it. Gone. As in, not here.”
“Robbery?” Matt did catch on fast.
“How should I know? The pieces were laid out in different rooms the last time I was here. Today I can’t find any of them.” I paused a moment to gather my wayward thoughts. “I told you I was working with Peter. I needed to see the glass pieces so I could design fixtures to go with them. I’ve been to the house”—I stopped to count mentally—“maybe six or seven times? Alone, I mean without Maddy, that is. I was here a couple of times with her too. We all were. Here, I mean.” I took a deep breath to steady my nerves, as the reality of what had happened began to sink in. Peter was dead. What a waste.
“Chief?” One of the officers called from the front room.
“Be right there,” Matt answered. Then he turned to me. “Are you all right, Em? Do you need to sit down or anything?”
“In case you hadn’t noticed, there’s not much to sit on here. But I’m fine, Matt, really.”
I was worried that he was going to ask me to stay in the hall and wait like a good little girl while he did all the police stuff, but he didn’t say anything, although he gave me a long, skeptical look, and when he strode toward the front room, I followed. Nothing had changed, except now a circle of men in uniforms were staring down at Peter’s lifeless corpse.
“You didn’t touch anything, Em?” Matt asked.
“Of course not. I’ve been through this before, remember? I know the routine. I walked into the room, I saw him lying there, and it was pretty plain that he was dead. I didn’t need to touch him. But you know my fingerprints are going to be all over this place, and so will Madelyn Sheffield’s. I can give you her number. I haven’t been upstairs—all the pieces he planned to display were going to be installed downstairs. But I’ve been in all the rooms on this floor, including the kitchen and the powder room. Just to let you know.”
“You say there are pieces of art missing. Can you describe them?”
“Of course I can, in detail. Well, except for the last one, the Frank Lloyd Wright.” Which I never got to see. I swallowed hard. “I’ll give you a list, but I’m sure Peter has—had—an inventory somewhere around, and his insurance company must too.”
“You want to give me the bare outlines?”
“Six panels ranging in size from about eight feet by five feet, to fifteen feet high—the big one was going to go in this room here. Colored glass, a lot of lead holding them together, so they’re heavy. Big name artists—Tiffany, Chagall, Frank Lloyd Wright. One medieval piece, and some smaller items. And big bucks—I think Peter said the whole collection was insured for around three million, although that was replacement value. Not that they’re replaceable.”
The officers were beginning to look shell-shocked. Or maybe they just found it hard to believe that anyone would spend that much on a bunch of windows. But solving Peter’s murder was the first order of business.
“When did you last see the pieces here, Em?” Matt pressed on.
“Uh, last weekend, I think, but I talked to him on Tuesday. He asked me to come out because he’d just unpacked the Wright and he wanted to let me take a look at it. I was busy, so I couldn’t make it until today.” I shivered. Peter was alive on Tuesday; Peter was not alive today. How had that happened?
My mind went wandering off somewhere, although I vaguely heard Matt issuing orders to his officers, and a couple of them scurried off to use cell phones in various corners. Then he turned to me and said, “You know the layout—why don’t you show me around? Let’s start with the kitchen, shall we?”
“This way.” I led him to the kitchen, which still looked sterile and unlived-in. Not even a drinking glass marred the expanse of polished counter.
Matt made a quick scan of the place. “Nice. Expensive.”
“No doubt. He could afford it.”
I leaned against the granite edge of the central island; Matt leaned against a countertop opposite me. “Em, I’m sorry.”
“Why?”
“That you’re mixed up in another murder. Since you called it in, I figured it would save time to come myself.”
“I’m glad you did.” I had been relieved when I saw him coming through that door. We’d been through enough for me to know that he was a good cop, and a good man to have on my side. “Is this going to be difficult, since I’m the one who found him, and you and I have a . . . thing?”
His mouth twitched. “Is that what they call it these days, a ‘thing’? But the answer is no. It’s a murder investigation. I’ve got a good team. I’ll give them free rein and see what they come up with. What do you think happened? He interrupted a robbery?”
“I find that hard to believe. He was careful about security, so if the alarm never went off, he must have let that person in. Maybe there’s a surveillance tape of some sort?” I looked at him hopefully.
“We’ll check that out. Wouldn’t there be people coming and going? Workmen, friends, whatever?”
I shook my head.
