by Sarah Atwell
Never mind that she had accused me of murder and messed up my life. I tried to feel some sympathy, for about two seconds. “But the art was gone,” I said flatly.
“Well, I didn’t know that then, did I?”
Huh? Did this woman never think things through?
Matt intervened. “Ian Gemberling took the art with him, in that truck you mentioned. We have a witness.”
Maddy didn’t look very surprised. “But what about Peter?”
“Ah, yes,” Matt said. “The autopsy results show that you did stab him, and that he hit his head when he fell, knocking him out.”
Realization flashed over Maddy’s face, making her look ten years older. “You mean, he wasn’t dead? I was sure . . . .”
“No, just unconscious. And in case you’re wondering, the blow to the head wouldn’t have killed him either. There were, in fact, two stab wounds. The first one wasn’t very deep, but then he fell and was knocked out. It was the second, deeper stab wound that killed him. He would have bled to death in minutes after that.”
“Ian,” Maddy whispered. “That bastard!” she said in a much stronger voice. “He used me! He let me go on thinking that I’d killed Peter, just so I’d keep quiet, when all the time it was him. And after everything I did for him!”
Matt interrupted. “Before you say anything else, you might want to see about that lawyer.”
Maddy was angry now. “I don’t care! I’ll waive whatever you want, and I’ll tell you what you want to know, just as long as Ian doesn’t get away with this.”
I had to say that this was interesting to watch. Maddy had morphed before our very eyes from a frail damsel to a virago, and she was about to throw Ian Gemberling to the wolves.
“You waive the right to have an attorney present?” Matt said carefully.
“Yes. Whatever. Look, here’s the story. I told you, I’ve known Ian since college. My mother helped him get started in his business—she thinks she’s a real patroness of the arts. Then she steered Peter to Ian when Peter started collecting. Ian and I, we’ve kept in touch. He’s done very well for himself, hasn’t he?”
“A bit too well, maybe?” I just had to add something here.
Maddy looked at me when she answered. “I began to think that too, after a while. But it really wasn’t my business—I mean, he’d paid my mother back years ago. And then I moved to Tucson, and Peter moved here too, and then Ian contacted me, and Peter got in touch with me. Oh, I know it was just our mothers trying to help, but I didn’t care if it meant I could see Peter.”
“Go on,” Matt said, not unkindly.
I was busy rearranging the puzzle pieces in my head. Maddy’s mother . . . Ian . . . Peter and his mother. It took me a moment to work through it. Ian knew Maddy’s mother knew Peter’s mother, so Ian planted the seed that got Maddy into Peter’s house here in Tucson. “So I bet it was Ian’s idea to get your mother to ask Peter’s mother to do a big favor for you. Just being a good friend and all.”
Maddy was still talking. “Something like that. Oh, I know my limitations—I knew I’d never get a commission like that without some help, but I wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”
Matt and I exchanged a glance at that, but there didn’t seem to be any reason to elaborate. I knew Maddy had wanted Peter; Peter had not wanted Maddy. He’d gone along with hiring Maddy to make their mothers happy, but he’d made sure she had backup for the artistic side—me. It galled Maddy, but she wasn’t going to blow the deal just because I was part of it.
Unfortunately Peter had shown an interest in me, even if it was no more than intellectual, which must have been salt in the wound to Maddy.
And Ian Gemberling had set up the whole thing. I had to admire his planning, his foresight—and his ruthlessness. “He wanted access to the house, wanted you to get around the security system, which he knew would be first-rate,” I said.
“I guess so. We hadn’t worked all that out yet. I know he met with Peter at the house—after all, he had sold works to Peter, so that would have seemed normal. You saw him there too.”
But something about her logic didn’t seem right to me. “Maddy, you said you loved Peter. Why on earth did you go along with Ian to rip Peter off?”
Anger flared in her eyes. “Because Peter cared more about those stupid glass panels than about me. He was just being kind to me, I could tell. And then Ian came along and started hinting about taking the glass, and I thought maybe if the glass was stolen I could be there for Peter.”
