Hot Button (14 page)

“Maybe. To some people.” Nev tucked his notebook back in his pocket. “I was actually going to say that killing for a button… Well, that makes this whole investigation trickier because buttons are small and easy to hide, and for those of us who aren’t experts, they’re easy to overlook, too. I was going to ask if you’d have a look around. You know, just to make sure that button isn’t here and we missed it completely.”

He didn’t have to ask twice. When it came to the Geronimo button, I wasn’t just anxious; I was dying to look.

Poor choice of words considering the circumstances.

I put the latex gloves back on and started a methodical search of the room, poking through drawers, Thad’s luggage, and even inside the minbar. The only interesting thing I found…

I was at the table in the dining area of the suite, and I bent at the waist for a better look.

“Nev.” I waved him over. “Two things. Take a look.”

He did, first checking out the upholstered chair. There was a tiny, rusty colored spot on it that looked as if it had been smeared.

“Blood?” I asked.

He looked closer. “Certainly a possibility.”

“And this,” I said, pointing again.

Nev looked down at the table, then glanced at me with more than a little skepticism. “Dust. So the housekeeping staff isn’t all it’s cracked up to me.”

“Only it’s not dust. It’s little bits of card stock. You know, like the kind collectors use to display their buttons.”

“You think so?” He took another look.

“I’m sure of it.” I was, but I leaned in nice and close, holding my breath so I didn’t disturb one little scrap. “I’ve mounted a ton of buttons in my lifetime, and that means I’ve cleaned up a whole bunch of flecks just like this.”

Nev stood up. “And that means…”

“Well, it’s weird, don’t you think?” I stood, too, and since I’d been bent over so long, I pressed a hand to the small of my back. “Thad stole card stock for mounting buttons. And he stole an awl. And he obviously used both, because when he poked the awl through the card stock, it left these little scraps on the table. So he was mounting buttons, but…” I don’t know what I expected to see, but I did another quick scan of the suite. “The Geronimo button isn’t here. There aren’t any buttons here.”

“And you think that means somebody stole the buttons Thad was working with.”

It wasn’t a question. Nev and I looked at each other, and his expression fell.

“So you’re telling me…” He pulled in a breath, and believe me, I knew just how he felt. My stomach was doing flip-flops, too. But then, I had every right to feel queasy; I think I understood the enormity of our task even better than he did.

Nev’s already wan complexion paled. “You’re telling me we need to find buttons,” he said. “At a button convention.”

H
ELEN HAD EVERYTHING
under control in the judging room—as usual—so I didn’t feel guilty about cutting out of the conference for a couple hours.

At least not too guilty, anyway.

Then again, I had a perfectly good excuse. All my button research materials were at my shop, and if I was going to be any help to Nev, I would need them. In the interest of saving time and getting back to the conference as soon as I could to relieve Helen, I hopped a cab and headed to Old Town. Just a short while later, I was in front of the converted brownstone that was my dream come true, the Button Box.

I pushed open the robin’s-egg-blue front door, breathed in the scent of lemony furniture polish, and sighed. There was something about every single one of the twelve hundred square feet of this real estate—from the hardwood floors to the old tin ceiling—that soothed me and made my soul sing. Maybe it was the thousands and thousands of buttons in my inventory, buttons that were stored in antique library catalog files and displayed in glass-front cases and in frames on the walls. And buttons always made me smile. Or maybe it was because the Button Box was my badge of independence. My shop. My buttons. My responsibility. Yes, the shop had been open for about six months, but there were times when I still woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, worried about if I’d be able to make a go of it, if my dream would, indeed, last a lifetime. But hey, worry comes with the small-business territory, and besides, the worry wasn’t nearly as important to me as the exhilaration, and the exhilaration of being a business owner and indulging my passion for buttons… There were times that still took my breath away.

“Hey, kiddo!” Stan Marzcak, my friend, neighbor, and shop sitter for the duration of the conference, came out of the back room carrying my steaming “I ♥ Buttons” coffee mug. “Good to see you! And here I thought I finally had a customer.”

