2 Pane of Death (3 page)

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.”

“Okay. 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?”

A deep masculine voice called out, “In the living room. Come on through.”

I was torn. Part of me wanted to meet this titan of the cyberworld; another part of me wanted to stand in the broad foyer and take in the striking architecture of the place. The designer had kept pesky things like walls to a minimum, the better to give access to the views from almost anywhere you stood. My first dazed impression was of acres of granite and polished wood, gleaming tile and rough adobe. The interior was both quiet and noisy, the many surfaces catching even the smallest sounds and echoing them back. The palette was monochrome, but the wash of color outside the windows—the vivid blue skies, the dusty greens of the native plants—more than compensated. I had to admit that I was impressed.

Maddy tugged at my arm impatiently, and reluctantly I turned to follow her as she led me to where Peter Ferguson waited.

Maddy headed toward the source of the voice. “Peter!” she said as she entered the living room, with me trailing like a U-Haul. She stopped abruptly, and I almost bumped into her, since I was too busy taking in the details of the house to pay attention.

“Hi, Maddy. And you must be Emmeline Dowell.”

I stepped out from behind Maddy, then stopped dead, struck dumb.

I’ve been around a lot of computer nerds in my life, starting with Cam’s high school and college buddies. Heck, I’ve always preferred geeks to studs—they’re usually more interesting to talk to, once you get past their initial social ineptitude. And they’re smart and often creative people.

Peter Ferguson was no nerd. Not even close. I took a moment to gather my scattered wits while making mental readjustments. It occurred to me that while I had read the occasional article or headline about the mysterious Mister Ferguson, I couldn’t recall ever seeing a picture of the man. If I had been expecting a pasty-pale, scrawny guy with thick glasses, I was so far wrong it was laughable. The man in front of me was well over six feet tall, rail thin. Middle-aged, yes—he had to be a few years older than my forty-something. But no glasses—his brown eyes, laugh lines at the corners, were clearly amused. His pewter gray hair was cut short, but not short enough to suppress the curl, and I thought I caught the glint of an earring in one ear. His clothes were simple—button-down shirt with sleeves rolled up and collar open, well-worn jeans, sandals. Although it couldn’t have taken more than a second or two for me to process this information, I realized he was waiting for a response from me with a smile lurking at one corner of his generous mouth.

Without thinking about it, I stepped forward and held out my hand. “Yes, I’m Emmeline Dowell. Em. I make hot glass, and Maddy said she needed some help.” I was very proud to have remembered my own name.