2 Pane of Death

by Sarah Atwell

  Cam arrived as promised just before nine. There was no way I was going to fling myself in the arms of another man that day—I’d exhausted my quota with Matt in the morning, and look what good that had done. But I gave him a hearty welcome, seconded by Fred and Gloria. When the hubbub had slowed, he looked at me. “You okay?”

  “So far. I talked to Matt this afternoon. Officially, that is. Unofficially he can’t talk to me, if you know what I mean.”

  “That sucks.” He hesitated a moment. “Ferguson’s death was on the news. I caught it on my car radio.”

  I sighed. “I figured it was coming, but I have no idea what that’s going to mean around here. Did they say anything about how he died?”

  “Not that I heard. Just, ‘Noted computer mogul found dead in his Tucson home.’ ”

  “That’s probably all they’ve got. Matt was going to try to downplay the art theft angle. Oh, Cam, I’m glad you’re here!” I decided one hug wouldn’t do too much harm. Cam was good at hugging. When he let go, I said, “Can I get you anything? Food, drink?”

  “Sure. But let’s sit down and we can talk while I sort out the grub. Did you eat?”

  “I think so.”

  He snorted, then went to the refrigerator and started foraging. I sat at the table and watched. “I don’t know how this is going to play out, but if Maddy has her way, she’s going to trumpet the idea that I killed him in a fit of jealous rage or something. She hasn’t shared her strategy with me, but she came upon the scene shrieking murder and pointing the finger at me.”

  “Why you ever agreed to work with her in the first place is beyond me. She’s a flake, and that’s putting it kindly.”

  “Because I wanted to work with the glass, or at least I did once I saw it. Before that, curiosity. I was fully prepared to say no, but once I’d met the man, I liked him. And the glass was magnificent. So I figured I could put up with Maddy.”

  “You didn’t kill him, did you?” Cam ducked as I threw a magazine at him.

  “Not you too. No, I did not kill Peter Ferguson. No, I do not know who did. No, I do not have an alibi for the time in question, or at least not all of it. No, I did not steal his glass panels—although, come to think of it, in my case that would be a much better motive than unrequited lust. I liked Peter, but I really loved his glass.”

  “Are the two connected? The theft and the murder?”

  “No one’s saying right now, but it’s early days yet.”

  Cam set a plate with a sandwich in front of me. I poked at it. “What’s this?”

  “Tuna fish on whole wheat, heavy on the mayo. Has it really been that long since you’ve seen food that doesn’t come with instructions?”

  “I didn’t know I had any tuna,” I grumbled.

  “It comes in those little cans—the ones that aren’t dog food.”

  We ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, the dogs posted at our feet, waiting eagerly for any fallout. There wasn’t any.

  When he was done, Cam stretched out his legs under the table and leaned back. “So, now what?”

  “I keep asking that,” I said, picking up crumbs and eating them. I guess I was hungry. “Matt can’t talk about it, and Maddy’s going to talk too much. Oh, and I’ll probably have to have a chat with the FBI tomorrow. I wonder . . .”

  “What?”

  “I know the missing pieces, probably better than Maddy. I know that tracing them is the FBI’s territory, but I don’t know how much they know about glass, and I know quite a lot. Would it hurt to put out a few feelers, see if anyone I know knows anything? If you see what I mean?”

  “It could blow up in your face, Em—might look like you’re trying to fence the stuff.”

  I hadn’t considered that. “You have a point. How about this: You do your behind-the-scenes computer magic, and I can tell you if you’re on the right track?”

  “What am I looking for?”

  “I don’t know—yet. How much do you know about art theft?”

  “Me? I write computer programs for ecological forecasts. Why would I know anything about art?”

  “Well, pal, I think you’re going to learn.” I thought for a moment and realized I had my priorities wrong. “Cam, maybe while you’re doing your computer magic, you can find out a bit more about Peter? I mean, I know you mentioned his business associates and a former wife, but I’d love to know a few more details about them. I mean, somebody killed him, and I don’t want to be the only suspect.”

