by Sarah Atwell
“Well, that’s an interesting response.” Actually I was annoyed with Maddy, who seemed determined to milk the situation for the maximum possible drama.
“Em,” Matt began.
When I turned to look at him, I didn’t like what I saw. “What?”
“The woman has suggested that you had something to do with this death.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I sputtered. “You can’t possibly believe that!”
“Whether or not I believe it, it’s my responsibility to ask her why she believes that.”
“I should hope so! She’s crazy to even suggest such a thing.”
“Em,” Matt said with surprising patience, “you still don’t get it. I have to take her accusation seriously, which means I have to treat you as a suspect. At the very least I have to hear her out—and you can’t participate in that conversation, nor can I share the content with you. Not at this moment.”
I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Matt and I were intimately involved, and we’d already been through one all-too-personal murder investigation together. Surely he couldn’t think that I had anything to do with this? Luckily I managed to hold my tongue, at least long enough to put myself in his shoes. He was, after all, the chief of police, and he had obligations. He couldn’t play favorites or bend the rules just because it was me and not some random street thug. I counted to twelve, and by then I was able to answer him in a steady voice.
“I understand. What would you like me to do now? Should I stay?”
He took his time in answering. “I think it would be best if I talked to Ms. Sheffield without you around.” He looked quickly at his watch. “Could you meet me at the station at four?”
I started to say, “Why not at my place?” but then realized that would be stupid. Of course we had to keep this formal, out in the open. “That would be fine. So I’m free to go for now?”
“You are. I’ll see you later, Em. You’ll be all right getting home?”
I nodded and started for the door just as an ashen Maddy emerged from the kitchen. “You’re letting her leave?” she shrilled.
Matt ignored her protest. “Ms. Sheffield, do you feel up to giving me a statement now? Since you appear to be one of the last people to see Mr. Ferguson alive, I’d appreciate it if you could help me put together a time line.” He carefully grasped her elbow and guided her toward one of the side rooms. He had now won her full attention, and I was forgotten.
I made my way slowly to my car, parked where I had left it . . . was it only an hour or two before? Then Peter had been alive, at least in my mind; now the image of his corpse was etched in my memory. I opened the car door and slumped into the driver’s seat, numb. Here I was, linked to another body. And that put Matt in a difficult position. We had not broadcast our renewed relationship, but neither had we made a point of hiding it. We were both single and well past the age of consent. But then, neither of us had expected to find me entangled in another murder that he would have to investigate. All of which meant that we would have to put our personal issues on hold for a bit while he sorted out this mess.
And what on earth had prompted Maddy’s accusation? Was it professional jealousy? I knew I was the better craftsperson, but I wasn’t sure she would acknowledge that. I was sure she resented my presence on Peter’s project, but my role had been his doing, not mine—although I didn’t know what story he had told her. Or was her animus more personal? She had been proprietary about Peter, though I hadn’t seen any chemistry between them. If anything, Peter had treated her like a slightly annoying poodle nipping at his heels, although he had always been scrupulously polite. Heck, he and I had ignited more sparks than that, not that either of us had ever followed up. But had Maddy sensed that? Was she angry at her perceived rejection? Angry enough to accuse me of murder?
If I kept this up much longer I was going to give myself a headache. I counseled myself to wait and see what Matt had to say later. Surely he would poke holes in whatever story she concocted, and we could get on with finding out who had killed Peter and what had happened to the missing glass panels.
In a daze I drove away from the hills and toward the city. Part of me wanted to go curl up at home and mourn; another part of me was busy sorting through my work schedule, which now had some gaping holes in it—time I had set aside for Peter’s project, which would never happen now. That hurt too—I had become invested in the artistic aspects, and I had been having fun playing with colors and forms. What a waste. But did I mourn Peter’s death, or my lost time and effort?
Both, I decided. Peter had been an intriguing and enigmatic man, and I had been enjoying working with him. He had a sincere appreciation for art, but he didn’t try to impress, and I believed that he’d honestly valued my opinions. And, selfishly, I had to admit that this project would have boosted my reputation, certainly locally, possibly nationally. All moot now, because someone had killed Peter Ferguson and stolen his collection. Or vice versa.
I arrived at my shop and parked behind it. When I turned the engine off, I sat for a moment, trying to figure out what to do. At least I should tell Nessa what had happened. Damn, the press would be all over this, since Peter was a celebrity, and if it got out that I had found the body, that would just double the attention. For myself, I should put away the pieces I had been working on for Peter, because it would hurt to see them in the studio—but at the same time, putting them away would be like driving one more nail into his coffin, erasing him, and I wasn’t ready to do that either. Normally I would have started some work of my own, which I always found soothing, but I didn’t have time if I was to meet Matt in a couple of hours. In the end I decided to stop into the shop and give Nessa the brief outline, and then go up to my home and regroup.
When I walked through the shop’s front door, Nessa looked up and said quickly, “What’s wrong?” She knew me well.
“Peter Ferguson’s dead. Murdered.” I was glad that I had shared the secret of my commission with Nessa, whom I knew to be unfailingly discreet. It saved me a lot of explanation now.
