2 Pane of Death (2 page)

“All right. But right now!”

Nessa had finished up with the customers, sending them on their way with their wares carefully wrapped. She eyed me expectantly, with a wicked gleam in her eye: She knew how I felt about Maddy. “Nessa, can you cover? I’ll be back before six.” I hoped.

“Certainly, Em. It’s been quiet today. If you’re not back by then, I can close up. Oh, Allison said she’d be in late tomorrow—she has to register for one of her second-semester classes, and the professor wanted to talk to her. She should be here by ten.”

“Not a problem. I can come down early.” Shortly after arriving from Ireland as a teenager for a summer almost two decades ago, Allison had married a smooth-talking guy who turned out to be trouble—and after years of suffering under his oppressive thumb, she’d finally summoned up the courage to leave him and was now taking the opportunity to explore a lot of new things, including classes at the university. She worked part-time in my shop, and Nessa and I helped her juggle her working schedule to accommodate classes. It was a pleasure to watch her bloom.

I turned to Maddy. “Okay, let’s go.”

As we walked the short blocks to El Saguaro, Maddy prattled on about this and that. Since she had requested this meeting, I wasn’t about to work to make conversation. I nodded to a few familiar faces along the way, and checked out shop windows. It was time to shift items in my own display again, and I was looking for ideas. At the restaurant I led the way, plunging into the interior, then waiting a moment until my eyes adjusted to the dark. As I had hoped, it was fairly empty, so I headed for a corner booth and settled in. A young waiter approached quickly. “I’ll have a beer—Corona. What about you, Maddy?”

“Oh, just an iced tea would be fine for me. Please.” She simpered at the waiter, who blushed.
Why did that work?
I wondered, not for the first time. If I tried it, someone would probably offer me an antacid.

The waiter nodded and quickly reappeared with our drinks, which he deposited on the table with a flourish, earning another smile from Maddy. He went away happy. I turned to face Maddy. “Okay, why all the secrecy? What’s this about?”

Maddy took her time adding sugar to her tea, squeezing lemon into it, stirring it. I was getting ready to throw something at her when she finally spoke. “Em, I need your help.”

I tried not to let my surprise show. This was certainly unusual—not the request, maybe, but the fact that she’d admitted needing something from me. “Okay, I’m listening.”

She sighed. “It’s complicated. Well, let me say for a start that I’ve been offered this absolutely tremendous opportunity—a commission, I guess you’d say—to do something unprecedented and spectacular. It could make my name in artistic circles. I mean, Em, this is big, really big.” Her eyes darted around the dark interior, as if looking for eavesdroppers.

I was becoming more and more mystified. I wasn’t sure what would be considered “big” in the stained-glass world, and I couldn’t for the life of me see where Maddy, with her mediocre talent, might fit into it. “Go on.”

She leaned forward, her hands clasped on the table. “Em, can I trust you?”

“Yes.”
Cut to the chase already, lady
. “I won’t say anything to anyone else, if you don’t want me to.”

“Good. Thank you. It’s like this, you see . . . You’ve heard of Peter Ferguson?”

I had to stop and think for a moment. “You mean, the software guy?”

“Yes, that’s right. What do you know about him?”

Where was she headed with this? “Genius programmer, pretty good entrepreneur.” My brother Cam, a software engineer in San Diego, had mentioned Ferguson to me on more than one occasion—and it was tough to miss the profiles that appeared in
Newsweek
and on CNN and most other public sources. “Didn’t he just retire?”

“I don’t know if ‘retire’ is the right word. He decided he’d accomplished all he set out to do, so he sold the rights to the programs and shut down. And he’s bought a house in Tucson!” She looked at me to see if I was properly impressed.

I wasn’t, particularly. There are plenty of rich folk in Tucson, and I rarely if ever crossed paths with them. What did one more matter? “So?”

Another quick look around. A few more people had drifted in, but there was no one sitting near us. “He’s remodeling this wonderful house on the east side of the city, near the national park, you know? And he’s asked me to help him with part of the design.”

Now I really was stumped. Maddy made glass fripperies. What did she know about architectural design? “That’s nice,” I said noncommittally.

