2 Pane of Death (23 page)

Not that Maddy had the smarts to grasp the intricacies of a computer program like the one Cam had described—but then, neither did I.
No, Em, be fair. You’re buying into the whole dumb blonde act.
From what little I had seen, Maddy relied on her looks and her physical charms to get ahead, rather than on her putative creative talents. But who was I to judge? She and I were peers of a sort: We both managed artisanal shops in the same neighborhood, and I knew exactly what that required. So if she had survived this far, she must have some ability—or a benefactor with deep pockets. Maybe I needed to look past Maddy’s shiny surface and see if there was any substance lurking beneath. And since she had opened the door with her boozy confidences the other night, I might as well follow up.

Tuesday: no classes today, just hands-on glasswork. Nessa was opening the shop, and Allison had classes at the university. A nice, ordinary day. Hopefully one without dead bodies or interactions with law enforcement officials.

Fred and Gloria watched with eager eyes as I filled their food bowls and water dishes. When they had finished inhaling their morning ration, I asked, “Hey, kids, you want to help me?” Two tails wagged in unison. All right, then: I would combine our morning walk with a quick and unannounced visit to Maddy’s shop and see how my faithful companions responded to Maddy. In the past I had found that their doggy instincts were pretty accurate, and the people they liked were invariably good people. They had even taken to Nat, although the pizza may have helped. But I had no reason to distrust Nat; she was playing things a little loose, but if she wanted to make her presence felt in her new position, solving a major, high profile theft would go a long way toward that. Solving Peter’s murder would just be icing on the cake to her, though apparently Nat was smart enough to see that she’d be better off working with Matt than working around him.

I checked my watch—just enough time to go down and check in with Nessa, then arrive at Maddy’s shop as she was opening. A perfect plan.

Nessa was already in the shop, dusting the shelves—a never-ending task in Tucson’s dry climate—when I followed the dogs in. “Good morning, dears!” She knelt to exchange greetings with Fred and Gloria. I waited until they were done, and Nessa straightened slowly—her sixtyish knees creaking. “And how are you this lovely morning?”

“So far, so good. I had an interesting discussion yesterday.” After sharing the news with Allison, I still wasn’t sure how I felt about Ian Gemberling, but Nessa would be hurt if she didn’t hear it from me first. “One of Peter Ferguson’s art dealers took me to lunch and said he might want to give me a show in his LA gallery.”

“Wouldn’t that be wonderful!” Nessa beamed.

I shrugged. “Maybe. Probably. I’m still thinking about it. It would mean a lot of work, and I’d have to juggle my schedule around. And . . .”

“What?” Nessa asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I’m not sure I want to play in the big leagues. I like my life the way it is.”

Nessa regarded me steadily. “Then you’re a lucky woman. But you’ll give it some thought?”

“Of course.” I smiled at her. “What, you’re angling for a raise?”

“Of course not, dear. What you pay me is more than fair. But as a single woman, and, if I may say it, not young, you do have to consider your future.”

“Gee, thanks, Nessa.” But she did have a point, and she was in a position to say so: When she had come to work for me, years ago, it was after a long spell during which many local employers had gently rejected her as “too old.” I don’t know what I would have done without her, and she could keep working with me as long as she wanted. “Yes, I’m still thinking about it. I guess I’m just surprised. We should all have such happy surprises, right?”

“And it’s well deserved. You’re quite talented, you know.”

“I’m glad you think so. And I guess it’s nice to have other people believe it too. Well, enough wallowing in my brilliance. If you can handle the shop, I thought I’d take these guys on an errand.”

“You go right ahead.”

I left, feeling buoyed up. Having people like Peter Ferguson and Ian Gemberling tell me I was a good artist still felt unreal, but having Nessa say the same thing meant something to me.

The pups and I walked the few blocks to Maddy’s shop. I loved being out and about as the Warehouse District woke up in the morning, and I seldom had the opportunity. Since I had lived and worked here for nearly a decade, I qualified as an old-timer, and I had certainly witnessed many positive changes in the neighborhood. What had been a rather seedy industrial district had gradually transformed itself into a vibrant artists’ community, without slopping over into tourist kitsch. Our reputation had spread beyond Tucson’s limits, drawing in out-of-towners with disposable income, and everyone benefited.

