Button Holed (9 page)

He was still talking when I hung up.

And I was still shaking my head in wonder at the audacity of the man when the phone rang again. I grabbed it. “What are you, a bonehead?” I demanded. “No means no, Kaz. Not maybe, or I’ll think about it, or—”

“Is this the Button Box?” The woman’s voice stopped me cold. “Estelle, here. Estelle Marvin.”

I froze. Right before I cringed.

Boy, did I cringe.

Estelle Marvin was a legend, a woman who’d built a beautiful-living empire on the cornerstone of her phenomenally successful cable TV crafts show. Scrapbooking? It may not have been her idea originally, but Estelle had transformed it to high art. Knitting? With Estelle’s encouragement, thousands of women had picked up needles. Quilting? Crafters everywhere looked forward to her monthly patterns and bought her books and her calendars and the line of greeting cards that featured her bold designs.

Estelle did it all, and she did it all with sass and spunk and a flair for promotion that gave new meaning to the word.

Estelle was to the genteel world of crafting what a hurricane was to the Caribbean. Not exactly a refreshing breeze, but one that sure made people sit up and take notice. We’d met a time or two, and I had always been appropriately awestruck.

Now I’d called her a bonehead.

I whispered a prayer of thanksgiving; at least she couldn’t see my fiery cheeks. “Hello, Estelle.” I forced myself to be all business. “I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else. Of course, you’re not—”

“A bonehead?” She barked out a laugh. “I’ve been called worse. Don’t worry about it. Listen, I was taking a look at this morning’s paper and thinking that maybe now you’ll reconsider my offer.”

I should have known this was coming, but I’d been so distracted—by the murder and the mess and the phone calls—I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Now, a curl of ice wound its way through my insides. By now, I should have been used to the sensation. Every time Estelle and I talked, I ended up feeling like I’d just been put through the Slurpee machine at the local 7-Eleven.

“Offer?” I squeaked out the word. “You mean, about me being on your show?”

“You make it sound like a death sentence or something. Sorry!” She didn’t sound it; another laugh burst out of her. “I guess that’s not exactly an appropriate word to use considering what happened to poor Kate.”

“But what happened to poor Kate, that’s exactly why you’re calling.”

“Of course it is! What, you think I really am a bonehead?” My guess is that the majority of her adoring fans didn’t know the well-dressed, perfectly coifed, gorgeously turned out doyen of do-it-yourselfers smoked like a chimney. I heard her haul in a breath along with a lungful of cigarette smoke. “Come on, I’ve been asking you to do this button segment on my show for months. Now is the perfect opportunity. You and those damn buttons of yours . . . Well, after this, you’re going to be hotter than ever.”

“I don’t want to be hot. Not because of a murder.”

“Of course you do. Everybody wants to be famous and successful. It doesn’t matter how you get there; what matters is making it to the top. If that’s not what you want, why are you in business?”

She was right. Of course, she was. But . . .

I braced myself for the fight I knew was coming. “You know I’d be happy to do it, Estelle. I’ve told you that before. If we could just rework your concept for the segment and . . . and find another name for it.”

I pictured her words whooshing out of her along with a stream of smoke. “What’s wrong with
the Button Babe
? My God, Josie, it’s not like anybody takes any of this life-can-be-beautiful shit seriously.”

“I take my buttons seriously. And my business.” I’d told her this before; maybe that’s why I thought I shouldn’t have had to mention it again. Why I sounded tentative and intimidated. “I want to be thought of as an authority, not as a babe. And that whole idea of yours, about having a sort of cabana boy bring out the trays of buttons, and about me lounging there, sipping a drink and talking about buttons . . .” Just thinking about it made my knees weak. If there was a chair around not piled with buttons, I would have flopped into it.

“Oh, come on! You’re young. You’ve got nice hair, decent skin, that adorable little bowed mouth. You’re cute.” Facts were facts. At least that’s what Estelle’s tone of voice said. “As cute as a button. And I’ve told you before, the whole setup is perfect. People will love the idea of a nerdy little button babe being waited on hand and foot by a handsome hunk. Let’s face it, most people hear
button collector
and they think old fuddy-duddy. We could give buttons a whole new image!”