She must have picked up on my skepticism. “No, not with the actual remodeling. But”—her voice dropped even lower, so that I had to strain to hear her—“he’s got this fabulous collection of glass panels, and he wants me to help him showcase them.”

Ah, now I could see the light at the end of the tunnel. Interesting—I had never heard Ferguson’s name mentioned in connection with glass art, but he certainly had the money to acquire whatever his heart desired, if the news reports of the sale of PrismCo were anywhere near true. Why he had chosen Maddy of all people to help him with setting up a display boggled me, but it was none of my business. Or was it? After all, she had asked me to help her with something. It was about time I found out what that “something” was.

“Maddy, what do you need me for?”

She gave me a calculating glance—trying to figure out which story to give me, or maybe how gullible I was. “Em, let me be frank. What Peter envisions”—I noted the use of his first name—“is a free-flowing space that integrates the stark scenery of the Arizona desert with the lush color of centuries worth of glass. He aims for nothing less than to capture the light of the present and filter it through the ‘lights’ of the ages.” She stopped to gauge the effect of her statement.

I wanted to gag—she sounded like the worst combination of a florid art history text and a Tucson tourism brochure. If Peter talked like this, they were a match made in heaven. And I still didn’t see where I fit. “Okay, he wants to install his art panels to take advantage of Arizona light. Got it. Not a bad idea. But what do you need me for?”

A brief flash of pain crossed over Maddy’s face. “Em,” she said carefully, “this is a really important commission, and I want to be sure I get it right. I could use an outside eye, just now and then. And he’s already said he wants glass lighting fixtures to coordinate with his pieces, and I told him I knew just the person to do it.”

Ah. The bait. Making pretty lamp shades for the big cheese, while Maddy got all the glory. There must be more to it than that. “I assume he’ll pay for this?”

“Of course he will.” She mentioned a figure; I swallowed hard. For that amount of money, I might even make glass Mickey Mouses. Mice. Whatever.

But I’d still be stuck working with Miss Maddy, and it would probably eat up a lot of my time—time that might be better spent working on my own pieces. On the other hand, if the publicity was good . . . “There will be some press coverage, I assume?”

Did she look relieved? “Of course. I’m sorry, I thought you would assume that. Your name would definitely be associated with this project, and it will be highly visible, I assure you—in the right circles.”

It was tempting, particularly those dollar signs, but I still wasn’t convinced. “Maddy, before I sign on for anything, I want to talk to the guy, get his take on what he wants, scope out how much work this would take. I don’t know if I want to get involved if it’s going to eat up huge chunks of my time.” Or if he wanted me to turn out dreck.

She stared into space, as if thinking. It must have been painful, based on her expression. Finally she answered. “I think that could be arranged. Are you free tomorrow?”

Now it was my turn to be surprised. “He’s in town now?” I hadn’t seen any mention in the press, but then, I didn’t have a lot of time to read the papers, much less watch the local news.

Maddy nodded solemnly. “Don’t say anything—he’s trying to keep a low profile. He comes and goes, since the house isn’t quite livable yet, but he wants it finished within a few months. And he’s very hands-on. He wants to know what’s going into the house, down to the smallest detail.”

That could spell trouble, I reflected. If—and it was still a big if—I agreed to do this, I would insist on artistic control of my own products. No way was I going to turn out crap just to make Peter Ferguson happy, especially if it was going to get any publicity. But I decided to reserve judgment until I had met and talked to the man.

Whoa, Em. How cool is this?
A one-on-one with a national figure, one who had more money than God, or at least the Vatican. Something to talk about, whether or not I took the job. Sure, I’d be happy to meet the guy, at least this once.

“I think I can clear my schedule for tomorrow, Maddy. What time?”

“Shall we say morning? Ideally you’ll have to see the place at different times of day, so you can see how the light falls, but I want you to have an idea of the space. And talk to Peter, of course. Let me tell you, he has a good eye. Oh, and I should drive. I don’t know if you could get in.”

I was afraid she would ask me to wear a blindfold next. All this cloak-and-dagger stuff seemed kind of silly to me—we’ve had celebrities and millionaires in Tucson for quite awhile, and they always kept a low profile.