“None, huh?” Well, what did I expect? All the customers
I usually dealt with were at the conference. “That’s OK,” I said so Stan wouldn’t feel as if he’d somehow let me down. “I’ve got plenty to do without new orders, and once the conference is over, I know they’ll come pouring in. That’s how it always works. Collectors hear lectures and their interest is captured, and they decide to venture into a new specialty. Or they see other people’s trays in the competition, and they’re convinced they can’t live without buttons just like that. Not to worry. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

“Yeah, so I saw in this morning’s paper. Murder, huh? Who woulda thought a button conference could be that interesting.” Stan tapped one finger against the newspaper open on my rosewood desk. “You need help investigating?”

This might have seemed like a funny question coming from anyone else, but Stan is a retired Chicago Police Department detective, so it was only natural he’d ask. He’s also a bit—how should I say this?—not comfortable with his life of leisure. Stan might be in his seventies, but his mind is as sharp as a tack. No doubt, when it came to Thad Wyant’s murder, he’d have all sorts of advice to offer. Just as certain, I’d take every bit of what he had to say to heart.

I set my purse down on the chair behind my desk, took a folded tote bag from it, and went into the back room, where I kept not only that coffeepot Stan had used to fill his mug, but a worktable, packing supplies for the buttons I sold and shipped, and a library’s worth of reference materials. “I don’t think Nev actually needs help with the investigating part,” I told Stan, and I’d bet anything he agreed; in spite of the fact that Nev had taken over what was once Stan’s job on the force, Stan respected Nev, both as a person and as a police officer.

“What he can use some help with is research.” Along one wall of the back room, there were bookcases filled with
button reference books, button magazines, and various and sundry publications that came from button clubs around the country, and I stood in front of it, scanning titles and doing my best to remember what information I’d seen where.

“It’s all about the Geronimo button,” I told Stan, skimming my finger over the books until I found the one I was looking for,
Nineteenth-Century Buttons of the Old West
, by Thad Wyant. I flipped open the chapter on the Geronimo button and saw that my memory served me well. Just like I’d told Nev, the button was a MOP. Along with Thad’s narrative of how he’d come to own it, there was a full-page color picture of the button.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Stan commented from over my shoulder. “You don’t think that guy really got killed for that little button, do you?”

“I’m afraid so. At least that’s what I think.”

“Riley doesn’t.” Stan didn’t sound disappointed at this news. In fact, a smile lit his face. “The kid’s got a good head on his shoulders. He knows not to make a decision about motive until he’s got more of the facts.”

“Maybe. But why else would someone kill Thad Wyant?” I flipped to the back of the book. There was no picture of Thad there, and I wasn’t surprised. Up until this conference, he’d always kept a low profile. His bio was there, though, and I glanced over it and grumbled.

“Something interesting?” Stan asked, leaning closer.

“It says he’s a devoted vegan.” I remembered the Italian beef sandwich Thad had requested, and the scene he’d made on the cruise when the roast beef didn’t meet his red and mooing standards. “Guess he wasn’t all that devoted.”

“But nobody killed him because he started eating meat.”

“You think?” I glanced at Stan. OK, I wasn’t expecting him to say it actually might be a motive, but I was hoping
he would. Somehow, a crazy vegan getting revenge on the fallen sat better with me than a greedy button collector.

I tucked the book into the tote bag, then grabbed a few of the magazines that I knew contained articles Thad had written over the years. “At least Nev can see what the button looks like,” I told Stan. I headed back to the door, grabbing my purse on the way by. “You can close up early if it’s not busy.”

He waved away my offer. “Getting ready for that cocktail reception you’ve got scheduled here Friday night. You know, dusting and polishing and all. It’s keeping me out of trouble.”

As I got to the door, I turned to find Stan leaning against one of the display cases, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles, and a spark in those rheumy blue eyes of his.