We certainly could. And I was 100 percent certain it wasn’t the one I wanted to present to my fellow collectors or my customers. Rather than argue a point I knew she’d never understand, I went for the obvious. “I’ve told you, Estelle, just thinking about getting in front of the cameras makes me stutter and stammer. Add a hunky guy in a loincloth and—”

“Ooh, loincloth! I hadn’t thought of that. We could give it a sort of ancient empire theme. I’m making a note of that now. Loincloth—you’re a genius!”

“No, I’m not. I’m an introvert.”

“Yeah, me too.” She didn’t give me a chance to respond to this barefaced lie; she stormed right on. “A little coaching from our producer, and you’ll sound like a pro. A little makeup will work wonders, too.”

Oh yeah, that was plenty encouraging.

“My customers won’t like it if I don’t come across as studious and serious.”

“Overrated.” I couldn’t help but picture her flicking one perfectly manicured hand in my direction. “We’ll make it fun. Hey, I hear there are actually old buttons that show pornographic scenes. We could—”

“No. Really, Estelle, you know I’d be thrilled. You know I’ll think about it. But not until we can handle the segment with style and class. And this is really coming at a bad time, anyway, what with Kate—”

“Hell, half of what I know about publicity, I learned from Kate. She was a good friend of mine, you know, God rest her soul. In fact, we’re doing a show on the perfect wedding, and she was going to be my guest.”

This was news, but Estelle didn’t give me the opportunity to stop and think about it.

“Good God!” she roared. “Nobody was more uppity than Kate, and even she recognized the value of cutting loose and having some fun on my show.”

“Was there a cabana boy involved?”

Estelle thought this was very funny. It took a minute or more for her to stop laughing and hacking. “You’ll think about it, won’t you?” she asked, and before I could respond, she answered herself. “Of course you will. You’re a smart cookie, and you’ve got a good business head on your shoulders. You’re not going to pass up an opportunity this juicy.” She didn’t wait for me to answer. Before I knew it, I was listening to the buzz of a dial tone in my ear.

I hung up. “I’m turning off the phone,” I told Stan, and I did just that. “If anyone needs to say something to me, they can leave a message. At least this way I can have a little peace and quiet and get this place back in shape.”

Yeah. Right. For about three seconds.

That would have been right about when Nevin Riley plowed through the door.

He was wearing the same suit he’d had on the night before, and by the looks of its wrinkles, the same shirt, too. That, along with the smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes and the way his hair hung over his forehead, convinced me he hadn’t had a moment’s rest since he’d gotten the call about the murder.

I knew how he felt. But even my own weariness wasn’t enough to make me forget that the night before, he’d just about come out and apologized for abandoning me on our first date. Maybe that’s why a little ribbon of warmth curled around my heart.

That is, until I saw that he was carrying the morning’s newspaper rolled up in his left hand. He slapped it into his right palm. “Why didn’t you tell me about this?” he demanded. Nevin’s just about the least intimidating looking guy I’ve ever met, but there was steel in his voice, and I knew in that moment that, like me, plenty of bad guys had been fooled by his little-boy good looks. I bet plenty of them felt like I did right about then, too. Like my stomach had jumped up into my throat.

“About . . .” It took a moment for my brain to catch up with what was going on and another few seconds for my tongue to coherently form the words. “Oh, you mean about the photograph.”

“I mean about the photographer.”

There was no use offering him any excuses. He wasn’t in the mood, and I shouldn’t have had to justify my actions by reminding him that I was not exactly myself the night before. Dead bodies will do that to a girl. Instead, I went into the back room, grabbed for my purse, took Homolka’s card out of it, and came back into the shop to hand it to Nevin. “He was outside when I got here yesterday evening,” I told him.

He snapped the card out of my hands and turned to the door. “Next time, don’t keep important information from me.”