“One condition, Maddy: I get to tell my brother Cam.” When she started to protest, I went on. “He’s completely trustworthy. And if he learns that I’ve met with Peter Ferguson without telling him, there’ll be hell to pay, and I’ve got to live with him the rest of my life. Deal?”

“Deal,” Maddy said reluctantly. “But no one else—not your shop people or your customers. Agreed?”

“Agreed.” I figured there was no point in telling her about Matt, who just happened to be Tucson’s chief of police, if she didn’t already know. And since I wasn’t even sure I’d be going through with this, I didn’t need to fill him in yet.

“Good.” She was definitely relieved now. “I’ll swing by about ten, all right?” She raised her glass. “To a rewarding collaboration.”

I raised mine in response, feeling a small tingle of excitement. If I could keep any control over my part in this project, it might even be fun—especially if I got to hobnob with someone of Peter Ferguson’s stature. Apparently I was a groupie at heart. “Hear, hear.”

Maddy and I parted ways outside El Saguaro, after she had generously picked up the tab. I walked back slowly, turning over what she had said. Something still didn’t feel right. Why would a computer mogul worth millions pick artsy dabbler Madelyn Sheffield to execute an important commission? How had they even crossed paths? I’d have to ask—if I decided to get involved at all.

Still, if I was honest with myself, I was excited about the prospect of meeting someone of Peter Ferguson’s reputation, up close and personal. I didn’t hang out with a lot of celebrities, so it would be a new experience. That still didn’t mean I would agree to Maddy’s proposition. I took my work seriously, and I wouldn’t compromise it just for the glamor of the gig. After all, what good was terrific publicity if the product was trash?

As I approached my shop I could see that the interior lights were off, so Nessa had closed up and gone home, as she’d said she might. That was fine with me: She knew the business as well as I did, and there was no point wasting time on a slow day. Besides, I was itching to go home and call Cam to fill him in on my prospective brush with computer stardom.

I climbed the exterior staircase to my apartment above the shop. I had purchased the building more than ten years earlier, before the Tucson arts scene had taken off. It had been a risky investment at the time, but now I could pat myself on the back for a brilliant business decision. Right. At the time I had been scared to death, and the decrepit building was the only place I could afford that had both viable work and sales space as well as living space. I had done most of the rehab of the former factory by myself, and I was happy with the results.

As I unlocked my door, my doggie welcoming committee surged forward to greet me: Fred, who took his role as alpha male seriously, and Gloria, who was willing to wait for her share of affection while Fred ran in circles around my ankles. He tried to boss her, she mothered him, and I adored them both.

“Hey, guys, you ready for a walk?” Tails wagged in unison. I grabbed two leads, picked them up, and headed back downstairs. We spent a productive fifteen minutes investigating all the new smells around the trash cans in the alley behind the shop. I dutifully picked up the doggie by-products in plastic bags, deposited them in the trash, and then hoisted the pups one under each arm and carried them up the stairs.

“Food time.” More excited dashing in circles. I scooped out some wet food and laid it down. Finally, duty done, I went to the phone to call my brother.

My brother is the dearest person in the world to me. Our parents are both dead, but they had never been warm and fuzzy types, and as a result Cam and I had formed a tight bond. Eight years younger than I, Cam had been a quiet, studious boy, and had suffered the usual slights that nerds seem to attract. I had done all that I could to encourage him in his academic interests, and when, like so many of his species, he had discovered the wonderful world of computers, I had heaved a sigh of relief. He had been moderately successful with the environmental analyses that his California company was renowned for; and he was still unattached, even though he was a sweet and considerate man. At least,
I
thought so, but I have to admit I’m slightly biased. I had just begun to worry about him when he fell head over heels for Allison McBride on short acquaintance. I had no problem with that, since I admired Allison and considered her a friend. But rather than latch on to him, Allison was taking time to find out who she really was, which frustrated my brother no end. I was caught in the middle: I applauded her choice, but I ached for Cam. Still, I held on to the hope that things would work out for them in the long run.