“Not that I ever saw. He lived here alone—at least, I think he lived here. It’s pretty sparse, as you can see. He could have been staying at a local hotel. But anyway, he didn’t have a lot of friends around here.”
“Exes? Lady friends?”
“Not that I know about. Look, Matt, we didn’t talk about that kind of personal stuff. I can tell you he was passionate about his collection, and he was easy to work with. He asked for my opinion, more than once, and he listened to it.” I hesitated before adding, “Cam did say he’d been married at least once, but he wasn’t now.”
Matt cocked his head at me. “You had Cam check him out? Why?”
“Heck, I was curious. I wanted to know what I was getting into.”
“Huh. Did Cam find out anything else interesting?”
“What would you consider interesting? I assume you’ll do a full profile on him, now that he’s a murder victim. You’ll find out that there are people who weren’t happy about how he handled his business dealings, although Cam didn’t find anything illegal. Heck, you’re probably better equipped to look into the legal side than Cam is.”
“I’ll want to talk to him.”
“He’ll be here this weekend.”
Matt was silent for a moment. “What about this Madelyn person you mentioned?”
“She’s how I got sucked into this. Well, sort of. Okay, let me explain. Peter told me that his mother knew Maddy’s mother in college, and his mother wanted him to help her out, so he offered her this commission, but then he kind of insisted that I be included in the package—”
Matt help up a hand. “Whoa, slow down. Let’s take this one step at a time. Peter hired Maddy for this project?”
I nodded.
“And how did you get involved?”
“How do I put this tactfully? Maddy’s skills aren’t really up to this kind of commission—she sells little glass suncatchers to tourists. This really was an act of charity, and Peter knew that. So he went looking for someone to back her up, and he came across me. He said he’d seen some of my work. He figured he could work me in without ticking off Maddy and make everybody happy.”
“How was it going?” Matt asked.
I considered how to frame my answer. “We were managing. Maddy doesn’t like me much, but we were muddling along. I think Peter was pleased with how the project was coming.”
“You had an official agreement with him?”
“Peter and I had a contract, in writing—I made sure of that. I assume he had the same thing with Maddy. He was paying for materials up front in my case, and we agreed on a lump sum on completion.”
“How much?”
I mentioned a number, and he whistled. “Nice piece of change. You thought it was fair?”
I nodded. “I did. I just estimated my time and added a fee. I probably could have charged him a lot more and he wouldn’t have complained. To be honest, I would have paid him for the privilege of working with the pieces—they’re gorgeous. You will find them, won’t you?”
“I hope so. We may have to involve the FBI—that’s more their area of expertise. But the murder is in our court.”
“What happens now?”
“Forensics. You know that. What can you tell me about the murder weapon?”
“Well, assuming he wasn’t strangled or poisoned first, you mean that shard of glass?”
Matt nodded. “Is that sharp enough to kill?”
“You’re asking me? I’m flattered. But I would say yes, assuming the killer managed to slip it between his ribs at the right angle. Glass is sharp enough, but not particularly strong—it wouldn’t go through bone, for example. And whoever used it would probably have some cuts on his hand, unless he wore heavy gloves. It might require some skill to find the right place—or a lot of luck—but it wouldn’t require a lot of strength.”
“Were there pieces of glass like that lying around the house?”
“You mean, was it just sitting there, handy, or would the killer have had to bring it with him? I’m pretty sure Maddy brought some samples of art glass around, to match colors to the panels—you really do have to see them in place to gauge the quality of the light and the true color, and she knew that much. And she might have brought bits and pieces, remnants of other projects, just to see how the colors worked. So, yes, it’s very likely that there were pieces handy here. You’ll probably find some others. And they’ll have Maddy’s prints on them, and mine, and maybe even Peter’s, and whoever sold them, and so on.”
“Lucky I’ve got your prints on file.” Matt smiled. “You don’t like Maddy much, do you?”
I debated about how to answer that. “Not really. Look, it’s not a personal thing—she’s not someone I would have chosen as a friend, but that’s irrelevant. It’s that she gives the local artisans a bad name. She does trite commercial work and then wants to be called an artist. I think that rubs a lot of us the wrong way.”
“Were any of them jealous about this commission?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know how much they know about it. Nothing before the fact. I think Peter was trying to avoid notice, so he didn’t exactly put an ad in the local paper. Besides, I’m not sure anyone else in Tucson was qualified to do this kind of work. Though Maddy told everyone who would listen, once things started rolling. I know she managed to get an article into the arts section of the paper.” In which I had been graciously given one line, at the end.
