2 Pane of Death

by Sarah Atwell

  “You’ll let me know what you find out?” I said hopefully.

  “I will, Em. I promise. Look, I’d better go. I’ll call you later, if I get a chance. And thanks a lot—I mean it.”

  “Thanks for the dinner,” I said as I escorted her to the door. Maybe I was easy, spilling my guts for the price of a couple of egg rolls. But I really wanted to be sure that she, with or without Matt’s help, managed to get a lead on the glass before it disappeared to who-knows-where.

  It was only after Nat’s taillights had vanished that I realized I had never mentioned what Cam had found in Peter’s files. I hoped that it was moot, that she wouldn’t need Peter’s algorithm to track down his own collection.

  Chapter 22

  Nat did not call me that night. Nor did Matt. I wasn’t surprised, but I certainly was frustrated. Of course, even if they had a suspect in custody, it might take a while to put a deal together, find a lawyer, and contact the Pima County District Attorney’s Office and all that stuff. Or maybe the guy didn’t really know anything and had just been stringing them along. Or if he did give them useful information, maybe they were busy tracking down the rest of the gang. It was clear that this heist had required more than one person to pull off, so there had to be others involved. In the end I gave up staring at the phone, willing it to ring, and went to bed. My sleep remained undisturbed by phone calls.

  The next morning I was out of sorts, and even Allison noticed when I stalked into the shop. “Something wrong, Em?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. I’m just cranky. There’s too much going on, and nobody will tell me anything. I’m going to try to get some work done, okay?”

  “Don’t forget you have a class later,” she reminded me.

  “I know. At least that should keep me busy. Let me know if you need me for anything.”

  As penance for my bad mood, I went to my so-called office next to the studio and put in the orders for the materials I needed, which involved sorting out details about my new trucker, all of which took some time. Then I called Chas and told him what I’d done, which took more time. Finally I allowed myself to go into the studio, and fired things up. Normally I could fall easily into the rhythms of working with hot glass, but today something was off, and I ended up botching more pieces than I normally would. Glass demands full attention, and unfortunately my mind was somewhere else. I was actually relieved when Allison interrupted me. “Em, there’s a phone call for you.”

  I followed her back to the shop and picked up the phone, trying not to snarl. “Em Dowell.”

  It was Ian Gemberling. “Ah, Em, I’m glad I caught you. I wondered if you’d given any more thought to what we talked about the other day?”

  My, he was impatient. “Of course. But I’ve got a lot of questions too. Where are you?”

  “Still in Tucson at the moment, although I should be leaving in a day or two. Why?”

  “Can we get together? Somewhere down here?” I looked at my watch. I could squeeze in lunch if he could get here quickly. Look at you, Em—like your time is more valuable than Mr. Hotshot Gallery Owner’s? “How about lunch?”

  He hesitated a moment. “That, would, ah . . . yes. Shall I meet you at your shop, say, noonish?”

  “Noonish. See you then.” I hung up before he could change his mind. Frankly, I wanted to see him here in the shop again, watch what pieces of mine he responded to. I wanted him to articulate what drew him to my art—if he could. Something about this still seemed off to me, and I hoped it wasn’t just my lack of self-esteem talking. I looked down at myself, my usual grubby work clothes. And then I decided that I didn’t care. I was doing what I loved to do, and I was comfortable, and if Ian Gemberling didn’t like it, too bad. We were going to have lunch on my turf and talk about my work.

  I realized that Allison was staring at me strangely. “What?” I demanded.

  Poor Allison quailed at my tone. “Nothing, nothing. It’s only . . . you seem a bit angry. You’re having lunch with that gallery owner again?”

  “I am. I don’t want to have this thing hanging over my head. I want him to tell me what pieces he likes and why, and then I can decide if I want to twist my life out of shape for this show of his.” And then I realized how I must sound to any rational person. “Sorry, Allison. I guess I’m on edge. A man I respected has been murdered, and I found him dead, and nobody will tell me what’s happening with the investigation. And there’s just so much else going on—the missing art, and now this idea of a show. But I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

  “Not to worry, Em. It’s a lot to think about, I know. Can I do anything to help?”

