2 Pane of Death (10 page)

“I hope so. We may have to involve the FBI—that’s more their area of expertise. But the murder is in our court.”

“What happens now?”

“Forensics. You know that. What can you tell me about the murder weapon?”

“Well, assuming he wasn’t strangled or poisoned first, you mean that shard of glass?”

Matt nodded. “Is that sharp enough to kill?”

“You’re asking me? I’m flattered. But I would say yes, assuming the killer managed to slip it between his ribs at the right angle. Glass is sharp enough, but not particularly strong—it wouldn’t go through bone, for example. And whoever used it would probably have some cuts on his hand, unless he wore heavy gloves. It might require some skill to find the right place—or a lot of luck—but it wouldn’t require a lot of strength.”

“Were there pieces of glass like that lying around the house?”

“You mean, was it just sitting there, handy, or would the killer have had to bring it with him? I’m pretty sure Maddy brought some samples of art glass around, to match colors to the panels—you really do have to see them in place to gauge the quality of the light and the true color, and she knew that much. And she might have brought bits and pieces, remnants of other projects, just to see how the colors worked. So, yes, it’s very likely that there were pieces handy here. You’ll probably find some others. And they’ll have Maddy’s prints on them, and mine, and maybe even Peter’s, and whoever sold them, and so on.”

“Lucky I’ve got your prints on file.” Matt smiled. “You don’t like Maddy much, do you?”

I debated about how to answer that. “Not really. Look, it’s not a personal thing—she’s not someone I would have chosen as a friend, but that’s irrelevant. It’s that she gives the local artisans a bad name. She does trite commercial work and then wants to be called an artist. I think that rubs a lot of us the wrong way.”

“Were any of them jealous about this commission?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know how much they know about it. Nothing before the fact. I think Peter was trying to avoid notice, so he didn’t exactly put an ad in the local paper. Besides, I’m not sure anyone else in Tucson was qualified to do this kind of work. Though Maddy told everyone who would listen, once things started rolling. I know she managed to get an article into the arts section of the paper.” In which I had been graciously given one line, at the end.

“What about you? Wouldn’t this boost your career too?”

“Maybe. But Peter wanted to keep things private, and I respected that. We agreed to let Maddy be the front person, when and if it came to that.”

“Do you have any idea about who to contact now?”

“You mean, about his death? Nope. As I said, Cam mentioned an ex-wife somewhere, and Peter has to have had lawyers, but I don’t know who they might be, or even if they’re local. He never mentioned anybody to me.”

“You two didn’t have a lawyer to draw up your contract?”

I stared at Matt for a moment. “It never occurred to me. I trusted Peter.”

We were interrupted by an officer. “Chief, someone’s coming up the drive.”

“Do you know who it is?” Matt asked.

“No. Woman driving.”

Matt looked at me. “Maddy?”

I shrugged. “Could be, although Peter didn’t say anything about her being here today. But I talked to him a couple of days ago, and things might have changed.”

As we emerged from the kitchen, we heard the front door open, then a shrill female voice, which rose steadily in pitch as the officers there tried to restrain Maddy. I was surprised that she managed to slip through them, but she stopped at the entryway to the Great Room when she caught sight of the body. “Oh, no! Peter?” she wailed.

She turned to appeal to the gathered officers, and then she spotted me and fury flooded her face. “You killed him!”

For a long moment, nobody moved, everyone watching the near-hysterical Maddy, as if trying to figure out which way to jump. Matt stiffened to a heightened alertness. Had there been a female officer present, she would have been the likeliest candidate to reach out to Maddy. As it was, I was the only other woman in the room, and I wasn’t about to comfort someone who had just accused me of murder.

Maddy finally seemed to realize that her histrionics weren’t having much effect, and worse, they were messing up her mascara. She managed to pull herself together and began carefully wiping the smudges from beneath her eyes. She quickly zeroed in on Matt as the man in charge, and turned to address him. “Aren’t you going to arrest her, Officer?” I had to restrain myself from laughing out loud.

Matt responded gravely. “That’s a rather serious accusation, miss . . . ?”

“Madelyn Sheffield, Officer. I’ve been working with . . . Mr. Ferguson for several weeks now on an artistic commission, and this woman here has been helping me. But I’ve known Peter for years.”

“I’m Chief Matthew Lundgren, Ms. Sheffield,” Matt said gently. “What can you tell me about the victim?”

Maddy’s expression altered subtly, and I wondered if she knew about my relationship with Matt. “Peter? He was a sweet, dear man, and a great patron of the arts. He had moved to Tucson only a few months ago, but already he had made his mark.”

I wanted to gag. As far as I knew, Maddy was the only person in town who had enjoyed his patronage. Apart from me.

“Since you knew him well, perhaps you have some information about his possible next of kin?” Matt went on.

“Oh, dear, let me think. His mother, of course. Oh, heavens—she’ll be devastated. She positively adored Peter. Who’s going to tell her? I would volunteer, but I’m just so shattered myself. . . .” Tears threatened again.

“If you will provide me with her name and address, I’ll see to it that it’s taken care of. Is she infirm? Should someone be with her when she hears the news?”

Maddy had to drag herself out of her wallow of self-pity to consider the question. “Penelope? No, she’s quite a strong woman—and if you’re wondering if she’s old and frail, she’s a very spry seventy-five. In fact, she may be off on one of her cruises—I recall Peter mentioning something about that.”

“When did you last see Mr. Ferguson?”

“Let me see . . . today is Thursday, so it must have been . . . Tuesday? I brought out some glass samples for him to look at.”

“Could you describe the glass?”

“Various pieces. I really can’t remember. Why? Does it matter?”

Matt ignored her question. “How many, do you recall?”

“Six or eight, I think. Why is this important?”

“Did you take them with you?”

“Yes, I did, as far as I recall. Chief Lundgren, what is this about? What can my glass samples have to do with Peter’s death?”

“Peter Ferguson was stabbed with a shard of glass. Ms. Dowell has identified it as art glass, of the type you use.”

Maddy stared at Matt as the color drained from her face. “A piece of
my
glass?” she whispered. Before Matt could answer, her complexion took on a greenish cast, and she turned and dashed toward the kitchen. Sounds of unladylike retching followed. Matt nodded to one of his men, who stationed himself just outside the entrance to the kitchen.

“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.