“What about you? Wouldn’t this boost your career too?”
“Maybe. But Peter wanted to keep things private, and I respected that. We agreed to let Maddy be the front person, when and if it came to that.”
“Do you have any idea about who to contact now?”
“You mean, about his death? Nope. As I said, Cam mentioned an ex-wife somewhere, and Peter has to have had lawyers, but I don’t know who they might be, or even if they’re local. He never mentioned anybody to me.”
“You two didn’t have a lawyer to draw up your contract?”
I stared at Matt for a moment. “It never occurred to me. I trusted Peter.”
We were interrupted by an officer. “Chief, someone’s coming up the drive.”
“Do you know who it is?” Matt asked.
“No. Woman driving.”
Matt looked at me. “Maddy?”
I shrugged. “Could be, although Peter didn’t say anything about her being here today. But I talked to him a couple of days ago, and things might have changed.”
As we emerged from the kitchen, we heard the front door open, then a shrill female voice, which rose steadily in pitch as the officers there tried to restrain Maddy. I was surprised that she managed to slip through them, but she stopped at the entryway to the Great Room when she caught sight of the body. “Oh, no! Peter?” she wailed.
She turned to appeal to the gathered officers, and then she spotted me and fury flooded her face. “You killed him!”
Chapter 9
For a long moment, nobody moved, everyone watching the near-hysterical Maddy, as if trying to figure out which way to jump. Matt stiffened to a heightened alertness. Had there been a female officer present, she would have been the likeliest candidate to reach out to Maddy. As it was, I was the only other woman in the room, and I wasn’t about to comfort someone who had just accused me of murder.
Maddy finally seemed to realize that her histrionics weren’t having much effect, and worse, they were messing up her mascara. She managed to pull herself together and began carefully wiping the smudges from beneath her eyes. She quickly zeroed in on Matt as the man in charge, and turned to address him. “Aren’t you going to arrest her, Officer?” I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud.
Matt responded gravely. “That’s a rather serious accusation, miss . . . ?”
“Madelyn Sheffield, Officer. I’ve been working with . . . Mr. Ferguson for several weeks now on an artistic commission, and this woman here has been helping me. But I’ve known Peter for years.”
“I’m Chief Matt
hew Lundgren, Ms. Sheffield,” Matt said gently. “What can you tell me about the victim?”
Maddy’s expression altered subtly, and I wondered if she knew about my relationship with Matt. “Peter? He was a sweet, dear man, and a great patron of the arts. He had moved to Tucson only a few months ago, but already he had made his mark.”
I wanted to gag. As far as I knew, Maddy was the only person in town who had enjoyed his patronage. Apart from me.
“Since you knew him well, perhaps you have some information about his possible next of kin?” Matt went on.
“Oh, dear, let me think. His mother, of course. Oh, heavens—she’ll be devastated. She positively adored Peter. Who’s going to tell her? I would volunteer, but I’m just so shattered myself. . . .” Tears threatened again.
“If you will provide me with her name and address, I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of. Is she infirm? Should someone be with her when she hears the news?”
Maddy had to drag herself out of her wallow of self-pity to consider the question. “Penelope? No, she’s quite a strong woman—and if you’re wondering if she’s old and frail, she’s a very spry seventy-five. In fact, she may be off on one of her cruises—I recall Peter mentioning something about that.”
“When did you last see Mr. Ferguson?”
“Let me see . . . today is Thursday, so it must have been . . . Tuesday? I brought out some glass samples for him to look at.”
“Could you describe the glass?”
“Various pieces. I really can’t remember. Why? Does it matter?”
Matt ignored her question. “How many, do you recall?”
“Six or eight, I think. Why is this important?”
“Did you take them with you?”
“Yes, I did, as far as I recall. Chief Lundgren, what is this about? What can my glass samples have to do with Peter’s death?”
“Peter Ferguson was stabbed with a shard of glass. Ms. Dowell has identified it as art glass, of the type you use.”
Maddy stared at Matt as the color drained from her face. “A piece of my glass?” she whispered. Before Matt could answer, her complexion took on a greenish cast, and she turned and dashed toward the kitchen. Sounds of unladylike retching followed. Matt nodded to one of his men, who stationed himself just outside the entrance to the kitchen.