How stupid could this woman be? No doubt Ian had been manipulating her from the start, for his own ends, but did she really think she could comfort Peter for the loss of his magnificent collection?
Matt interrupted. “Can we please get back to the theft? Why couldn’t Ian take care of the security system himself?”
“I don’t know. We didn’t discuss all the details about whatever he was planning, believe me. We thought we had plenty of time. Although he did ask me about finding a trucker.”
I hate it when anyone says “believe me”—it usually meant they’re lying. So that was how Chas had come into the picture. Poor Chas, trying to get his business off the ground, and probably willing to look the other way about his cargo if the price was right. But he hadn’t counted on getting mixed up with murder and kidnapping. He’d just been in the wrong place at the wrong time.
“But if Ian had something planned, the whole thing fell apart when I . . . stabbed Peter.”
“Of course! He had to move fast, and that’s why he brought in the local talent—he couldn’t wait.” I looked at Matt to see if he agreed. He was looking at me with a mixture of frustration and amusement on his face.
“Do go on, Em. You seem to have things under control.”
Sarcasm didn’t sit well on him—that was my territory. I decided to ignore it. “Matt, you have Ian Gemberling in custody?”
“Yes, of course.”
“You going to talk to him?”
“Would you prefer I deputize you and let you do it?”
“What? Oh, you’re kidding. But I do want to hear his story.”
The door to the hall opened, and Nat appeared in time to hear that. “So do I. I gather you’ve had a busy day or two, Chief.”
If she said anything else, I missed it, because Cam had followed her into the room. Him I could throw myself on, so I did. “Cam! What are you doing here?”
He was prevented from answering because I had plastered myself to him. He hugged me hard then backed off. “Allison called me when you went missing, so I called Matt, and then I hopped on a plane. I ran into Nat in the lobby here. But I think I’ve got some information that will help.”
I beamed at Matt. “Then let’s go talk to Ian, shall we? If that’s all right with you, Chief.”
Matt had risen when Nat and Cam appeared, and now he held up his hand. “Slow down, all of you. There are procedures to be followed here, if you want this case to hold up in court. Ian Gemberling has not yet made any statement, nor has he asked for an attorney. But he is still a suspect, and as such it is entirely inappropriate for all of you to participate in interviewing him. That includes Ms. Sheffield here. So here’s what we’re going to do. Ms. Sheffield, I’m going to have to ask you to wait here. Nat, you’ll come with me. Em, Cam, you can observe, but I don’t want you in the room. Everybody got it?”
I didn’t like being shut out, but I could see his point. Ian was smart, and given half a chance he would weasel out of any involvement here, protesting his innocence. I was surprised when Cam spoke up.
“Matt, I think I need to be there. I’ve been working on something with Nat, and I think it has direct relevance to this case.”
Matt gave him a long look before nodding. “All right. But stick to the point. Em, I guess that means you’re going to be all by yourself.”
And didn’t he just love that? Still, at least I’d get to hear the story. “That will be just fine, Chief,” I said demurely. He could pay for it l
ater.
“Then let’s go talk to Ian.”
Chapter 28
Matt stuck me in a small room with a couple of uncomfortable-looking chairs and a television monitor. I was so dazed that it took me a moment to realize that it was one of those places I had seen in movies, and that the main on-screen attraction would be Ian Gemberling. That was cool, for about twelve seconds. I sat and watched as Matt, Nat, and Cam filed into the interrogation room, and then a few moments later, Ian Gemberling was ushered in by another officer. He didn’t look particularly rattled by the adventures of the day. But then, he’d been handling millions of dollars of stolen art, so he must think that this little arrest problem in backwater Tucson was small potatoes. I settled in to watch the show.
Matt began the process. “Ian Gemberling? Or should I say, Morris Finkelstein?”
A brief flash of distaste crossed Ian’s face. “Gemberling. I made the change legally.”
“Thank you.” Matt made a note on a piece of paper. “Are you acquainted with Natalie Karamanlis?”