“Oh, Em, how awful! What happened?”
“I went out to meet him today, and I found him.” I fought off the urge to cry: Once a day was more than enough. Once a year was, for that matter. “And then Matt showed up, and then Maddy, and Maddy accused me of killing Peter.”
It was kind of amusing to watch the warring expressions on Nessa’s face. Sympathy morphed into scorn with a dash of amusement. “Well, that’s ridiculous. You wouldn’t kill anyone.”
“You know that, and I know that, and I hope Matt knows that, but he has to take it seriously. I’m going to give my statement at the station in an hour or two. Can you handle things here?”
“Of course I can. Why don’t you go on upstairs and settle your nerves?”
I snorted: I didn’t think I had nerves. “Thanks, Nessa. I probably won’t be back before you close up, so I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”
“That’s fine, dear. You go on now.”
I went. Upstairs the dogs greeted me with enthusiasm, and it wasn’t even feeding time. When I threw myself into a chair, they seemed to sense my mood and settled at my feet, watching me. “It’s okay, pals. I’m just a little sad.” Was that what I was feeling? Peter should be mourned, and I wasn’t sure who else was going to do it. His mother, surely. His children, hopefully. He had been a figure of some national prominence, and no doubt there would be glowing obituaries in the papers.
And then I realized that if this was going to make the news, I should tell Cam first. I checked my watch: He should still be at work. I reached for the phone and hit his speed-dial number.
Luckily he was there. “Hi, Em. What’s up? Change in plans?”
“You might say that.” There was no pretty way of putting this. “Peter Ferguson’s dead. I found the body.”
Cam was stunned into silence for several seconds. “Oh, Em, that’s terrible. What was it, an accident?”
“No, he was murdered.”
/> “You’re kidding.”
“I wish I was. And, Cam, it gets worse. Maddy accused me of killing him. In front of Matt.”
“Em, I’ll be there tonight.”
“No, Cam, you don’t have to do that. You were going to be here tomorrow anyway.”
“Em, I’m coming. Once this goes public—I take it that it hasn’t yet?—then this is going to be a real mess, and you shouldn’t have to go through it alone. I can be there by nine. Just sit tight, okay?”
“Okay. See you later.” Much as I hated to admit it, I was glad that Cam would be there to back me up, since Matt couldn’t. I checked the clock: time enough for a quick shower before I had to leave to talk to Matt. And a quick walk for the pups, since I had no idea how long I would be at the police station.
Chapter 10
I arrived at the police station before four. “Hi, Mariana, how’re the kids?” The desk sergeant and I had known each other ever since Matt and Me, Round One.
“Oh, hey, Em. They’re great. So you’re mixed up in this Ferguson murder?”
“I am. What’re the odds? Pretty soon people will start avoiding me. Is Matt free?”
“Just wrapping something up. I’ll let him know you’re here.”
I took a seat and stared into space for a while, and Matt emerged after about ten minutes.
“Sorry to keep you waiting, Em. Come with me.” He waited for me to stand before leading me toward the back of the building. I noticed that he didn’t touch me. He was going to do this by the book. He stopped in front of an open door and gestured toward a small interrogation room. “Please, sit down.”
I sat. “Okay, Matt, how are we handling this?”
He already looked tired. “I think you understand the problem. The fact that you and I have a preexisting relationship makes things complicated. I have to conduct the investigation of Peter Ferguson’s death in a transparent manner. He was a public figure, and there will be a lot of interest in this case.”
From his tone I could tell that he was already distancing himself from me. Even though I knew it was appropriate, it still hurt a little. “Matt, I already figured that much out for myself. Just tell me what I need to do.”
“Let’s review your contacts with Peter Ferguson, starting from the beginning. And I will be recording this conversation, if you don’t mind.”
Why would I mind? I had nothing to hide. “That’s not a problem. Let’s see . . . the first I heard about Peter, apart from what I’ve read in magazines, was when Maddy came to my shop about three weeks ago. . . .” Once again I outlined the sequence of events that had led to my unlikely collaboration with Maddy, and my series of visits to the house in the hills—including those that Maddy had not been part of.
“How many times would you say you were at the house?” Matt asked.
“I could check my calendar. It’s not like I dropped everything else to work on his stuff. I think I told you—I’d guess maybe six or seven times.”
“How would you characterize your relationship with Peter Ferguson?”
“I found him charming, interesting, intelligent. He knew what he was talking about when it came to his glass collection. He was easy to talk to and a good listener. I enjoyed working with him.” My dry statements did little to capture the man, but Matt wanted facts.
“Were you personally involved? Outside of your professional interactions?”
I was beginning to get annoyed at this line of questioning. “No, of course not. How can you ask that?” Matt gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, and I remembered that this was being recorded. “No. I might have called us friends, nothing more.”
“Did he ever make advances to you?”
I stared at him. He really was pushing it. “No, he did not. He was never anything but polite and courteous, and completely professional in our dealings.”
“Do you know how he knew Madelyn Sheffield?”
