2 Pane of Death (9 page)

When the day came, I made the now-familiar drive and arrived on time. By now I was used to passing through the exterior defenses without announcing myself, so I drove straight up the driveway and parked. When I walked to the door, it was closed, so I buzzed the intercom and got no response. That was odd—until now Peter had always been waiting for me. After trying again, I reached for the door handle, and to my surprise the door opened.

My sensible inner voice told me to stop right there. Peter was absolutely scrupulous about security and had always been at least within earshot when I arrived, with or without Maddy. Maybe he was doing something in another part of the house? I felt silly just standing there, fretting because the door was open and it made me nervous. I told the inner voice to shut up and stepped into the cool dark hallway, closing the door behind me. “Peter?” I called out. My voice echoed off the walls, but I could hear no one stirring. Even the air was still, as though no one had used it lately.

I moved farther into the house, calling out again. “Peter? Where are you?” Nothing.

I looked around me, and everything seemed normal. Of course, there was very little to disturb, since the house was still unfurnished. No lights on, but there was still plenty of daylight, so that didn’t mean anything. But the alarm system was not armed. . . . Now I really was getting nervous.

I walked into what we had dubbed the Great Room, the largest one with the most spectacular views. And then I saw him.

He lay on his back, surrounded by a pool of what had to be blood, though at the moment it was no more than a tarry stain. A lone fly buzzed around it. My knees went weak, and I sank to the floor. I didn’t need to go any closer, because there was no doubt in my mind that he was dead. That gray color didn’t belong on a living person. Besides, the cause of death was obvious: a large shard of glass protruding from his chest.

This was my second . . . no, third dead body. How was it that I had made it through more than forty years without even a hint of violence in my life, and now within the space of a couple of months I had encountered three corpses? What had I done to deserve this?

But at least I knew what I had to do now. I fished in my bag for my cell phone and punched the speed-dial for Matt. He answered on the second ring, sounding distant and official. “Chief Lundgren.”

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.

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?”