“I don’t believe I’ve had the privilege,” Ian said calmly.
Nat was looking at him as though he were a particularly yummy piece of pastry and she hadn’t had dessert. “I’m with the FBI’s Art Crime Team, Mr. Gemberling.”
Ian nodded in apparent approval. “How interesting. I’ve heard about your unit—an excellent idea. It’s disgraceful how poorly the investigation of art thefts has been managed until now. I hope your group will rectify that.”
“Oh, I think I can promise that.” Nat smiled, showing a lot of teeth.
Ian sat relaxed in his chair, looking from Matt to Nat, seated at opposite ends of the table. Cam had pulled up a chair next to Nat, but apparently he didn’t merit Ian’s attention. “What can I help you with?” Ian said calmly.
Matt took his time in responding. “Mr. Gemberling, you are under arrest for the murder of Peter Ferguson. I’m sure Agent Karamanlis will have additional charges regarding the theft of Ferguson’s art collection. I need to advise you of your rights,” and he launched into the official warning that we’ve all heard on television a million times.
Ian’s reaction surprised me. “Chief Lundgren, I will waive my right to have an attorney present. I have nothing to hide, and I am eager to help you clear up this tragic situation.” He adjusted his expression to reflect the seriousness of the moment. “Peter’s death is a great loss. He was a fine man, and a connoisseur. Of course, you are aware that he purchased several items from me over the course of the past few years.”
Funny, I noticed he had completely ignored the murder accusation. Matt glanced once at Nat, who shrugged. My impression was that they were quite happy to let Ian hang himself.
“Yes, we’re aware of that. You don’t seem troubled by the murder charge.” Good, Matt had noticed it too.
“Because it’s patently ridiculous. Why would I kill the man? It would be like killing the goose that lays the golden eggs. Peter was amassing an outstanding collection of glass pieces, and it was a privilege to assist him. On what evidence do you make this absurd accusation?”
“And you have no knowledge of how Peter Ferguson died?”
“None whatsoever.”
The arrogance of the man was astonishing. Did he really think he could talk his way out of a murder charge?
“Are you sure you don’t want a lawyer, Mr. Gemberling?” Matt pressed.
“I really don’t see the need. I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for what you’ve been told.”
Matt said, “Madelyn Sheffield has stated that you asked her to help you gain access to Ferguson’s home in order to steal his art objects.”
Ian gave a short laugh. “Maddy. Well, that explains it. I’ve known Madelyn for years, as no doubt she has told you. She has always been . . . imaginative, shall we say? And a touch self-aggrandizing. I think her own life has disappointed her, so she feels compelled to embellish it, to inject some drama. What does she claim I have done?”
The man was smooth; I had to give him credit for that. He sounded so convincing. If I hadn’t known what I did, I might have bought his line. As it was, I was in a position to watch Nat’s face, and her eyes gleamed with almost feral intensity. She was clearly enjoying the moment.
Matt had assumed the role of straight man, sticking to the standard script. “Mr. Gemberling, you’ve been inside Peter Ferguson’s house?”
“Of course I have. He showed me what he was planning for the installation of his glass pieces, and I offered a few suggestions. It really was an outstanding setting for what he had in mind. So if you’re wondering how my fingerprints came to be there, there’s a perfectly innocent explanation.”
Matt made another note. Matt was not generally a note taker, and I wondered if he was making meaningless doodles just to draw out the interrogation. If he was hoping to make Ian Gemberling sweat, so far he hadn’t succeeded. “Do you know how Madelyn Sheffield came to be chosen to assist Ferguson with his installation?”
Ian crossed one leg over the other. “Ah. Well, sir, I confess that I had a small hand in that—my good deed. I knew that Maddy was struggling with her business here, and I thought that a commission like this would be a real boost. But, to be frank, I also knew that her talents were—how shall I put it?—insufficient for the scope of the project, so I did a little research and suggested to Peter that another local artisan be called in to help her.”