  “How about we go through my glass pieces and decide if we want to juggle what’s on display? We’ve got a little time before he shows up.”

  In the end I did shift some of the more commercial pieces to the storeroom and brought out a couple of “artsy” pieces, but mostly we just straightened and dusted. If my pieces didn’t speak for themselves, it was too late to do much about it.

  Ian arrived promptly at noon, looking unruffled by our impromptu luncheon. Maybe he was used to dealing with temperamental artist types, not that I’d ever seen myself as such. I tried to be more gracious than I had been on the phone. “Welcome, Ian. I’m sorry if I’ve upset your plans for the day, but I thought since you were still in town, we could take a look at some of my pieces and you could tell me what you’d like to see in a show.”

  “Delighted, my dear. And I appreciate your candor. Most people would be blinded by the opportunity, but I think you’re approaching this quite intelligently. Peter was right about you.”

  I tried to ignore the compliment, although I was still glad that Peter had believed in me. “Well, then, let me walk you through some of my works, and you can tell me what you think.”

  We spent a pleasant half hour dissecting my pieces. Not surprisingly, Ian was an informed and articulate critic, and I found myself looking at my work and how I described it in a new light. Up until now I had been proud of surviving—setting up a business and making a living doing what I loved—but Ian made me wonder if I had been underestimating myself. In any case, we both seemed very pleased with ourselves.

  He checked his watch. “Shall we eat?”

  “Do you like southwestern food?” When he nodded, I said, “Then follow me.”

  I escorted him to one of my favorite semi-upscale places—the food was reasonably authentic, but the ambience was a cut above funky. He ordered knowledgeably from the menu, and when the waiter had left, he turned to me.

  “Em, from what I’ve seen today, I’m all the more enthusiastic about representing you. I have a time slot available in the gallery for next June. Do you think you could pull things together for a show by then?”

  I took a deep breath. Did I want this? Did I need this? And would I regret it if I passed up this opportunity? “Ian, I’d be delighted to work with you. And June would be great.”

  The next half hour was filled with discussion of minutiae—how many pieces, what types, how they would be displayed, what signage might be appropriate, how to publicize the event. I could imagine a less business-savvy artist feeling overwhelmed, but I admired Ian’s business sense and could respond in kind. Our food came and disappeared without receiving its due, but by the time the plates were empty we had hammered out the details of an agreement.

  “Let me work this up into a contract, after I get back to LA, and you can look it over. I take it you act as your own business manager?”

  “I do. Thank you, Ian, for believing in me. I’m looking forward to this. When will you be going back to Los Angeles?”

  “I was hoping that Peter’s murder would be resolved soon, but that doesn’t look likely, does it?”

  I shook my head. “Not that I can see. It’s such a waste. Do you know what will happen to his glass pieces when they’re recovered?” I refused to say “if.”

  “I’m not sure. But I would certainly be interested in helping whomever inherits
to liquidate the collection, if that’s what the heirs want to do.”

  “What is the market for high-profile pieces like that?” I was honestly curious. “Museums? Private collections?”

  Ian shrugged. “It varies. Sad though it is, there is such as thing as ‘fashion’ in art collecting, and much depends on market timing. As for museums, they go through fat and lean periods. Sometimes they are looking to fill in gaps in their own collections. And sometimes, if they’re lucky, they find a benefactor who shares their interest. I have to say, if one is in my business, one must be prepared to invest in pieces and hold onto them until the market is right, to optimize return on investment.”

  “That must take a significant monetary stake.”

  “It does. I’ve been quite lucky in that sense. When I started out, I had several friends who were willing to back my efforts, and they have been amply rewarded.”

  That squared with what Cam had told me. “You’ve certainly done well, and you have an outstanding reputation.”

  He smiled down at his plate. “Thank you. That’s one reason I enjoy giving unknown artists such as yourself a showcase—I believe in giving something back to the artistic community.” Then, as if embarrassed by his statement, he pushed his chair back and dropped his napkin on the table. He reached for the check. “Let me take care of this—after all, it’s been a working lunch, hasn’t it? I’m sorry I have to rush off, but I have another appointment scheduled for this afternoon and my time here is limited.” He stood up, and I followed suit. “This has been delightful, and I look forward to working with you, Em.” And he was gone, stopping at the desk to settle the bill.