I approached Maddy’s shop slowly from the opposite side of the street, studying it. I have to admit I’m a glass snob, and I regard making pretty bits of flat glass as definitely second class compared to working in hot glass. Still, Maddy’s shop window twinkled—there was no other way to put it. She had hung a variety of colorful suncatchers, some embellished with crystals, at different levels, so that they turned and sparkled in the morning light. The overall effect was quite pretty—and eye-catching. I gave her points for visual marketing as I approached the door. Peering in through the glass panel, I could see her inside behind the register. She looked up when I rapped, and came around to let me in.

“Why, good morning, Em. What brings you around so early?” She politely ignored the fact that I had never dropped in before, in the two or more years she had been here.

“I was walking the dogs”—I nodded toward my dual excuses at my feet—“and they led me in this direction, so I thought I’d stop by and say hi.”

Maddy bent down and made cooing noises. “Ooh, what pretty doggies! Are you good doggies?”

To their credit, Fred and Gloria maintained a dignified demeanor as Maddy gushed over them. They allowed her to rub their heads. Based on their muted response, I thought they were reserving judgment about her. At least they hadn’t condemned her outright—although I had never known them to be downright rude, except in the case of a few armed thugs, when it was more than justified.

Maddy stood up again. “You’ve never been here, have you?” she asked.

“I guess not. You have time to give me a quick tour?”

“Of course. This is my display area, and in the back is where I teach classes and keep my supplies.” She led the way to a spacious room dominated by a couple of large tables. There were light tables at the sides for laying out the glass, and the perimeter of the room was lined with shallow cubbyholes holding vertical stacks of flat glass pieces, arranged by color and clearly labeled as to type. I was impressed—and I was always cheered by colorful displays.

“Very nice,” I said. “I see you’ve got some Blenko . . . .” We wandered about, talking shop, and my estimation of her skills went up a notch. At least she knew her materials, and she was doing a good job of balancing her teaching and sales activities, which was never easy, as I knew well. Finally we were interrupted by chimes from the front—her first customers. I followed her out into the front room and waited while she greeted two tourists, then retreated to let them browse.

I prepared to make my escape. “Well, I’ll leave you to your work—I’ve got to get these two back home. Oh, one more thing—who handles your shipping?”

She dragged her eyes away from the customers and back to me. “An independent trucker. Jackson? Johnson?” She wrinkled her brow. “I’d have to look up the name.”

“Could you? Because I lost my last trucker, and I need to find a new one before I start running out of supplies.”

“I, oh . . . well, all right. I think I have a card in the back somewhere. Let me go look.” She disappeared into the back of the shop again, while I admired her window display from the reverse side. It still looked pretty good. Maybe I had underestimated Maddy.

“Here we go.” Maddy emerged from the back and handed me a business card. “He’s been very dependable so far.”

“Thanks,” I said. The name on the card was Chas Jenson. I tucked it into my jeans pocket. If this worked out, at least I’d gotten one good thing out of our collaboration. “Well, I’ve got work to do, and I need to get these two back first. Thanks for the tour.” I gathered up the leashes and headed for the door, tossing a wave to Maddy as I left.

As the three of us made our way back toward the shop through now-busy streets, I reconsidered my original estimation of Maddy. Her shop had surprised me: It had been attractive, well laid out, with a fair sampling of pieces. Despite her come-hither demeanor, she appeared to be a fairly competent businesswoman, and I had to respect that. Maybe we had just gotten off on the wrong foot. Maybe she had seen me as a threat to her relationship with Peter, whatever that was. But Peter and his wonderful commission were gone now, and Maddy and I were back where we had started, members of the same small crafts community. We could certainly get along, couldn’t we? I looked down at the dogs, and they looked back at me soberly. All right, then—back to business.

