1 Through a Glass, Deadly

by Sarah Atwell

  Matt sighed. “I know how it looks, but if I send her home now, the FBI will be all over me like a plague of locusts, and I don’t want that. But I’ll go talk with her, make sure she’s all right.”

  “And I’m going with you.”

  “Em, that’s not exactly appropriate under the circumstances.”

  I glared at him. “What—now I’m a suspect too? I killed a guy I didn’t even know and stuffed him in my own furnace? Is that supposed to be good for business?”

  “Em,” he said helplessly. I always had been able to talk rings around him. But he was good at other things. . . . No, don’t go there.

  “I want to see Allison. If you refuse to allow it, I will start calling lawyers, and I will see to it that she doesn’t tell you anything. Or the FBI. Is that what you want?”

  “All right! We can talk to her.” He looked at his watch again. “I’d guess we have about an hour before Agent Price shows up. Let’s go.”

  Maybe I talk a lot, but I also know when to keep my mouth shut. I followed him out of the room—silently.

  Chapter 5

  dichroic: a type of manufactured glass which exhibits two colors of light—one which is reflected and the other transmitted (Edward T. Schmid, Advanced Glassworking Techniques: An Enlightened Manuscript)

  I don’t know what I was expecting—that Allison would be huddled in a corner of a dark, dank cell, surrounded by hookers and crazies? But it was the middle of the night and I was seriously sleep deprived, and I had never visited the business end of the police station. In fact, Allison was ensconced in a perfectly civilized interrogation room much like the one we had just left— although I noted the door was locked. Inside, Allison was seated at the usual scarred table, but her head was cradled on her arms and she was fast asleep.

  When Matt stood back to let me in, I slipped past him and went to Allison’s side, laying a hand on her shoulder. She sat up with a jerk, disoriented, but when she saw me, she smiled. When she looked beyond me at Matt, the smile fled quickly. I really hoped she wasn’t guilty of anything, because she wouldn’t be able to hide it—her face would give her away.

  I took the chair next to her. “Allison, are you all right? Have they been treating you well? Do you want something to drink, or maybe a bathroom break?”

  She ran her hands through her hair, pushing it away from her face. “No, no—I’m fine. Just tired. But no one’s come to talk with me. Is there a problem?” The hint of brogue was back, no doubt because she was stressed.

  I hurried to reassure her. “No problem, Allison—just some paperwork. Have you met Matthew?” I sent Matt a look that would melt steel, warning him off.

  Matt ignored me and sat down. “Ms. McBride, I’m Matthew Lundgren, chief of police for Tucson. I apologize for the delay, but we’ve had a call about you from the FBI.”

  The whites of Allison’s eyes showed as her glance darted to me. “Em, what does that mean? What would they want with me?” She grabbed my arm as though it was a lifeline and she was drowning.

  “Calm down, Allison. I’d guess it’s more likely to be about your husband. But since he’s dead, they’ll want to talk to you.”

  “Sure, and it’s about that man. As if he ever told me a thing. And I haven’t seen him for—oh, two years maybe?”

  Matt interrupted. “Ms. McBride, the FBI didn’t want us talking to you, but I don’t take kindly to being told what to do in my own jurisdiction, and your husband’s murder took place on my watch. So if perhaps you could run through the story with us, before the FBI agent arrives?” His tone was both kind and patient, and I gave him points for that.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “Well, for a start, what you knew about him up to the time you left. You did leave him, I take it?”

  I knew Matt was good at his job, so I settled back to listen—and learn. But I was ready to jump in if needed.

  “I did, though it was no easy thing. Well, let me start at the beginning, if you’ll bear with me. I came from Ireland near twenty years ago, now—I was seventeen, and a gaggle of us came over for the summer jobs at the beach.”

  “Cape Cod. In Massachusetts,” I added, then subsided when Matt shot me a glance.

  “Yes. And there I met John—Jack. He was born here, but his parents came from Ireland, and he still had family there. And we started going about, and when the summer was over, and my visa was set to run out, he says, why not marry me? And I was young and foolish, and I had little to go back for, so I said yes.”