“It ought to be way more interesting now that Wyant’s dead, don’t you think? Not that I don’t think those button friends of yours will be fascinated with this place,” he added when he thought I might be offended. “But it seems to me, talk of murder always adds a little zing to any festivity.”

Chapter Nine

T
OTE BAG IN HAND
, I
MADE IT BACK TO THE HOTEL IN
record time.

Good thing, too.

Otherwise, when I stepped into the lobby, I wouldn’t have seen Gloria Winston race into the nearby ladies’ room. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn she was sobbing.

Of course, that wasn’t possible. I knew this deep down inside because deep down inside, I knew Gloria was the most well-adjusted and composed person in the world. That didn’t stop me from automatically following her.

Which meant I was doubly surprised when I found Gloria standing in front of the mirror, both her hands clutching the faux-granite countertop and her shoulders heaving.

“Oh my gosh. Gloria, what’s wrong?” I set my tote bag on the floor so that I could put an arm around her. No easy thing considering that Gloria towers over me and is just as
wide as she is tall. “Something terrible happened. Don’t tell me. Not another murder?”

“N… n… no.” The word was barely audible, what with her sniffing and sobbing. “Oh, Josie, no one was supposed to see me like this. I’m so… so embarrassed.”

“Well, don’t be.” Warm and fuzzy Gloria is not. That didn’t mean she didn’t deserve a little consolation. I pulled her into a hug.

Gloria’s whole body shook like a grass skirt on a hula dancer, and I kept my arms around her until I felt her breathing slow and her sobs quiet. “Now…” I plucked a couple tissues from the box on the nearby counter and handed them to her. “Tell me what happened.”

The tip of Gloria’s nose was an unattractive shade of red. “It’s s… stupid.”

“Not if it’s got you this upset.”

She sniffled, wiped her nose, and reached for another tissue. “It’s the judging, I’m afraid.”

I groaned. “What went wrong? No, don’t tell me. Not yet. Just know that whatever it was, I’ll take full responsibility. The committee shouldn’t take the rap. This is my conference, and I have to step up and face the music, especially when things go wrong. Please, please don’t think any of it is your fault.”

Gloria sniffed a little more, and when two ladies came into the room, laughing and chatting, she turned her back so they wouldn’t see her swollen eyes. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk when she knew they might hear, so I grabbed my tote and led the way out of the ladies’ room and into the coffee shop on the other side of the lobby. It was late afternoon, and the place was nearly empty. I slipped into a seat at the table farthest from the door and facing that way so Gloria would have her back to whoever might come
into the coffee shop, and when the waiter arrived, I told him we needed two glasses of water and two pots of tea. Settled, I patted the table as a signal to Gloria to sit down.

She did. Even as she mumbled, “I’m so embarrassed.”

“Yeah, you said that.” I tried to keep things light, figuring it would help her regain her composure. “But you haven’t told me why.”

Our water came, and Gloria finished off her glass in three long guzzles. Chin down, she glanced up at me through the coating of mascara on her sparse eyelashes. “Measles,” she said, and the tears started all over again. “And now you know what a fool I am.”

The light dawned.

Measles, see, are what we button collectors call the little red circle stickers that are put on the plastic sleeves that hold competition trays when one of the buttons on the tray is not appropriate to the category. One measle disqualifies the entire tray from competition.

“You mean you—” I wasn’t sure how to say it without insulting Gloria, but really, it was hard to fathom. Gloria was an expert and meticulous about her competition trays. “One of your trays was disqualified?”

Tears streaming over her cheeks, Gloria nodded. She slipped the paper napkin off the table and touched it to her eyes. “Can you believe it? The category was ivory buttons, and I could have sworn every single button on that tray of mine met the criteria.” Her glass was empty so she reached for my water and took a gulp. “Well, I guess that’s what I get for being so sure of myself and entering a category I’ve never attempted before. You know me, Josie, when it comes to moonglows and realistics—”