  “I’m on it, Em.”

  Chapter 11

  Matt called late that night to say that the FBI was sending someone the next morning and could we get together? While he phrased it politely, I took it to mean my presence was required. I sighed: I wasn’t sure when I would get any work done in the studio, and I hated to fall behind. Thank goodness I didn’t have a class scheduled until Saturday afternoon, and double thanks that I now had both Nessa and Allison to cover the shop. I could only be in one place at a time, and now I was supposed to be in three.

  The next morning I dragged myself out of bed to find that Cam had turned on my television. “What are you doing?” I said on my way to the coffeepot.

  “I figured we’d better know what the local news had to say about Peter’s death. He was a figure of national importance. And besides, this is the second body you’ve found this year, which has got to be interesting to someone.”

  Actually Peter’s was the third body, but it wasn’t worth arguing about. “Oh, damn and blast. I hadn’t even thought about that. I hope Nessa and Allison are smarter than I am about it.” Much as I hated to admit it, Cam had a point. Tucson news stations paid a lot of attention to local events and surprisingly little to whatever went on outside city limits. This would definitely be their kind of story. “So, what’ve the talking heads had to say so far?”

  “Not too much. I’ll bet Matt has been trying to keep it hush-hush, which must drive them nuts. Anyway, the party line seems to be ‘computer mogul found slain in expensive home, probably interrupted a robbery.’ ”

  “They didn’t mention what was taken?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Is that good or bad?”

  I shrugged. “I really don’t know. It’s not like eight-foot panels of antique glass are going to show up in local pawn-shops, so the public doesn’t have to watch for them, exactly.”

  Cam nudged me and pointed to the screen again. The newscaster had been replaced by canned footage of Peter from various events, and then a woman whom I recognized from Cam’s printouts as Jennifer the ex appeared and spoke. “Peter’s death is a tragic loss to the computer community, and his children and I are devastated. I will assist local officials in any way I can to see that Peter’s killer is brought to justice.”

  I caught a glimpse of Matt standing behind her, stone-faced. I knew he hated public appearances like this, but Peter was a bona fide celebrity and there was no way around it. Interesting that Jennifer had rushed to Tucson from wherever she had been so quickly. I wondered what she would bring to the table, if anything. She certainly looked the part of the grieving widow, without a hair out of place.

  “She sure got here fast,” I said to Cam as I spooned cactus jelly on an English muffin. “Wonder if it’s concern about poor Peter, the father of her children, or for his will?”

  “Em, you need an attitude adjustment. Can’t you see she’s suffering?” He smiled. “But from what I’ve read, she’s been very happy to use Peter’s money to buy her way into the right circles. Lots of high-profile charity work. She likes the limelight.”

  Unlike Peter. “Well, I’m still glad they didn’t say anything about the art. Did anyone mention me?”

  Cam shook his head. “Not that I saw. Just ‘police discovered the body of,’ et cetera.”

  Maybe Matt had managed to keep me out of it, for which I would be eternally grateful. One murder associated with me, people could forget; two murders, and they’d begin to wonder if I was safe to be around. Not good for business. “W
ell, I’ve got to head out for the police station. You have plans?”

  “Not yet, but I’m sure I’ll figure out something. Unless you want me to come along?”

  “No, I think I’d do better on my own. But keep an eye on the news if you can.”

  “Will do.”

  An hour later I presented myself at the police station, this time to a desk sergeant whom I didn’t recognize. Matt came out to collect me, then escorted me to the same room we had used before. It was empty.

  I took a chair. “You going to offer me coffee? And where’s your FBI buddy?”

  “You know how bad the coffee is here. And the agent should be here any minute—coming in from DC. Why don’t we wait, and then we can do the social thing all at once.”

  I shrugged. This was his party. “Anything new? Like you’ve solved the murder?”

  He looked pained. “Em, it’s been less than twenty-four hours since we found the body.”

  “Yes, and isn’t it true that if you don’t solve it in twenty-four hours, the odds go way down? You have any suspects?” Other than me, of course.

