2 Pane of Death (21 page)

Gemberling looked around the shop, which was, at this early hour, still barren of customers. “Perhaps you would have some time now, to show me your portfolio?”

I glanced at Allison, and she gave me a small nod to say that she could handle the shop. “Fine, I’d be happy to. But I’d like a chance to pull together my materials.” It had been a while since I had gone looking to expand my gallery exposure, and I wasn’t sure which of my pieces I had pictures of, or where I’d put them.

“Not a problem. Perhaps I could offer you lunch at my hotel, and we could go over them in a more comfortable setting?”

I thought about my cramped and crowded office, and my rather chaotic living quarters. “That would be wonderful. Where are you staying?”

When he mentioned the name of La Paloma, I quickly revised my wardrobe plans. I knew the place by reputation, but I had never set foot inside its hallowed doors. “Does noon work for you?”

“Delightful. I’ll look forward to it. A pleasure to meet you, Ms. Dowell.” He all but bowed, then departed, leaving Allison and me staring after him.

“What was that about?” Allison breathed.

“Peter’s gift from beyond the grave, I think,” I answered. “Big-league gallery owner who might want to show my glass. Wow.” I shook myself, returning to reality. “You okay with covering here? Because I really ought to throw together some stuff to show him. I’m kind of out of practice at pitching my work.”

“Not to worry, Em. We’re not exactly overwhelmed at the moment.”

She had a point. Business on a weekday seldom exceeded what one person could handle. “Bless you.” I looked down at my practical jeans and shirt. “I think I’ll run up and change too.”

“That might be wise,” she replied drily. “And I expect a full report when you return.”

 

I managed to pull together both my portfolio and my outfit in time to meet Ian Gemberling for lunch. La Paloma was nestled in the Catalina Foothills. It was perhaps the most upscale hotel Tucson had to offer, so selecting it sent a definite message about him. As I walked into the expansive lobby, I was briefly transported back to my earlier days as a stockbroker: Once I had been a regular at such posh establishments and had accepted it as my due. Now I couldn’t recall the last time I had stayed in a hotel, much less a multistar luxury hotel. For a tiny moment I wavered, wondering if I missed the so-called “good life.” And then I laughed to myself. I had left that lifestyle by choice to pursue a calling that I loved, and I had made a place for myself in the world that was uniquely mine. If Gemberling wanted to drive home the point that he had money to throw around, he had succeeded. I didn’t need his money—but I would be happy to listen to what he had to say. And I was warmed that Peter had put in a good word with him.

After announcing myself at the concierge’s desk, I tarried in the lobby, admiring the expanses of gleaming stone, until Gemberling made his appearance. “Thank you for being so prompt. Shall we move on to the restaurant?”

“Fine.”

He led the way graciously, and we were escorted without delay to a table in a quiet corner. I admired the linen tablecloth and napkins, the delicate glassware, the polished silver, the hordes of hovering waiters. Maybe Matt and I could eat here someday. After taking a quick glance at the menu, I amended my plans: Maybe Matt and I could have a drink at the bar someday. One. On the way to a taqueria. I sighed.

“I brought along some pictures of my more recent pieces,” I began tentatively.

Gemberling waved his hand peremptorily. “Let’s not spoil our meal with business. We can look at your work later. Please, tell me more about your move to Tucson. Do I understand correctly that you’re not a native?”

And we were off. Gemberling proved to be an adroit host, guiding our conversation with dexterity. I was content to let him take the lead; after all, this was his party. I didn’t feel any need to suck up to him, but neither did I want to throw cold water on what was otherwise a very pleasant interchange. So it was not until the sparse remains of dessert lay before us, and our coffee cups had been refilled, that I ventured to bring up the subject of Peter.

“Had you known Peter Ferguson long?”

“A number of years. He came to me some time ago, with a list of particular pieces or examples of works that he wanted. He wasn’t quite so successful in his business then, but he’d always had a good eye. Some of his early acquisitions came back to me for sale as he traded up, so to speak. In the end, what he had assembled was exquisite, no question.”

“I agree. I felt privileged to have seen them, much less assembled in one place.”

“Peter’s death is a terrible waste.” Gemberling shook his head. “I’d like to think he counted me among his friends. I know I’ll miss working with him.” He sat back in his chair and rubbed his hands together. “Now, what have you brought me?”

With some trepidation I brought out my binder. He cleared a space on the table, and we spent a pleasant hour or so going over the images and discussing glass art. The waitstaff left us alone, save to refill our water glasses from time to time. Gemberling proved to be well versed in contemporary glass, and a niggling little voice inside me kept wondering what I was doing in such exalted company. I was happy with what I made, but I didn’t entertain any illusions about the scope of my talents.

As I was running out of things to say, Gemberling closed the binder with a gentle hand. “Ms. Dowell,” he began.

“Em, please.”

He smiled. “And I’m Ian. Em, I think Peter’s confidence was well placed. I see definite potential here. Certainly you have some rough edges, but there is a clear progression in your work that shows promise. I’d like you to consider putting together a show, in, say, six months’ time? And perhaps I could have a hand in introducing you to a broader audience.”

A show of my own? That was heady stuff. “I’d be honored. Although it would be a challenge to pull together enough pieces in that time. Let me think about it?”

“Of course, my dear. I wouldn’t want to rush you.” A waiter appeared with a discreet folder. Ian signed something and the waiter spirited it away. “Well, this little excursion to Tucson has been unexpectedly fruitful.”

“What brought you here? Certainly not just to see me.”