I took Fred and Gloria upstairs and settled them, then joined Nessa in the shop for a while. The crackle of the business card in my pocket reminded me that I needed to make a call. I went to my small office, pulled out the card, and punched the number into my phone. It wasn’t a local prefix—a cell phone, maybe?

A male voice answered on the second ring. “Jenson Trucking.”

“This is Em Dowell in Tucson. I’m a glassblower and I order a lot of supplies that are both heavy and fragile. Maddy Sheffield in town here said you do business with her, and I wondered if we could talk about your services?”

“Em, is it? Sure, I’d be happy to pick up some more business in your area. You want to get together, and you can tell me what you need? As it happens, I’m in Tucson right now. I can stop by later today.”

Maybe this would be a lot easier than I had thought. “Sounds good to me. I’ll be around all day.” I spelled out my address and added my phone number. “See you later, then. And thanks.”

“Sure thing.”

When he hung up, I wondered if I even knew what questions I should ask, after using one trucker for so many years. But all I really wanted was someone reliable and affordable. At least I’d taken a step forward, and if all went well, I had solved my trucking problem with one phone call. Not bad work.

After lunch I finally ended up back in my studio, where the clear glass in the furnace called to me. It was easy to lose myself in the rhythm of glassmaking, and that was one of the things I loved about it. I’d been a good student, and a successful professional, but I’d always felt something was missing in my life—until, on a whim, I had taken a weekend glassblowing class and gotten hooked. There was something so primal and timeless about working with glass. Molten glass was like fire made solid, and what emerged from the process could outlive me. Or could turn into a shapeless mess. Even that element of uncertainty was appealing to me, since it kept me on my toes and kept challenging me.

The next time I looked at a clock it was after four, and someone was rapping at my back door. I put the piece I had just completed in the annealer and went to open it.

“Em Dowell?” The young man standing in the alley looked barely out of high school, but the truck parked behind him was in good shape. “I’m Chas Jenson.”

“Hi! Come on in.”

He walked into the studio and looked around appreciatively, while I checked him out. He
was
young, but he looked strong and sturdy, and not too cocky.

“Nice place you’ve got here,” he said.

“Thanks. I laid out the shop myself. Listen, the storeroom is over here, and I’ve made a list of the supplies that’re running low and the vendors I use. Can you tell me a bit about how you operate? I mean, is it just you, or do you have partners, or employees?” The last was a sop to his ego, since he didn’t look old enough to be the boss of anyone.

He took the list from me and smiled pleasantly. “What kind of rates were you paying?” When I mentioned a number, which I knew hadn’t changed in the last five years, he said, “Might have to adjust the rates a little. But you’ve got pretty regular shipments, don’t you? I could give you a one-year deal . . . .”

I sighed inwardly. We dickered over details for a few minutes, and I showed him the kind of items I ordered most often, and the schedule. In the end we shook hands on a new and only slightly more expensive arrangement, and I took him out through the front so he could meet Nessa.

“Chas, this is Nessa Spencer. Sometimes she puts in my orders and receives them, so you’ll probably be working with her now and then. We all set?”

He tore his eyes away from the bright glass pieces arrayed around the room. “What? Oh, yeah, we’re good. You’ll let me know when you put in that order?”

“I’ll do that.” I was about to say good-bye when a thought hit me: Whoever had stolen Peter’s artworks needed to get them out of town, and the load was large enough to require a truck. I realized I knew very little about trucking, but here was a real live trucker standing in front of me. “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure,” Chas replied.

“Look, I’ve used only one company since I arrived here, so I never did a lot of research into shipping.” When he started to look worried, I held up a hand. “No, I’m not complaining about our deal. But I wondered . . . suppose I was a tourist, say, and I bought this big thing, like a piece of furniture from an antique store, and wanted to ship it to Florida, and it’s too big to wrestle to the post office. So who would I call?”

“Me.” He grinned. “No, seriously, if the vendor of the whatever-it-is didn’t have any connections, and you wanted a long-haul shipper, you could ask around or check the phone book, or there’s this website that can match you up with truckers and where they’re going. I’ve been thinking of signing up with them.”