  He shook his head but didn’t answer me directly. “You know what I said yesterday. As long as you are under suspicion, I can’t share that kind of information with you.”

  That still rankled. “Then maybe I can just spitball here, and you can nod now and then. From what Cam has told me, there were some unhappy people when Peter folded up his business. Are you looking at them?”

  “Em,” he protested.

  I pressed on relentlessly. I wanted to get myself off that short list ASAP. “What about his ex? His children? Does he have a will, and who benefits? Have you found his lawyer yet? Contacted the insurance people?”

  “Stop.” Now I’d made him angry. “Em, I am not going to do this. If it weren’t for your familiarity with the missing pieces and the whole setup at Ferguson’s place, you wouldn’t be here at all.”

  “Well, thank you for that, at least.” Actually I was happily surprised that he recognized that personal knowledge of the missing art trumped written descriptions and fuzzy photographs by a long shot. “I’ll be glad to help. If that’s what you’re asking.”

  He sighed. “Yes, Em, I would appreciate your input regarding certain aspects of this case. I acknowledge your professional expertise. But I cannot—I will not share information with you about Peter Ferguson’s murder and our investigation. Is that clear?” He shut up and glared at me.

  “Crystal clear, Chief Lundgren.” I knew he was right, but that didn’t make me feel any better. But I wasn’t about to admit that he was right, so I clammed up too. We sat there in stony silence, waiting, until the phone rang.

  Matt picked it up. “She’s here? I’ll be right out.” Then he looked at me. “Okay, the FBI has arrived. Will you please try to stick to the art angle?”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be good. I’m sorry, Matt—I don’t want to screw this up for you. And you know I want to see the murder solved and make sure the glass is recovered.”

  He gave me a long look, then left. I could see his point vis-à-vis the FBI. They could grab the art theft case from us and keep us out of the loop, or they could welcome our help with open arms. I was hoping for the latter. At least this would be interesting.

  Matt returned with the visiting agent two minutes later; I could hear their conversation from down the hall, accompanied by the brisk rat-tat of heels. I watched eagerly as the dark-haired agent strode into the room, trailing Matt in her wake. Tall, slightly younger than me, and very much in command. She held out her hand.

  “Hi, I’m Special Agent Natalie Karamanlis. And you are?”

  I had to stand up to lean across the table and shake. Strong grip. No nonsense about this woman. “I’m Em Dowell. I found the body.”

  At that Natalie smiled. “Aha. Well, then, let’s sit down and get this going.” She waited until Matt, looking a bit bewildered at having been upstaged, took a seat.

  “Okay, let me explain what I do and tell you why I’m here. You know about the FBI Art Theft Program?”

  We both must have looked blank, because she nodded once and kept right on going. “Not many people do—the Art Crime Team has only been around officially since late 2004. Even though international art theft may run as high as six billion dollars a year.” She waited while we gave proper thought to that information, which I admit shocked me. Why had nobody been paying attention? “So, there are twelve of us on the team, and we manage the National Stolen Art File, otherwise known as the NSAF, which is a computerized index. I’m assigned to this region. We go after anything that is uniquely identifiable and has historical or artistic significance. Which covers just about everything. You with me so far?”

  “And how much do you get back?” I drawled.

  “Not enough. Maybe ten percent? But we’re working on it. And that’s why I’m excited to be here. These are big pieces, and we should have good descriptions of them, and the theft just happened, so we should have a good shot at getting them back.”

  “Hear, hear!” I said firmly. Matt looked at me as though I had lost my mind.

  Natalie, on the other hand, rewarded me with a thumbs-up. “Let me tell you right off, I read the file on you—both of you, as it turns out.”

  That probably explained the smile.

  “So, now you’ve stumbled over another body?”

  “Agent Karamanlis, my understanding was that the murder investigation was to be handled out of this office, and you’re here to address the art theft,” Matt said stiffly. I could tell that his ego was taking a few hits.

  “Call me Nat—saves time. And you can’t mean to tell me that you think these two events are unrelated?”

