Free 2 Pane of Death by Sarah Atwell Page B

silly just standing there, fretting because the door was open and it made me nervous. I told the inner voice to shut up and stepped into the cool dark hallway, closing the door behind me. “Peter?” I called out. My voice echoed off the walls, but I could hear no one stirring. Even the air was still, as though no one had used it lately.
    I moved farther into the house, calling out again. “Peter? Where are you?” Nothing.
    I looked around me, and everything seemed normal. Of course, there was very little to disturb, since the house was still unfurnished. No lights on, but there was still plenty of daylight, so that didn’t mean anything. But the alarm system was not armed. . . . Now I really was getting nervous.
    I walked into what we had dubbed the Great Room, the largest one with the most spectacular views. And then I saw him.
    He lay on his back, surrounded by a pool of what had to be blood, though at the moment it was no more than a tarry stain. A lone fly buzzed around it. 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 on 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?
    But at least I knew what I had to do now. I fished in my bag for my cell phone and punched the speed-dial for Matt. He answered on the second ring, sounding distant and official. “Chief Lundgren.”
    I took a deep breath. “Matt, I’m at Peter Ferguson’s. He’s dead.”
    As chief of police, Matt had long since learned not to ask stupid questions. “You sure?”
    “Yes, I’m sure he’s dead,” I said with some asperity. “The blood’s been dry for a while.” Actually I wasn’t sure how long, since the dry Arizona air sucks moisture out of everything—fast. I knew when I had last talked to him, but after that, it could have been any time. “I haven’t touched anything. At least not this time. Not even the body.”
    Matt sighed. “Okay, stay there. I’ll get the team together.” After an infinitesimal pause, he added, “Are you all right?”
    “I guess. Better than Peter, anyway.”
    “We’ll be there in fifteen. Sit tight.” He rang off after getting the address from me.
    I wished that I hadn’t known how a murder investigation worked, but at least I had friends in the right places. Matt was on his way, and he would figure this out. I stuffed my phone back into my bag. The initial shock had worn off, and I began to look around from my spot on the floor. That was when I realized that the glass panel that should have been in the room was gone.
    That got me to my feet. I pivoted slowly, checking the rest of the room. After all, Peter could have moved it for some reason. No, it was not in the room, and there was nowhere to hide anything that size. Nor was there any packing material in evidence.
    At that point I turned without thinking and ran to the adjoining room. Same thing: no panel. It was as though it had never been there. I went from room to room, and the story was the same. Peter’s collection was definitely not here.
    Maybe he had sent them out for cleaning. Or framing. Or he had stuck them in some special vault while he finished construction on the house. No, that didn’t make sense—he had asked me out specifically to see the last one today. So it should be here, and it wasn’t. Stolen?
    I shivered, despite the heat. Peter dead, the artworks missing. But making off with multiple panels of stained glass would not have been easy. You didn’t just pick one up and walk out with it under your arm.
    I made my way slowly back to the entrance hall in time to welcome the police, with Matt