“There’s not going to be a next time.” I guess it was a little confrontational to come back at him like that, but hey, I was exhausted and out of sorts myself. “And I wasn’t trying to keep anything from you. The last thing I was thinking of last night was paparazzi.”

“Right.” He slipped the card into his breast pocket. “That’s the sort of flimsy excuse that’s going to make my superiors very happy.”

Just that fast, he was gone.

And just like that, I was fuming.

“Son of a—” I forgot Stan was even there until he cleared his throat. “Sorry,” I mumbled.

He sloughed off the apology. “Don’t hold it against the kid. He’s getting it from all sides. Guaranteed, his lieutenant is all over him, the top brass are hounding him, and the press is after him like dogs with the scent of a raccoon in their noses.”

“Yeah, well, he doesn’t need to take it out on me.” My insides were roiling, and it was either work and get rid of the feeling or race down the street to a nearby fabric shop, buy the supplies, and make a Nevin Riley voodoo doll. Sanity prevailed, and I stooped to retrieve the nearest buttons. It wasn’t until I did that I realized I was standing at the spot where Kate had been killed. Right about then, even that wasn’t going to stop me.

“You know,” I told Stan, “the first time I met him, I thought Nevin was a real loser. Then last night . . .” I deposited a small mountain of buttons on the nearest display case, then bent to pick up more. At least if I concentrated on buttons, I wouldn’t be tempted to think about how the night before, I’d found myself thinking Nevin wasn’t so bad after all. “Last night he seemed like a regular guy. Now today . . .” More buttons, and I set them down and went after another cache. “I’ll tell you what, Stan, overworked or not, that doesn’t excuse how he just treated me. I don’t care if I ever talk to the man again for as long as I—”

I stopped, my hand poised over one of the buttons on the floor. It was what we in the business call a medium. That is, it was about an inch from side to side, and from what I could tell, made of boxwood. The carving on it was exquisite. It was an owl . . . No, I told myself, tipping my head and examining the button from a different perspective. It was a hawk, each detail of the bird’s feathers carefully rendered, its eyes bits of onyx.

My hand frozen, I looked over my shoulder at Stan. “Get Nevin on the phone for me,” I said.

He wrinkled his nose. “But you just said—”

“I know what I said. And I meant it. But . . .” My hand was trembling, and I pulled it to my side and wiped my suddenly damp palm on the leg of my jeans. “He left a stack of his cards here last night. They’re on my desk. Get him on the phone, will you, Stan? He just left; he can’t have gotten far. Get him back here, ASAP.”

“Sure, Josie. Anything you say. Only I wish I knew what was going through your head.”

“That’s easy enough.” By now, I was down on my knees, my nose close to the button I didn’t dare touch. “I think he needs to see this button. Because, Stan, it’s a real beauty. And it isn’t one of mine.”

Chapter Six

IT WAS ONE OF THE MOST BEAUTIFUL BOXWOOD BUTTONS I’d ever seen. I was itching to take a soft cloth and a little mineral oil to it, to clean it and polish it, and drink in the wonderful fragrance of the wood. I was itching to touch the button, too, but . . . Well, the Chicago police had other ideas.

Waiting for Nevin to arrive for this appointment he’d called to schedule, I looked longingly at the plastic evidence bag sitting on his desk, and the gorgeous button inside.

“Sorry I’m late.” I’d been so focused on the button, I didn’t notice he’d finally showed up until he was all set to sit down. It was the day after I found the button, and he was wearing a freshly pressed shirt and a brown tie that didn’t exactly go with his navy wool suit. His eyes were alert. His hair was still mussed. “Sorry about yesterday, too,” he said, taking his seat. “I was—”

“Rude and abrupt?” Oh, sure, I could have cut him a break. But why? If there was one thing I’d learned from Kaz (OK, so I’d learned a lot of things from Kaz, but this was one of them), it was that guys who act like jerks don’t deserve my understanding. Or my forgiveness. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re sorry a lot.”