2 Pane of Death Read online

  Table of Contents

  Dedication

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgements

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  A Brief History of Stained Glass

  Recipes

  Stained Glass . . .

  He lay on his back, surrounded by a pool of what had to be blood. At the moment, it was no more than a tarry stain. A lone fly buzzed around him. My knees went weak, and I sank to the floor. I didn’t need to go any closer, because there was no doubt in my mind that he was dead. That gray color didn’t belong to a living person. Besides, the cause of death was obvious: a large shard of glass protruding from his chest.

  This was my second . . . no, third dead body. How was it that I had made it through more than forty years without even a hint of violence in my life, and now within the space of a couple of months I had encountered three corpses? What had I done to deserve this?

  Berkley Prime Crime titles by Sarah Atwell

  THROUGH A GLASS, DEADLY

  PANE OF DEATH

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE: The recipes contained in this book are to be followed exactly as written. The publisher is not responsible for your specific health or allergy needs that may require medical supervision. The publisher is not responsible for any adverse reactions to the recipes contained in this book.

  PANE OF DEATH

  A Berkley Prime Crime Book / published by arrangement with the author

  PRINTING HISTORY

  Berkley Prime Crime mass-market edition / November 2008

  Copyright © 2008 by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  eISBN : 978-0-425-22501-1

  BERKLEY® PRIME CRIME

  Berkley Prime Crime Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  BERKLEY PRIME CRIME and the BERKLEY PRIME CRIME design

  are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  Acknowledgments

  Nobile claret opus, sed opus quod nobile claret Clarificet mentes, ut eant per lumina vera Ad verum lumen . . .

  —Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis,

  De Administratione

  Writing this book was a real treat for me, because I could revisit my days as a medieval art historian and talk about stained glass. In fact, I named a character after the college professor who first introduced me to the glories of medieval glass, although I doubt he ever thought I’d use what I learned from him in this particular way.

  Many thanks to my agent, Jacky Sach, who made this possible, and to my editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, who always manages to ask the right questions to make the book better. All writers should be so lucky.

  Once again I have to thank Elise Stone, who helped me to scout appropriate houses in Tucson, and her merry band of local assistants who answer all my dumb questions about Arizona (and if I have moved any mountains around, that’s my fault, not theirs). Thanks also to Lorraine Bartlett and my blog buddies on Writers Plot; to Carol Kersbergen, who I swear is promoting my books to all of Philadelphia; and to the ever-supportive Sisters in Crime (including the Guppies).

  And I can’t forget to mention those fans who wrote and asked, what’s going to happen next?

  Chapter 1

  I surveyed the glass studio with pleasure. Another good day, after a whole string of them. My pieces were all cooperating, and I had a good supply on hand to stock my shop Shards. And those were just the bread-and-butter items, the ones that sold well to the walk-in tourists who wanted an upscale souvenir of Tucson to take home and admire during their cold East Coast winters. But even better, I was happy with the more challenging individual pieces I was trying out—the ones with unknown commercial value but which gave me a great sense of personal achievement. After ten years of blowing glass, I had finally reached a peak of some sort, and I intended to enjoy every minute of it.

  I took one last glance at the studio: tools clean and back in their places, glass furnaces shut, glory holes turned off, annealer turned on. I had no classes to teach for a couple of days, and I could look forward to some uninterrupted work time. Life was good. Glassblowing was my second career, and I still felt passionate about it—and lucky to be able to do it full-time. When I’d thrown over a steady (and well-paying) job as a New York stockbroker, there had been plenty of people who told me I was crazy. When I had moved as far away from them as possible, they had written me off. But I was happy with what I had created in Tucson: a successful shop and studio, with ideal living quarters close by. I still loved working with hot glass, and much to my surprise, I had found I liked teaching others to do it as well. And the beginner’s classes were fun—people came into them wide-eyed and cautious, and most often emerged proud and eager for more.

  Why was it that when things go well, I start worrying? Everything was great: My glassblowing classes were consistently filled; the shop was showing a nice profit; I had a new employee, Allison McBride, helping out my long-term sale
sperson Nessa Spencer to cover additional hours; I was seeing a lot more of my brother Cameron, since he was courting Allison; and my formerly bleak love life was blossoming nicely, since my ex Matt and I had recently gotten back together, sort of. So what did I have to worry about?

  I turned off the lights in the studio and went through the connecting door to the shop, where Nessa was ringing up purchases—quite a few, apparently—for a couple of tourists. As I walked in she caught my eye and nodded toward the front of the shop. I followed her look and saw Madelyn Sheffield holding a large plate up to the light. I suppressed a grimace and headed over to greet her.

  Maddy was not one of my favorite people. In a parallel universe we could have been friends, since we had a lot in common: We both worked with glass, we both had shops in Tucson’s Warehouse District, we both taught classes. But the long and the short of it was, I couldn’t stand the woman. I considered myself a craftsperson; Maddy thought she was an Artist, with a capital A. She worked with flat glass, making pretty stained-glass window ornaments, ersatz Tiffany lamps, and that ilk. Okay, I’m a snob: I think that working with hot glass takes a lot more skill and dedication than cutting out charming little pieces of colored glass and sticking them together. Maybe I was a wee bit jealous, since she sold a lot of pieces—easier for tourists to pack?—but I thought her product was merely pretty, and far from inspired. Looking at her careful manicure, I had to wonder how she managed to make anything at all.

  I waited until she had returned the piece she had been examining to the shelf before greeting her. “Hi, Maddy. What brings you to this end of the street?”

  Maddy pirouetted gracefully, her filmy clothes swirling. I felt clunky beside her in my sweaty cotton tee and jeans, but swirly wouldn’t work with blazing furnaces. Besides, I outweighed her by a good twenty pounds. On me, those fabrics would look like limp rags. But the outfit worked for her, and it bolstered her artsy image. “Oh, Em, there you are! I wanted to speak with you about something important!”

  Maddy seemed to speak with whispery exclamation points at all times. I had no idea what she could want. If she was trying to recruit me to work on some arts festival, or if she wanted to display her little pieces in my shop, she’d get a fast “no” from me. No way. But since she was a colleague of sorts and it was a small community, I had to be polite. “Okay,” I said cautiously, “what’s up?”

  Her carefully made-up eyes darted around the shop, and she leaned toward me to say in a conspiratorial whisper, “I don’t want to talk about it here. Can we go somewhere? Private?”

  This was odd, coming from her. I considered the possibilities. I live over the shop, but I didn’t want to bring her into my personal space. Although I indulged myself with a brief image of my two dogs gnawing at her ankles—not that they’d ever do that. Fred, my wirehaired dachshund, and Gloria, my English bulldog, were always polite to strangers. I checked the time—barely five o’clock, so the local eateries wouldn’t be too busy yet. I would have suggested Elena’s, the restaurant nearby that was a favorite haunt of local artisans after hours, but I’d never seen Maddy there, and I wasn’t about to be the one to introduce it to her. I had an awful vision of Maddy pitching a line of adorable stained-glass bar fixtures to Elena, and shuddered. “How about El Saguaro down the street? We should be able to get a booth this time of day.”

  “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, no
t 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.”