“Emmeline Dowell,” Matt said.
“Yes, that’s the name. Very talented, in a minor way. Certainly more so than Maddy. And, of course, Peter knew he could call on me if things went awry.”
Talented in a minor way? I didn’t harbor any illusions about my abilities, but I didn’t like hearing them dissed in such a contemptuous tone. Patronizing creep!
Matt looked down at his pad. “So let me summarize. You contend that you had no involvement in Peter Ferguson’s death?”
Ian sat up straight again and placed his hands flat on the table in front of him. “Exactly. If Maddy says otherwise, I’m afraid she’s deluded.”
“She claims that she called you, and you arrived at Peter Ferguson’s house after she had stabbed him.”
“Pure fiction, I assure you.”
Matt almost smiled. “Mr. Gemberling, we have a witness who states that you hired him to help remove Ferguson’s artworks from the house and transfer them to a truck owned by Chas Jenson. Let me remind you that Chas Jenson is also in our custody.”
Was Ian looking a little paler? But his tone was as smooth as ever. “I’m sorry, Officer, but I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Matt studied the man in front of him. “Let’s take another tack. How do you explain the events of this afternoon?”
This time Ian was not so quick to answer. “You mean, at the warehouse?”
“Yes. Ms. Dowell claims that she was forcibly seized by Chas Jenson, whom you hired, and brought to the warehouse against her will. While she was there, Madelyn Sheffield arrived, the two of you argued, and you threw Ms. Sheffield into the truck. You were overheard making plans with the trucker to dispose of both of them.”
Ian sat back in his chair once again, and I could swear that his expression held pity. I was beginning to wonder if he and Maddy had taken acting classes together at that small college in Kansas. “Officer, why would I do such a thing? I have an extremely successful business in Los Angeles. I came to Tucson to visit a client—one whom I regarded as a friend—and to touch base with a college classmate. And now you’re telling me that I’m a suspect in the murder of the first, and that the second is one of my accusers. I suggest that perhaps you should take Maddy’s accusations with a grain of salt.”
“And Ms. Dowell’s?” Matt said with great calm.
“Ms. Dowell is no doubt angry at me because I suggested that I might be able to open a few doors for her, assist her in distributing her wares, and then I withdrew my offer. As I became more familiar with the scope of her work, I came t
o find it rather pedestrian.”
Matt had been smart to stick me in here. If I had been in the room I would have been tempted to hit Ian.
“She said you offered her a show in Los Angeles.”
“Oh, come now, do you find that credible? I’ve exhibited some of the major names in the contemporary arts, and I’m afraid she is simply not in their league.”
“So you’re saying that both women are lying because they are trying to get back at you for dismissing them as second-rate talents?”
“It appears so.”
“Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that your old friend Madelyn Sheffield, the trucker Chas Jenson, the Tucson thug we arrested the other day, and Emmeline Dowell are all lying about your activities?”
Ian sat up straighter in his chair and assumed a sincere expression. “I have no idea what they have been telling you, but I assure you I am in no way involved in either the death of Peter Ferguson or the theft of his artworks.”
Matt didn’t respond to Ian’s implied question. “Then tell me, Mr. Gemberling, if this is all a fabrication, what were you doing at that warehouse this afternoon?”
I could almost see the gears turning in Ian’s head. He’d done a good job so far, cobbling together a story or evading the questions. And I had to admit, knowing Maddy as I did, I could have bought what Ian said about her. But Ian was beginning to sense undercurrents in the room. I leaned forward to see what his next move would be.
“You spoke of a trucker. Maddy uses him, and after Peter’s death he came to me and said he had some information about the missing pieces of art, and was I interested? For a price, of course. I played along, because I was concerned for the safety of the glass pieces.”
“It didn’t occur to you to contact the police or the FBI?”
“Frankly, Officer, I didn’t think you’d react quickly enough. By the time I had finished laying out my bona fides and explaining the situation, they could have been on a boat to Hong Kong. And the FBI’s track record in recovering stolen art items is less than stellar.”