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“Once again, Kaz, you figured wrong.”

It wasn’t exactly the stinging parting shot I would have liked, but the fact that I closed the door in his face said something to him.

The fact that I made sure I locked the door… Well, I guess that said something to me, too.

K
AZ’S NEW CLOTHES
were delivered to the room early the next morning, and by ten minutes to seven, he was waiting at the elevator for me, decked out in black pants with a crisp pleat in them and a raspberry-colored sweater that fit as if a team of knitters had taken his measurements and worked their little fingers to the bone overnight.

I didn’t bother to ask how much the sweater cost me. The bill wouldn’t go to the conference but to my own personal account, and the way I figured it, seeing him look that good was worth it. Besides, now that he’d come right out and confessed what he was up to, I planned to make him work his butt off for the rest of the conference to earn both his couch to sleep on and his new clothes.

We rode down from the twenty-fourth floor in silence, and thank goodness, the elevator was empty of other conference-goers. I’d spent a good deal of the night tossing and turning and thinking about how I was going to break the news of Thad’s death to conference attendees, and so far, I hadn’t thought of anything that would satisfy everyone’s curiosity about what happened to our guest of honor and didn’t include the word
murder
.

“So, what are you going to tell them?”

Have I mentioned that Kaz has always been able to read my mind? I didn’t question it, just went with the flow.

Which is to say, I shrugged.

“I suppose I could say Thad was called away for some emergency back home, but once Nev starts interviewing people, that’s not going to hold up. I dunno.” My sigh echoed back at me from the elevator’s high ceiling. “I don’t want
people to panic. And I don’t want them to worry. I don’t want the conference to stop cold because all we can talk about is what happened to Thad. That’s not what we’re here for, and besides, like him or not, Thad deserves our respect. Especially because of the way he died.” I hugged my arms around myself and the gray-and-black argyle sweater I was wearing with black pants and pumps that were sensible enough to get me through another day of panels and discussions, organizing, and overseeing.

“We’ll just play it cool,” I told Kaz as the elevator bumped to a stop in the lobby. “I’ll talk to Nevin, and he’ll know the best way to break the news. Maybe a gathering in the ballroom before the first session. Or an announcement at lunchtime. That would be good.” The elevator doors slid open. “That will give me time to ease into things and—”

As if they’d been snipped with scissors, my words stopped. But then, I’ve found that it’s pretty hard to talk when my jaw is hanging slack.

A hand-drawn poster that said “Mourning Buttons, Death Mementos, This Way” and pointed toward the dealer room will do that do a girl.

“Oh my gosh, Josie, you must be so frazzled!” A woman I didn’t know raced up and pulled me into an embrace strong enough to squeeze all the air out of my lungs. “Imagine, finding a body like that!” She thrust me away as quickly as she grabbed me, so that she could press a flowered handkerchief to her nose. “It must have been awful.”

I think that was right about when I realized we were surrounded by conference-goers and that none of them looked any less upset than the woman who’d waylaid me. One woman clutched a copy of Thad Wyant’s latest book about Western buttons to her heaving chest. Another sniffed softly.

“He was such a great man.” Sniffing Lady sniffed even louder and shook her head sadly. “Such a loss to the button world, such a loss.”

“It is.” How’s that for a noncommittal sort of statement? I think I stood there for another dozen heartbeats, looking around at the circle of miserable expressions and wondering what to say and how everyone already knew about Thad’s death, when Kaz grabbed my hand and tugged me down the hallway.

“Got to go,” I said, and since the ladies all nodded knowingly, I suppose they thought I had something important to accomplish rather than just that I was eager to escape.

“They know.” I said this in a stunned monotone even as Kaz dragged me into the dealer room and I saw that there had been a transformation in there since I’d stopped in the day before. On Monday, the room was filled with eager dealers showing off their wares, everything from glass buttons to wooden buttons to the buttons we called realistics, those that are made to look like everything from dogs and cats to spaceships and pianos. Now, most of those buttons had been stowed away and replaced with mourning buttons.

Quick button lesson here…

Back in Victorian times, mourning was a big business. The rules of how to grieve the loss of a loved one were specific, and the clothes people wore—and what they weren’t allowed to wear—were part of those rules. Everyone’s familiar with the black gowns, the crepe, the long weeping veils. But think about it—all those black clothes. That meant a lot of people needed a whole lot of black buttons.

The button producers of the nineteenth century stepped up to the task. These days, the buttons they made are a subspecialty of many a button collector.

And apparently, of button dealers, too.

Pikestaffed, I stepped through the dealer room surrounded by jet buttons (jet is a naturally occurring substance, a lot like coal, and it was used for expensive buttons), black glass buttons (for those who wanted to look like they were wearing jet but not pay the price), and buttons made from the twined hair of a deceased person. (OK, I love buttons, but those always creep me out.)

The dealers who didn’t have enough mourning buttons to display capitalized on the news of Thad’s death with Western buttons. Even as Kaz hauled me through the room and on toward the hospitality suite, where the morning’s continental breakfast would be served, I noticed buttons shaped like horses, and cowboys, and cowboy boots, along with buttons fashioned from turquoise and silver, sweet little calico buttons, and even good old plain and reliable pearl buttons, the type that had once been on Geronimo’s shirts.

“Amazing.” Langston mouthed the word as we hurtled by. Others weren’t quite so unobtrusive. They mumbled their condolences, though why I should be on the receiving end of them was a mystery to me.

Honestly, I was relieved when I stepped into the hospitality suite, where in addition to rolls and coffee and bagels, Grace Popovich, a nice lady from Baltimore, was scheduled to serve up a helping of button knowledge and a short talk on clear-glass buttons.