“You underestimate yourself. But in truth, I came initially to spend some time with Peter and see for myself what his plans were for the collection. He spoke of the house with such enthusiasm! You know, I offered him the assistance of my gallery staff for planning his display, but he seemed to have his own ideas. What can you tell me about this local person he hired?”

“Madelyn Sheffield.” I managed to suppress a grimace. “I understand they have known each other for a long time.”

“Ah. Well, all that is for naught now, sad to say. Have you heard how the official investigation is progressing?”

I had, of course, but I wasn’t at liberty to tell anyone. “I really can’t say.” That was true, at least.

“I thought perhaps, since you are closer to events here . . . Well, no mind. I’m sure the local police will do their best. And you said the FBI is involved as well?”

“So I understand.” Of course I understood it, since the agent in question had been sitting at my table just last night. Maybe I had already said too much. “Tell me, have you had occasion to work with the FBI art theft group before?”

Ian looked momentarily perturbed. “Certainly I am aware of their activities, as all reputable members of my profession should be. But I have had no personal interaction with them, I’m happy to say. I hope they’re up to the task.” He glanced quickly at his watch. “Heaven’s, we’ve had such a delightful lunch that I completely lost track of time. I have another appointment. But may I say what a pleasure it has been to meet you and to share your work? I do hope we will be able to collaborate in the near future.” He stood up, and a flunky appeared from nowhere to pull out my chair, leaving me no choice but to stand.

“I would enjoy that.”

“Grand. I’ll be in touch, then. May I see you out?”

He guided me out of the restaurant, and we made our farewells in the lobby. I emerged into the bright sunlight and blinked, feeling as though I had just stepped from the other side of the looking glass. What had just gone on?

I retrieved my car from the parking garage and drove back to the shop slowly. Why did I feel conflicted? Peter had told me that he had admired my work, and I had been flattered. Now Ian Gemberling was telling me that Peter had talked me up to him, a renowned gallery owner. Did that ring true? Had Peter really wanted to do me a good turn?

Or was Ian really interested in what I knew about the investigation?

Was I being paranoid, looking this gift horse in the mouth? Ian could do significant things for my artistic career. Was that what I wanted? Was I really happy with my little shop and studio, turning out modest pieces for a small audience? Was I capable of more?

I thought again of Maddy. Poor Maddy, with her piddling talent for little pretty things. Was I really better than she was? I thought so; Peter had thought so. But how much better, and how far would that take me?

Stop it, Em!
I didn’t have to make a decision today. I could sleep on it. I could talk to other people about it. I could look at what I had produced over the last ten years with a critical eye, and decide if I thought my talent would carry me forward or if I had already reached my personal pinnacle. Or maybe Ian would never get in touch with me again, and I would be spared making any decision at all.

It wasn’t until I pulled into my parking space behind the shop that I realized that Ian had said he had come to Tucson to see Peter—but Peter had been dead since last week. Why was Ian still here? Certainly not just to see me. Did I buy his explanation that he was eager to help track down the art? Nat hadn’t mentioned any approach from him.

What was Ian Gemberling doing here?

I was still trying to decide what I really thought about Ian’s offer when I got back to the shop. Allison looked up eagerly when I walked in. “So, tell me all about it.”

“Nice lunch. Nice place. He may want to give me a show at his gallery.”

Allison’s face lit up. “Oh, Em, that’s grand!” Then, noticing my lack of enthusiasm, she faltered. “Isn’t it?”

I laughed. “I’m sorry—don’t I look properly excited? I am—I think. But I wonder if I’m really up to it. It would mean a lot of work for me in the next few months, time and effort I wouldn’t be giving to the shop.”

“Think of the publicity, though.”

“There is that. I don’t know—maybe I’m just in shock. I mean, this came out of the blue, and I haven’t had time to digest it.”

“Your work will win him over. I’m so happy for you, Em. You should be thrilled!”

“I guess. Give me a little time to get used to it. Did I miss anything here?”

Allison shook her head. “A few sales. Oh, I had time to go over your supply inventory, and I think you’re running low on a few things.”

“Thanks. You’re probably right. Let me change clothes and stash my portfolio, and I’ll get on it. Be right back!”

I went upstairs, greeted Fred and Gloria, who raised their heads to acknowledge my existence and went back to sleep, then slipped back into my working jeans and T-shirt. I felt like Cinderella coming back from the ball. It had been fun to meet an important gallery owner for a posh lunch, but it all seemed a little unreal. Right now I needed to get some grunt work done, to keep the day-to-day business going—while I contemplated dreams of glory in the Los Angeles art scene.

Now that Allison had reminded me, I realized that I was in fact running short of raw materials, and I had to do something about it. I didn’t use standard shippers like the post office or UPS for several reasons. Cost was a big one: The supplies I ordered came in lots that weighed more than a hundred pounds. When I had started up my business a decade ago, every penny had mattered, and when one of my suppliers had suggested using his trucker, Tim Bernowski, I had jumped at the chance. That vendor had gone out of business, but Tim and I had struck up a friendship and we had worked out our own arrangement. Plus he’d always been willing to help me muscle the heavy barrels or bags of cullet into my storage area, which I’d appreciated. Unfortunately he was gone now, and I needed to find a new trucker. And while I might have a little more money to spend than I had when I started out, I had gotten spoiled working with an independent hauler, and I wasn’t sure how to find a new one. Something I had to think about.

I spent some time putting together a list of what supplies I needed, then went back to the shop to spell Allison, and the rest of the day passed quickly. As we were closing up, a thought hit me. “Allison, do you have any plans for the evening?”

She looked up from the receipts she was sorting. “I’ve some reading I should do, but it’s not urgent. Did you need something?”