2 Pane of Death (11 page)

When I walked through the shop’s front door, Nessa looked up and said quickly, “What’s wrong?” She knew me well.

“Peter Ferguson’s dead. Murdered.” I was glad that I had shared the secret of my commission with Nessa, whom I knew to be unfailingly discreet. It saved me a lot of explanation now.

“Oh, Em, how awful! What happened?”

“I went out to meet him today, and I found him.” I fought off the urge to cry: Once a day was more than enough. Once a year was, for that matter. “And then Matt showed up, and then Maddy, and Maddy accused me of killing Peter.”

It was kind of amusing to watch the warring expressions on Nessa’s face. Sympathy morphed into scorn with a dash of amusement. “Well, that’s ridiculous. You wouldn’t kill anyone.”

“You know that, and I know that, and I hope Matt knows that, but he has to take it seriously. I’m going to give my statement at the station in an hour or two. Can you handle things here?”

“Of course I can. Why don’t you go on upstairs and settle your nerves?”

I snorted: I didn’t think I had nerves. “Thanks, Nessa. I probably won’t be back before you close up, so I’ll fill you in tomorrow.”

“That’s fine, dear. You go on now.”

I went. Upstairs the dogs greeted me with enthusiasm, and it wasn’t even feeding time. When I threw myself into a chair, they seemed to sense my mood and settled at my feet, watching me. “It’s okay, pals. I’m just a little sad.” Was that what I was feeling? Peter should be mourned, and I wasn’t sure who else was going to do it. His mother, surely. His children, hopefully. He had been a figure of some national prominence, and no doubt there would be glowing obituaries in the papers.

And then I realized that if this was going to make the news, I should tell Cam first. I checked my watch: He should still be at work. I reached for the phone and hit his speed-dial number.

Luckily he was there. “Hi, Em. What’s up? Change in plans?”

“You might say that.” There was no pretty way of putting this. “Peter Ferguson’s dead. I found the body.”

Cam was stunned into silence for several seconds. “Oh, Em, that’s terrible. What was it, an accident?”

“No, he was murdered.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish I was. And, Cam, it gets worse. Maddy accused me of killing him. In front of Matt.”

“Em, I’ll be there tonight.”

“No, Cam, you don’t have to do that. You were going to be here tomorrow anyway.”

“Em, I’m coming. Once this goes public—I take it that it hasn’t yet?—then this is going to be a real mess, and you shouldn’t have to go through it alone. I can be there by nine. Just sit tight, okay?”

“Okay. See you later.” Much as I hated to admit it, I was glad that Cam would be there to back me up, since Matt couldn’t. I checked the clock: time enough for a quick shower before I had to leave to talk to Matt. And a quick walk for the pups, since I had no idea how long I would be at the police station.

I arrived at the police station before four. “Hi, Mariana, how’re the kids?” The desk sergeant and I had known each other ever since Matt and Me, Round One.

“Oh, hey, Em. They’re great. So you’re mixed up in this Ferguson murder?”

“I am. What’re the odds? Pretty soon people will start avoiding me. Is Matt free?”

“Just wrapping something up. I’ll let him know you’re here.”

I took a seat and stared into space for a while, and Matt emerged after about ten minutes.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Em. Come with me.” He waited for me to stand before leading me toward the back of the building. I noticed that he didn’t touch me. He was going to do this by the book. He stopped in front of an open door and gestured toward a small interrogation room. “Please, sit down.”

I sat. “Okay, Matt, how are we handling this?”

He already looked tired. “I think you understand the problem. The fact that you and I have a preexisting relationship makes things complicated. I have to conduct the investigation of Peter Ferguson’s death in a transparent manner. He was a public figure, and there will be a lot of interest in this case.”

From his tone I could tell that he was already distancing himself from me. Even though I knew it was appropriate, it still hurt a little. “Matt, I already figured that much out for myself. Just tell me what I need to do.”

“Let’s review your contacts with Peter Ferguson, starting from the beginning. And I will be recording this conversation, if you don’t mind.”

Why would I mind? I had nothing to hide. “That’s not a problem. Let’s see . . . the first I heard about Peter, apart from what I’ve read in magazines, was when Maddy came to my shop about three weeks ago. . . .” Once again I outlined the sequence of events that had led to my unlikely collaboration with Maddy, and my series of visits to the house in the hills—including those that Maddy had not been part of.

“How many times would you say you were at the house?” Matt asked.

“I could check my calendar. It’s not like I dropped everything else to work on his stuff. I think I told you—I’d guess maybe six or seven times.”

“How would you characterize your relationship with Peter Ferguson?”

“I found him charming, interesting, intelligent. He knew what he was talking about when it came to his glass collection. He was easy to talk to and a good listener. I enjoyed working with him.” My dry statements did little to capture the man, but Matt wanted facts.

“Were you personally involved? Outside of your professional interactions?”

I was beginning to get annoyed at this line of questioning. “No, of course not. How can you ask that?” Matt gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, and I remembered that this was being recorded. “No. I might have called us friends, nothing more.”

“Did he ever make advances to you?”

I stared at him. He really was pushing it. “No, he did not. He was never anything but polite and courteous, and completely professional in our dealings.”