I hadn’t expected a full room, but after just a couple minutes, we were packed in like sardines, and I figured it was time to introduce Grace. I did that and would have stepped aside and let her take the floor if a man at the back of the room hadn’t raised his hand.

“Is it true?” he asked. “You’re the one who found Thad Wyant’s body?”

“And he was stabbed! Forty times!” A woman near the front of the room fanned her face with her conference booklet. “Should we be worried, Josie? Is someone out to get button collectors?”

Apparently, this was a new thought for most of the folks in the room, and not a good one. A murmur started and grew, like the sound of a bee swarm.

Since I’m not tall, I wasn’t exactly a commanding presence. But I’d been a theater major, remember, and though I was a lousy actress, I knew a thing or two about projecting.

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I bellowed; then, because I was embarrassed at bellowing, I cringed. The crowd quieted. “The police are confident Thad’s death is an isolated incident.”

“But it must have something to do with buttons. Good gravy!” A heavyset woman in the front row slapped a hand to her heart. “What if I’m next?”

Another steady buzzing started, and again, I was obliged to raise my voice. “The police are here in the hotel,” I said. “And between them and the hotel’s regular security staff, we’re all perfectly safe.” If they knew Ralph, they might know this was not necessarily true, but I wasn’t about to spill the beans. “So just relax, and let’s let Grace Popovich—”

“But what about the Geronimo button?” someone called out. “Does this mean we’re not going to get to see it?”

“I came a long way to get a look at that button,” another voice grumbled. “If a conference promises something, it should follow through.”

“Hey, look at this!” This time, it was Kaz who did the yelling. He stepped back from the door and waved his arm in that direction just as a member of the waitstaff carried in a spectacular arrangement of fresh fruit. Two waiters followed behind: one with a supply of orange juice, the other
with champagne. “The least we can do is toast Thad Wyant,” Kaz said, and gave me a wink. “Line up right here,” he waved people into a neat line. “And once we all have our mimosas, we’ll drink to his memory.”

I leaned in close to him. “I suppose I’m paying for this.”

“Call it the price of a little peace of mind,” he mumbled back.

And I suppose I would have if Daryl Tucker hadn’t come shuffling up at that very moment.

“Josie,” he said. His eye twitched. “I need to talk to you.”

I was standing near the front of the mimosa line, debating between greeting each attendee with a warm smile and words of assurance and grabbing one of the bottles of champagne and downing it. “Talk,” I told Daryl.

His cheeks turned the color of Kaz’s sweater. “I mean…” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “I mean in private.”

This was hardly the time for one of Daryl’s half-baked come-ons. I hoped the smile I gave him didn’t say that as much as it did that I was busy and maybe later…

“Maybe later,” I said out loud, just in case he didn’t get it. “I’m kind of busy and—”

“But Josie…” Daryl bounced up on the balls of his feet, as nervous as a Chihuahua. “But Josie…” He moved close, and since I had nowhere to go, it was really close. Daryl was a half a head taller than me and he bent to whisper in my ear. “I need to talk to you, Josie,” he hissed. “Because… because I think I know who killed Thad Wyant.”

Chapter Seven

Y
ES
, I
SAID
I
WAS GOING TO MAKE SURE
K
AZ EARNED HIS
room and board. That didn’t mean I trusted him to keep things running smoothly there in my breakfast meeting turned feeding frenzy. Luckily, I spotted Helen in the crowd of mimosa drinkers, and even before I could beg for her help, she volunteered to do whatever I needed. To show her how much I appreciated it, I officially put Kaz at her beck and call.

That taken care of, I invited Daryl to join me for coffee at the Starbucks across the street.

Oh yeah, I was dying to talk to him right there in the hospitality suite and ask what he meant when he said he knew who killed Thad. But I am smarter than that, even on mornings when I haven’t had enough sleep the night before, thanks to murder and the fact that, all night, I could hear my ex gently snoring in my living room. I’d already seen the news of Thad’s death spread through the community of
usually levelheaded button collectors like kudzu on steroids, and I wasn’t taking any chances. If Daryl and I were going to have a heart-to-heart (in a murder-investigation sort of way only, of course), and if Daryl was going to name a suspect, I couldn’t let word of our conversation get out. Especially not if the suspect happened to be someone at the conference. Or if just talking to me might somehow put Daryl in danger.

Discretion was the best course of action.

Honest, the fact that Starbucks served my favorite, Caffè Misto, and the hotel didn’t have a coffee that came even close, had nothing to do with it.

So even though I was itching to grill Daryl, I kept my mouth shut as we walked through the lobby side by side, and outside while we waited for the light to turn so we could head across the street.

I wanted to make sure no one was watching.

And that no one overheard whatever he was going to tell me.

“So…” I’d waited long enough, and once I had my coffee and sat down opposite Daryl at a table far from the window, I couldn’t wait a moment longer. “What did you mean, Daryl, about knowing who killed Thad? How do you—”

“Well, I guess I can’t say for sure.”

My heart sank, and yes, I admit, I was a little cranky. Lack of sleep, remember, and Kaz on my couch. “If this was some kind of goofy way for you to get me alone—”

Daryl’s eyes glimmered behind those Coke-bottle glasses of his. “Is that what you think?” He smiled. And twitched. “Are button collectors always so narcissistic?”

“Am I? Narcissistic?” Call me crazy, but as dorky as Daryl was, I was more than a bit surprised he not only knew
the word, but could use it properly in a sentence. “You said you had to talk to me alone. Naturally, I thought—”

“That I was coming on to you.”

“No.” I popped the top on my cup of coffee, the better to keep my hands busy so I didn’t reach across the table and punch ol’ Daryl in the nose. “You’re the one who said you needed to talk to me, Daryl. You said it was because you knew who killed Thad.”

“And you don’t believe me. You don’t think it’s possible for a guy like me to know important things. You think I’m just another button collector.”