  I tried to imagine Allison at that age. She would have been a glowing vision with that hair—and with the air of innocence she had some how held onto all these years.

  “We married there, in the fall, and went to live in Boston,” she went on.

  “What did your husband do for a living?” Matt asked gently.

  “Ah, well, you see, I never quite knew. This and that, he’d say. Doing some work for a man. He was never short of money, but I could never be sure where he was, from one day to the next. I kept working, small jobs, just to have a little money of my own. I thought someday we’d have children, but it never happened.” She stopped and swallowed. “After a few years, he came home one day, announced we were moving to Chicago, some grand new opportunity there. So off we went—we didn’t have much, anyway, and most of it we sold or gave away. And then we were in Chicago, where I knew no one, and he was gone a lot. And we got to fighting. I tried to be a good wife to him, but nothing was ever enough for him. He never said as much, but I guessed the new job wasn’t what he’d hoped. He seemed to be angry all the time, and he frightened me.”

  “When was this?” Matt asked.

  Allison looked up at the ceiling, doing the math in her head. “We married in 1990, and we moved in 1997. It must have been some five years after that, that things went sour with us.”

  Matt and I exchanged a brief look: dates to check, records to trace. Boston to Chicago, no particular job. What did that suggest? I shied away from the thought.

  Allison didn’t notice. “I put up with it for a while, until I just couldn’t anymore.”

  “Why didn’t you leave him?” I said.

  “How could I? I was raised Catholic, and it would have killed my mother. For all that she never met the man, she wanted me to stay with him—I’d married him, hadn’t I? And then she died, two years ago. And I gathered up what little money I could, and one day I went to work, like always, only I never went back.”

  “What did you do?” Matt asked.

  “Wandered about, mainly. I didn’t have a car, didn’t have much of anything but the clothes on my back, but I was free of Jack. But I knew he’d try to find me. He thought I was something that belonged to him, and I knew he’d come looking. So I moved around a lot, took whatever job I could find—usually one where I was paid in cash. And every time I saw someone out of the corner of my eye who reminded me of Jack, I moved again.”

  The poor woman. No wonder she had been so evasive—and so jumpy. “So it was Jack you saw at Elena’s?” I guessed.

  She nodded. “All this time . . . I was just beginning to believe I was in the clear, and there he was, big as life. I couldn’t believe it.”

  And three hours later he was dead in my furnace, I reflected. But I couldn’t make the connection. “So you believe he came here looking for you?”

  “Most like. Maybe I got careless, or just tired of running. I was going to talk to a lawyer, see if I could divorce him now and be done with it, as soon as I’d saved up a bit.”

  “Ms. McBride,” Matt interrupted. “We don’t have much time. You’re saying that you left Jack Flannery in Chicago two years ago, and you haven’t seen him or had any contact with him since then?”

  “That’s so.”

  “And you have no idea what activities he’s been engaged in, either before or after you left him?”

  “I have not. He was a closemouthed man and thought a woman didn’t need to know such things. And I had the feeling I’d be
better off not knowing, if you know what I’m saying.”

  Matt thought for a moment. “Did he ever bring home any colleagues? Or meet with any in your presence?”

  “A few times. Less often, as time went on.”

  “Would you be able to identify any of those people?”

  Allison stared at Matt, bewildered. “I’ve no idea. It’s been years since I’ve given them any thought. Why do you ask?”

  Matt hesitated before answering. “Ms. McBride, I believe your story. What I don’t understand is why the FBI would be interested in you, or him, and I’m trying to find a reason. Let me ask you this: Do you have reason to believe your husband was engaged in illegal activities?”

  Allison dropped her eyes, and her cheeks reddened. “In truth, it crossed my mind. But I was scared to ask, and I figured I was happier not knowing. Is that what you think this is about?”