“Peter told me that his mother and hers were old friends from college. He had known Maddy casually for years.”
“Do you know if they were ever involved in an intimate relationship?”
“How am I supposed to know that?” I exploded. “It would have been inappropriate for Peter to tell me anything like that, not to say ungentlemanly, and Maddy and I aren’t close enough to share that kind of information. To the best of my knowledge, there is not now, nor has there ever been, an intimate relationship between Peter Ferguson and Madelyn Sheffield. And that’s all I know.” I sat back in my chair and glared at him. He had me talking like some character from a bad novel, and I resented the question and the intimation behind it. What was this all about? “Matt, why are you asking me this? What did Maddy tell you?”
“I can’t discuss that with you.”
“If she’s making up lies, don’t I have the right to know?”
“Em, I can’t tell you what Maddy said. Period. I just want to get your statement on record.” His eyes pleaded with me.
I decided to back off—on the record. I could ask him privately. If he was willing to talk to me.
“Seriously, I’ve told you everything I know. Peter and I had a business relationship. I went to his house today for a meeting we’d set up a couple of days ago, to see the last glass panel, and I found him dead. I called you to report it. Do you know when he died?”
“The forensic team is running tests, but the preliminary estimate is sometime between twelve and twenty-four hours. Where were you yesterday?”
“I was in the shop or the studio all day, with Allison or Nessa. Last night I was home alone, unless you count the dogs.” Too bad they couldn’t act as witnesses. “Are you saying I need an alibi?”
“I just want to know where you were,” he said doggedly. “No phone calls or visitors?”
“No, Matt,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, “I was at home, and I read a book. Would you like to know the plot? No one called. I walked the dogs for the last time around ten, but you know how few people there are around in my neighborhood at that time of night, so there probably aren’t any witnesses. I went to bed. That’s it.”
“Thank you. That’s all I need for now.” He looked at the small camera in the corner and nodded, and I assumed that was his signal to stop recording.
“This is going to be difficult, isn’t it?” I said slowly.
He nodded. “I think we shouldn’t see each other—socially, I mean—until we get this cleared up.”
“I agree. I don’t want to make your job any harder. But what about the news? What about Maddy? Can you keep her from blabbing all over town?”
“What part of it? The murder, us, or the theft?”
I realized then that I had completely forgotten about the theft while I was dodging suggestions of canoodling with Peter. “Shoot—what are you saying publicly about the missing art? I mean, that’s tied up with the murder, isn’t it?”
“Possibly. I’ve already contacted the FBI, and I’ll be talking with them tomorrow. We haven’t released any details. The statement will be that Ferguson may have interrupted a burglary at his home and was killed by persons unknown. As for Maddy, I don’t have a lot of control over her actions. I’ve cautioned her about making any public statements.”
“Even if she wants to fling unfounded accusations around? What’s her line—that I killed Peter out of jealousy? Spite? Because he liked her better than he liked me? How high school is that?”
“Em, you admit you were there alone with him, on more than one occasion. We have no evidence about what went on.”
I stood up, furious. “Matthew Lundgren, how can you sit there and say something like that? What kind of a person do you think I am? You actually believe Maddy’s stupid claims?”
“Em, sit down. I didn’t say that. But I have to investigate all possibilities.”
I started pacing. “All? Like Peter’s unhappy former employees? Like his ex-wife? Like some unknown art thief? Why are you looking at me?” I wasn’t being exactly fair to him, but
being accused of murder tends to upset me. Or even being accused of cheating on the man I . . . felt something strong for, which might be love if given half a chance.
I stopped pacing for a moment to collect myself, then sat down again. I could be adult and dignified about this, if I tried really hard. “All right, then. We’re putting our personal relationship on hold until you manage to solve this murder. I get it. I’m a suspect, but I will point out that there are a lot more out there. Am I free to go now?”
“Of course. I’m sorry, Em. I know this is difficult. It’s hard for me too. I’ll do everything I can to get this cleared up as soon as possible. Oh, and can you be available to talk about the artworks with the FBI?”
“Sure, I’ll be happy to.” I couldn’t save Peter, but I sure as hell would do whatever I could to see that his art didn’t fall into the clutches of some black-market collector and disappear forever. I hoped whoever had the panels was taking good care of them. They were tough yet fragile at the same time, and I would hate to see them damaged.
“Then I guess we’re done here.” Matt stood up. “Thank you for coming in. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow, once I know what the FBI needs.”
“I should be at the studio all day. I’m not sure what my plans are for the weekend—Cam will be around. But I promise not to leave the state.”
I left the station in a huff, and my mood did not improve when I got home. The shop was closed, and I didn’t like to work in the studio at night, without natural light. I went upstairs, fed the dogs, walked them, fed myself, then tried to settle down with a book or a magazine or the television. Mostly I waited for Cam to arrive. While there was nothing he could do, it made me feel better to know that he would be around. Maybe I had actually gotten used to having Matt to lean on, and now he’d pulled the rug out from under me. I understood his need to put some distance between us during this investigation, but that didn’t mean I liked it.