“Do you know how he knew Madelyn Sheffield?”

“Peter told me that his mother and hers were old friends from college. He had known Maddy casually for years.”

“Do you know if they were ever involved in an intimate relationship?”

“How am I supposed to know that?” I exploded. “It would have been inappropriate for Peter to tell me anything like that, not to say ungentlemanly, and Maddy and I aren’t close enough to share that kind of information. To the best of my knowledge, there is not now, nor has there ever been, an intimate relationship between Peter Ferguson and Madelyn Sheffield. And that’s all I know.” I sat back in my chair and glared at him. He had me talking like some character from a bad novel, and I resented the question and the intimation behind it. What was this all about? “Matt, why are you asking me this? What did Maddy tell you?”

“I can’t discuss that with you.”

“If she’s making up lies, don’t I have the right to know?”

“Em, I can’t tell you what Maddy said. Period. I just want to get your statement on record.” His eyes pleaded with me.

I decided to back off—on the record. I could ask him privately. If he was willing to talk to me.

“Seriously, I’ve told you everything I know. Peter and I had a business relationship. I went to his house today for a meeting we’d set up a couple of days ago, to see the last glass panel, and I found him dead. I called you to report it. Do you know when he died?”

“The forensic team is running tests, but the preliminary estimate is sometime between twelve and twenty-four hours. Where were you yesterday?”

“I was in the shop or the studio all day, with Allison or Nessa. Last night I was home alone, unless you count the dogs.” Too bad they couldn’t act as witnesses. “Are you saying I need an alibi?”

“I just want to know where you were,” he said doggedly. “No phone calls or visitors?”

“No, Matt,” I said with as much patience as I could muster, “I was at home, and I read a book. Would you like to know the plot? No one called. I walked the dogs for the last time around ten, but you know how few people there are around in my neighborhood at that time of night, so there probably aren’t any witnesses. I went to bed. That’s it.”

“Thank you. That’s all I need for now.” He looked at the small camera in the corner and nodded, and I assumed that was his signal to stop recording.

“This is going to be difficult, isn’t it?” I said slowly.

He nodded. “I think we shouldn’t see each other—socially, I mean—until we get this cleared up.”

“I agree. I don’t want to make your job any harder. But what about the news? What about Maddy? Can you keep her from blabbing all over town?”

“What part of it? The murder, us, or the theft?”

I realized then that I had completely forgotten about the theft while I was dodging suggestions of canoodling with Peter. “Shoot—what are you saying publicly about the missing art? I mean, that’s tied up with the murder, isn’t it?”

“Possibly. I’ve already contacted the FBI, and I’ll be talking with them tomorrow. We haven’t released any details. The statement will be that Ferguson may have interrupted a burglary at his home and was killed by persons unknown. As for Maddy, I don’t have a lot of control over her actions. I’ve cautioned her about making any public statements.”

“Even if she wants to fling unfounded accusations around? What’s her line—that I killed Peter out of jealousy? Spite? Because he liked her better than he liked me? How high school is that?”

“Em, you admit you were there alone with him, on more than one occasion. We have no evidence about what went on.”

I stood up, furious. “Matthew Lundgren, how can you sit there and say something like that? What kind of a person do you think I am? You actually believe Maddy’s stupid claims?”

“Em, sit down. I didn’t say that. But I have to investigate all possibilities.”

I started pacing. “All? Like Peter’s unhappy former employees? Like his ex-wife? Like some unknown art thief? Why are you looking at me?” I wasn’t being exactly fair to him, but being accused of murder tends to upset me. Or even being accused of cheating on the man I . . . felt something strong for, which might be love if given half a chance.

I stopped pacing for a moment to collect myself, then sat down again. I could be adult and dignified about this, if I tried really hard. “All right, then. We’re putting our personal relationship on hold until you manage to solve this murder. I get it. I’m a suspect, but I will point out that there are a lot more out there. Am I free to go now?”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Em. I know this is difficult. It’s hard for me too. I’ll do everything I can to get this cleared up as soon as possible. Oh, and can you be available to talk about the artworks with the FBI?”

“Sure, I’ll be happy to.” I couldn’t save Peter, but I sure as hell would do whatever I could to see that his art didn’t fall into the clutches of some black-market collector and disappear forever. I hoped whoever had the panels was taking good care of them. They were tough yet fragile at the same time, and I would hate to see them damaged.

“Then I guess we’re done here.” Matt stood up. “Thank you for coming in. I’ll be in touch with you tomorrow, once I know what the FBI needs.”

“I should be at the studio all day. I’m not sure what my plans are for the weekend—Cam will be around. But I promise not to leave the state.”

 

I left the station in a huff, and my mood did not improve when I got home. The shop was closed, and I didn’t like to work in the studio at night, without natural light. I went upstairs, fed the dogs, walked them, fed myself, then tried to settle down with a book or a magazine or the television. Mostly I waited for Cam to arrive. While there was nothing he could do, it made me feel better to know that he would be around. Maybe I had actually gotten used to having Matt to lean on, and now he’d pulled the rug out from under me. I understood his need to put some distance between us during this investigation, but that didn’t mean I liked it.

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?”