  “Probably.” Matt fell silent, contemplating the scratches on the table in front of him. I held my tongue, because I respected his professional abilities—even though I didn’t trust his judgment in more personal matters. But I—we— needed him on our side. No way did I want Allison to face the FBI without somebody in her corner, and I didn’t think I had a lot of clout. Then I almost laughed: It was going to be a real stretch if the FBI wanted to connect Jack Flannery of Boston and Chicago with me, a humble Arizona artisan. Which, unfortunately, made Allison the only link.

  Our collective reveries were interrupted by irate voices from the hallway. The door burst open, and in surged a Man in a Suit: The FBI had arrived, and it looked royally pissed.

  “Chief Lundgren?” the Suit demanded.

  Matt had stood up and gazed at him impassively. “I’m Matthew Lundgren. Who are you?”

  “Warren Price, supervisory special agent with the Chicago FBI.”

  I struggled to suppress a smile. The man sounded as though he expected a trumpet fanfare to greet his pronouncement.

  Matt looked singularly unimpressed. “You made good time.”

  “I was in Phoenix.” Agent Price did not elaborate. He stared coldly at Allison. “Who’s she?”

  Matt stood a little straighter. “This is Allison McBride. Jack Flannery’s wife.”

  Agent Price swivelled toward me. “And her? Lawyer?”

  Matt nodded toward me. “This is Emmeline Dowell. Your Jack Flannery was found at her studio.”

  Agent Price turned his steely stare toward me, and I just managed not to flinch. It was like being examined by an android, and I had the feeling all his observations were being beamed to some data bank somewhere. One I’d rather not be part of. “You and she can leave, but stay close. I want to talk to this McBride woman.”

  I was gearing up to protest, and Allison looked as though she was a mouse and Agent Price was a cobra, but Matt spoke first. “Agent Price, the Tucson police are investigating the murder of Jack Flannery. I intend to be present during any interrogation of Ms. McBride. And, may I remind you, she’s not under arrest.” The two men’s eyes locked, and I found I was holding my breath—and I was glad I wasn’t under suspicion. There were dark forces involved here, and I didn’t even know what they were.

  Much to my relief, Agent Price bent first. “Agreed. But send her out—I’ll talk to her later.” He nodded toward me, without even looking.

  That made me mad. I was tired, sticky all over again, and due to open my shop in about four hours—assuming the police would let me. “Now hold on just a minute, pal. Unless you want to accuse me of something, I’m going to go home, take a shower, and try to sort out the mess the forensic crew has no doubt left behind. If you want to talk to me, you can find me at my studio. And you might try asking nicely.”

  Matt’s mouth twitched, once, and I knew he was trying not to smile. Agent Price’s expression did not change— maybe he actually was an android. “Fine,” he said tightly. “I assume Chief Lundgren has the relevant information regarding where to find you?”

  “Yes, he does.” I tore my gaze away from him and asked Allison, “Are you okay with this, Allison? Because if you want me to find you a lawyer, just say the word.”

  “No need to be hasty, Ms., uh—Dowell” Agent Price broke in. “I just want to ask Miss McBride some questions. You can go now.”

  I was apparently dismissed. I shot another look at Matt, who nodded imperceptibly. He would look out for Allison, so I figured I was free to go home and start trying to salvage my workday. I wondered how long it would be before I could approach my furnace without seeing the body of Jack Flannery hanging from it. Damn—the furnace was off, and I’d have no hot glass to work with anyway. So much for getting any work done today.

  “You can reach me at work. Allison, I’ll come back later and collect you. Gentlemen.” I swept out of the room, but I don’t think they noticed: The two men were busy butting heads again. Too much testosterone in the room.

  I gathered up my faithful and patient doggies, and together we stumbled toward my car. The sun was already over the horizon.

  Chapter 6

  gaffer: head glassmaker of a team, sometimes called the master blower (Phoebe Phillips, ed., The Encyclopedia of Glass)

  Back at the studio, I pulled the car into its slot behind the building, turned off the engine, and sat, trying to put my thoughts in order. No police cars around—that was good. I really wasn’t in a mood to talk to any more police. What I wanted most at that moment was sleep. No, I wanted to see what state the studio was in. Then I could sleep. After I fed and walked the dogs. But not for long: I had promised Allison I would go back and get her later. And of course, if I did that, then I could pump Matt to find out what he had learned from the Suit. If anything— I didn’t think Agent Price was the type to give much away, unless he saw an advantage to it. I shuddered to think he wanted to come talk to me, not that I had anything to hide. I didn’t. But not only was I innocent, I was completely clueless, and I didn’t like the feeling.