  I sat down again and tried to figure out how I felt. I was committed now; there would be a contract and dates and plans. Was I ready for this? I felt a warm glow in my stomach—and it wasn’t from the chiles. Yes. I could handle this. I would do the show, and I would see what came from it. I felt good.

  The glow lasted through the afternoon. I filled in Allison on the updated developments, and she was duly thrilled on my behalf. I walked through my afternoon class, wondering if perhaps I should raise my rates—after all, soon I would be a well-known glass artisan. Or at least, better known. When the shop closed, I went upstairs to fetch the dogs for a turn around the neighborhood. It was a cool evening, and I was grateful for a jacket, and for the brisk pace the pups set as they tugged at their leashes. I was trying to catch my breath during one of their intermittent sniff-and-pee stops and admiring the glowing windows of a restaurant when I did a double take: Ian and Maddy were sitting at a small table, heads together, deep in conversation.

  Well, of course, they both knew Peter, and I recalled they’d seemed slightly acquainted when we’d all crossed paths briefly at Peter’s house. But I found their intimate demeanor curious, and then troubling. Apparently they knew each other well—their little tête-à-tête suggested more than casual acquaintance. There was no reason why Ian would have mentioned a relationship with Maddy, but knowing Maddy as I did, I was surprised she had not trumpeted her friendship with a noted gallery owner to all who would listen.

  At that moment Gloria saw something interesting down the street and tugged me away. I filed away my observation for further thought.

  The phone was ringing as I climbed up the stairs, a dog under each arm, and fumbled with my keys. It had stopped by the time I got in, but the message showed that it was Cam, and I hit his number quickly. “Hi,” I said breathlessly when he picked up on the first ring.

  “Em. You okay? You sound winded.”

  “Fine. I was just out with the dogs, and they moved fast. Getting chilly at night, I guess. Did you talk with Nat?”

  “I tried—left her a couple of messages, but she hasn’t gotten back to me.”

  Maybe that was good news, and she and Matt were hot on the trail of . . . something they wouldn’t tell me about. “I think Matt’s on to something, or someone. Maybe she’s tagging around with him.”

  “That could explain it. A break in the case?”

  “Listen to you! But I really don’t know. Nat said Matt had picked up somebody who knew something, and that’s all I know. So why’re you calling me? Not that I don’t enjoy hearing your mellow baritone.”

  Cam snorted. “Yeah, right. Anyway, I still haven’t had time to poke around Peter’s program much more, but I did find one interesting item when I was looking at Gemberling.” He paused, no doubt to irritate me.

  “What?”

  “For starters, his name’s not Ian Gemberling.”

  “Really? So?”

  “It’s Morris Finkelstein.”

  I suppressed a snigger. “Ian Gemberling” was far more mellifluous than “Morris Finkelstein.” “So he changed his name. Doesn’t everyone in LA do that?”

  “Probably, but that’s not the most interesting part. He went to college in Kansas.”

  “Cam, is this going to take all night? I’d like to go to bed before midnight.”

  “Guess who else went to the same college in Kansas?”

  There was a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. “Madelyn?”

  “You got it.”

  I took a minute to digest that. So not only did Ian—or Morris—and Maddy know each other, but they had known each other for years. “I don’t suppose your sources told you whether they were romantically involved?”

  “Not hardly. He’s gay, no question. He’s got a life partner, and they attend a lot of events together, publicly—I checked the LA newspaper archives. Does it matter?”

  “I don’t know,” I said slowly. The little scene I had witnessed earlier tonight hadn’t looked to me like two old buddies catching up. “Cam, I’m going to have to think about this. But you done good. Keep digging. And if I talk to Nat, I’ll see what’s up and why she isn’t responding to your calls. You haven’t told her about Peter’s program, have you? Have you seen any indication in his files that he was working with the FBI directly?”