  “We haven’t determined that yet,” Matt replied.

  “Oh, come on, loosen up, Chief Lundgren. I don’t want to steal your glory. I just think it would be easier to put all our cards on the table and not worry about who knows what. Don’t you agree, Em?” she said, glancing at me.

  Her use of not only my first name but also my nickname did not escape me, but I decided I didn’t mind. “That I do, Nat. And I do think the murder and the theft have to be connected. You have any ideas?”

  Matt glared at me; I glared back. She had asked me, hadn’t she? And then I noticed that Nat was watching the two of us with an amused expression.

  “You two have a history, huh?”

  Matt tried to look outraged, but I grinned at her. “You are good, lady. I’m going to enjoy working with you.”

  “Em!” Matt protested. “Can we keep this professional?”

  I ignored him and addressed Nat. “He wants me to stay out of this because I’m supposed to be a suspect. My so-called colleague Madelyn Sheffield accused me of killing Peter.”

  “Did you?”

  “No way.”

  “All right, then. Let’s get down to business. What do you know so far? Oh, and I read the summary you sent me, Chief, so you don’t need to repeat all the basics. I’ll ask if I need clarification.”

  Matt was looking more and more frustrated, and I couldn’t blame him, since Nat had taken over the discussion—politely, but quite firmly. He began, “Peter Ferguson was stabbed in the chest with a shard of glass sometime Wednesday and bled to death. He also sustained a blow to the back of the head, but it wasn’t fatal. Em found him Thursday afternoon, and the ME estimated he’d been dead twelve to twenty-four hours by then. Em had gone to the house to look at some of his glass art. She’s the one who told us that the glass pieces were missing.”

  Nat nodded and made a note on a pad. “Can you narrow down the time of death?”

  Matt shook his head. “This is Arizona. There was a lot of blood, but the air is so dry around here that it dried very quickly, which tends to skew estimates.”

  “Okay—I didn’t know that. Em, you and this”—she checked her notes quickly—“Madelyn Sheffield were working with Ferguson on installing the pieces?”

  “Yes. He wanted to take advantage of
the local light to show them at their best.”

  “You have a list of the works that have gone missing?”

  “Only in my head. I assume he had documentation for them somewhere, but there was no reason for him to share that with me. I’m sure you’ve gotten in touch with his insurance company. Oh, and if you’re wondering, they were definitely authentic.”

  Matt interrupted. “Excuse me, uh, Nat, but won’t the insurance company have detailed descriptions?”

  Nat sighed. “They will, but it’s really hard to translate a visual medium into words, you know? Same with photographs. Ferguson did all the right things, provided lots of pictures, but it’s not a perfect system. Now, Em here saw the pieces up close, and she’s an artist herself, right? So what she has to say will add to our description of the pieces. That’s why I want her included in this discussion.”

  I beamed at her. Take that, Matt. The FBI wanted my opinion, and I was going to make sure they got it.

  “Okay, moving on.” Nat sat back in her chair and looked back and forth at us. “Why isn’t Madelyn here today?”

  Matt and I exchanged a glance, which Nat did not fail to notice. Matt answered first. “Madelyn accused Em of killing Ferguson. I thought it best not to bring them in together. I’m sure you can talk to her on your own.”

  “Uh-huh. That the whole story?” Nat addressed me.

  “Not really,” I replied. “I know the collection far better than Maddy does.”

  “Funny—I did some internet searching before I left DC. I found an article from the Tucson paper about Ferguson and his art collection. But it was all about Ms. Sheffield—I think you got a single line at the bottom.” She pushed a xerox copy of a newspaper article across the table toward me.

  I glanced at it briefly, but I had seen it before. “I’m not surprised. Maddy is all about show, not substance. She was using this to boost her business.”

  “You don’t like her much, do you?”

  I figured I might as well be honest. “No, I don’t. I think she’s an opportunist, which wouldn’t bother me if she backed it up with talent. I mean, we are both in business here, and publicity doesn’t hurt. But she is not a good artisan.” I thought I was remarkably restrained in my assessment.