  Finally I dragged myself out of the car and waited while Fred and Gloria extricated themselves. Since I was there, I stopped to take a look at my back door. Obviously jimmied, and I’d have to get a new lock. But there was no police tape across it, which was a good sign.

  “Okay, babies, let’s take a quick walk, and then I’ll give you your breakfast.” At the keyword “breakfast,” the pups started bouncing, and I had to drag them past the stairs and around to the front of the building. Good: no tape there either. It looked as though the shop could open as usual, at the very least. Thank heavens Nessa was due in—I looked at my watch—about two hours.

  Fred, Gloria, and I made a quick circuit of the block, nodding at the few early birds on the street, then headed for home. I hoisted one dog under each arm and plodded up the stairs, my feet like lead. I wasn’t ready to face the studio yet, and since it looked unlikely that I’d get any real sleep, I figured I might as well make a pot of coffee. While the coffee burbled, I refilled the dogs’ dishes and replaced their water, then dropped into an easy chair. Three minutes later the whistling of the kettle woke me up. Damn—this was going to be one long day, and my mind was going to be like mush.

  I made coffee on autopilot, then sat down with a cup in the (stiff, upright) chair at my table and tried to think. Fred and Gloria, fed, settled down in their accustomed places, but I had the feeling they were keeping one eye on me. They’d had an exciting night too.

  All right, priorities. One, check out the studio, see if it was cleared for use. If the answer to that was yes, haul out the tainted glass and get another batch of clear going in the furnace. No—I’d have to wait until the furnace was cool enough. Luckily, I had no classes scheduled for today, and I should be good to go by tomorrow. Two, as soon as she came in, tell Nessa what had happened. A new and unpleasant thought wriggled into my head: the press. Last night’s events had probably occurred too late to make the morning paper, but no doubt someone would come sniffing around for the story. What did I want to tell them?

  I could feel myself driftin
g again. Would this kind of publicity help or hurt business? No doubt there would be some ghouls who would want a glimpse of the scene of a gruesome murder, but would they stick around to buy something? It would be in poor taste to profit from Jack Flannery’s death, but I still had a business to run. So I needed to fill in Nessa ASAP—and to go over our current inventory with her, in the unlikely event that the gawkers felt compelled to purchase a memento. I had no doubt that Nessa’s motherly demeanor would guilt-trip a good number of them into doing just that.

  Next issue: Allison. It was hard to get a read on whether she was in any real trouble. She said she had not seen her husband in two years, and that could probably be verified with some digging, if the FBI so chose. But would they believe she had remained in the dark about what Jack had been doing all those years when they were married? I believed her, but then, I’d never been married, or even lived with someone long enough to know where the boundaries were drawn between two people. Although for a while I had thought that maybe Matt and I . . .

  Matt. I thought he had believed Allison, and he had pretty good radar for people. Of course, he had his own position to think about, and pissing off the FBI was not a good strategic move. How far would he back Allison up? I didn’t know. The Matt I had known a few years ago would have stuck up for a damsel in distress, damn the personal consequences, but he looked older now, more settled in his role as police chief. Maybe he’d changed.

  There was too much I didn’t know. How had Jack Flannery followed Allison to Tucson? And why? Was he really that possessive? Maybe he had deserved what he got, the rat. But who had killed him? If it wasn’t Allison—and I still didn’t believe she could have done it—then someone had to have followed him here. No way this was a random event. But why choose my studio to kill him in? That really annoyed me. And why was the FBI involved at all? Was Jack into something nasty like drugs? I was no innocent, and I knew that Tucson was no unspoiled idyll, but what would bring Irish Jack from Chicago to town? None of this was making any sense. I laid my head down on the table, just for a minute. . . .