  “No, I didn’t say anything, and she didn’t bring it up. Nothing in the files. So let me know what’s happening, will you?”

  “You’ll be the first to know.” If ever I know anything. “You coming back this weekend?”

  “Maybe. Can I let you know? Depends on how much I get done here.”

  “Okay. I should be around. And thanks, Cam. Every little bit helps.”

  “Later, sis.” He hung up.

  Leaving me more confused than ever. It could be just a common, garden-variety coincidence that Ian and Maddy had gone to the same college. But I didn’t quite believe that. It could be that there had never been the right opportunity for either one to mention that curious coincidence. Nope, I wasn’t buying that either. Therefore they were concealing the fact.

  Was that the only thing they had to hide?

  Chapter 23

  If it hadn’t been going on in my own head, I would have been amused at the mental ping-pong match the next morning. Ian had offered me a show! Whoopee! No, Ian was scheming with Maddy. Boo. But Cam had found some interesting stuff and only I knew about it. Hooray! But both Matt and Nat were stonewalling me, shutting me out of Peter’s murder investigation. Bah.

  As a rational and responsible adult I understood their position—really, I did. I had no place in the middle of a criminal investigation, even though I’d been the one to find the body. But as the self-same rational, responsible adult, I liked to feel that I had some control over my life, and it galled me that they weren’t sharing with me. If the universe was going to keep sending me dead bodies to stumble over, I wanted some compensation, or at least closure. I did not want Matt patting me on the head (figuratively) and telling me to let the big guys take care of things. Okay, I was being childish, but that was the way I felt.

  Cam was my ace in the hole, at least until he laid things out for Nat. I enjoyed the I-know-something-you-don’t-know-nyah-nyah feeling. Not very admirable, but I could live with that.

  Thursday. No classes. I could work on some glass pieces,
but I didn’t want to do too much until I figured out if Ian’s show was a reality or . . . what? Merely something to divert my attention from his other activities? Which were? As I thought about it, I realized that Ian could easily have been the mastermind behind the theft of Peter’s glass. After all, he knew the collection, and he had the expertise not only to package and transport the glass but also to sell the pieces quietly, under the table. But for the life of me I couldn’t see why he would need or want to do it. He was well established, respected in his field. Did he need the money? Did he have a grudge against Peter? If Cam’s information was correct, it wasn’t because Maddy had seduced him into doing it. Heck, for all I knew Ian had been having a torrid affair with Peter, and Peter had jilted him. No, I wasn’t going to buy that either: That was not the vibe I had gotten from Peter. Unless I was totally crazy—always a possibility I acknowledged. I didn’t think Peter had been gay, but then, I hadn’t read Ian as gay. I had no answers. I needed more information, but apart from Cam, nobody wanted to give me any.

  When I saw Fred and Gloria staring at me, I realized I had been talking out loud. Great—maybe I really was crazy. “It’s okay, guys—just trying to work a few things out.” Too bad I couldn’t get their opinion on romantic entanglements, but I had eliminated that possibility when I got them. Sometimes I wondered if some people should consider that solution. Maybe the romantic element was clouding my judgment: If I hadn’t believed I had a special relationship with Matt, would I have been more willing to accept his reticence?

  The dogs cocked their heads at me sympathetically. “All right, I’ll feed you. Then walkies, and I’m going to go to the shop, okay?” At the sounds of “feed” two tails wagged in unison. At least some problems were easy to solve.

  I was opening up the shop this morning—Allison had a class, and Nessa was off, since she worked weekends. Thursdays were usually fairly quiet, so it wasn’t a problem. I turned on the cash register and checked the phone for voice messages. All peaceful and ordinary. Throughout the morning, casual strollers wandered in and out. I answered their questions and made a few sales. Unfortunately there was not enough foot traffic to keep my mind from drifting back to the same questions: Who killed Peter, and why? Where was his collection? How long would it take to find the killer and/or the thieves? Or would they ever be found? With each day that passed, the odds declined, or so I understood. At least for the murder. Since the art objects were real and tangible, not to mention large and heavy, they wouldn’t just disappear. Someone had to help them to disappear.