Hot Button (28 page)

“He was so proud of that button,” I told Nev, “that if there was more than one, he would have mentioned it for sure.” I’d had a couple sips of my own coffee and—thank goodness—my head was starting to clear. “So there’s Thad out in New Mexico, and his brother kills him and assumes his identity. And he must have heard Thad talk about the Geronimo button because it was Thad’s claim to fame. And Brad realized he could sell the button and get big bucks for it.”

“And that if he had more than one, the bucks would be even bigger.”

Nev and I were on the same page, and we signaled it with a look across the table.

“That,” I said, warming up my coffee with some from the carafe, “explains the money you found in Brad’s room.”

“Yup.” Finished with his first cup, Nev poured another. When he called to tell me he was stopping by to talk to me this morning, I’d gotten right on the phone with room service and had them bring up some Danish, and he reached for a cherry-cheese pastry with white icing drizzled over it and took a bite. “It might also explain how he ended up dead,” he said, while he chewed.

I nodded—slowly, because though my head felt a whole lot better, I wasn’t taking any chances. “So Brad checks the list of registered attendees we published, contacts some people, and tells them he’s interested in selling the Geronimo button.”

“They pay him up front. Cash. As soon as they arrive at
the conference. He tells them once he has money in hand, he’ll arrange to meet them to deliver the button.”

“And that’s why he made a note on each of those envelopes. To remind himself where he was supposed to go to deliver each of the buttons. And he delivers two buttons, including, apparently, the real one. But before he can get the other two to the people who bought them, somebody figures out what he’s up to.”

“And kills him. Over a button!” It wasn’t what he said; it was the way he said it, and realizing it, Nev gulped down a mouthful of Danish. “I didn’t mean—”

“Sure you did. But don’t apologize. I understand. Unless you’ve got buttons in your blood, you can’t possibly imagine how important the Geronimo button is to collectors. The chance to own that kind of a piece of history…” The very thought took my breath away.

While I was trying to get it back, Nev finished off the cherry-cheese Danish and reached for one filled with apricot. Apricot was my favorite; I was glad I’d ordered two. “Notice he didn’t ask you if you were interested in buying it.”

“I don’t specialize in Western buttons.”

“Chase Cadell does.” We exchanged looks, and I knew Nev would be having a little sit-down with Chase very soon. “I’m also thinking,” he said, “that Wyant figured you were too smart to fall for a scheme like his.”

Was I? I wondered. If I’d been approached by the man I thought was Thad Wyant and offered the Geronimo button for ten thousand dollars, would I have seen through the scam? Or gone running to my ATM?

“Brad must have made each of his buyers agree to keep the transaction secret,” I said, because it was better than trying to get Nev to understand the green-eyed monster of
overwhelming button desire. “Otherwise, word of the sale would have gone through the conference like wildfire.”

“And he couldn’t have let that happen because then he could have only sold to one person.”

“So he makes each of them agree to a secret deal, and because he’s not taking any chances, he buys a plane ticket to get out of town as soon as the last money’s in his hot little hands. Just in case anybody does spill the beans, he’ll be long gone, and when the police in Santa Fe come to look for him—”

“They’ll find Thad in the freezer, and Brad will be back in California. Only before any of that can happen, somebody kills Brad.” Nev was convinced. He pulled out his notebook and clicked open a pen. “Who’s that serious about buttons?” he asked.

“Here at the convention? Everybody!”

He scratched the pen against his chin. “That’s not very helpful.”

“It certainly doesn’t narrow down the field.”

“Except…” Nev’s hand hovered over the last apricot Danish, and yeah, I must have flinched or something, because he changed his mind and reached for another cup of coffee instead. “What if you paid ten thousand dollars for something you didn’t get?” he asked. “Wouldn’t you want your money back?”

“Yeah, if I didn’t get a button I was supposed to be buying, and if I bought one, then found out it was a fake.”

“Only nobody knows about the fake buttons. Nobody but us. Well, and Brad Wyant, but he’s not talking.”

I wasn’t sure where Nev was headed with this, so I propped my elbows on the table, cupped my chin in my hands, and listened.

“It’s like this.” Whatever the idea, Nev was warming to it, and he brushed crumbs from his hands and sat up. “We know four people gave Brad ten thousand dollars each. That means that, originally, there must have been four Geronimo buttons he agreed to sell. Or at least what those people thought were Geronimo buttons. One button was found in the trash.”

“And you have two more.”

Nev nodded. “That means there’s one more out there. We might be able to work that angle somehow.”

“Except…” I was as sure of this as I was that if I didn’t move fast on the apricot pastry, I wasn’t going to get any, so I grabbed the Danish and took a bite. “The one person who still has the button has no idea that it’s not the real Geronimo button. That means that person thinks he—or she—owns a glorious piece of history. So he—or she—isn’t likely to give it up.”

“Unless we tell people that all the buttons were phony. And that if they come forward and admit they bought one—”

“They’ll get their money back!” This was so brilliant, I almost wished I’d let Nev have the last apricot pastry. Almost. Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling so groggy anymore. I got up and hurried into the bedroom to get dressed. I was scheduled to give the remarks at that afternoon’s luncheon. And I knew exactly what I was going to talk about.

Chapter Eighteen

I
GOT DOWNSTAIRS JUST AS THE CONTINENTAL-BREAKFAST
crowd was breaking up, and I was headed into the ballroom to check on arrangements for the lunch where I would implement the brilliant plan Nev and I had come up with when Helen hurried over.

“They found them!” I didn’t have to ask what she was talking about. It had to be the trays of buttons missing from the contest. I breathed a sigh of relief, but at the same time, I wondered why Helen wasn’t beaming. This was good news, indeed, and it sure saved my bacon when it came to my reputation as conference chair. Yet the corners of Helen’s mouth were pulled down, and her eyes were narrowed. As if she wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.

I guess I could understand. A surprise is a surprise. Even when it’s a good one.

In fact, it was the first good news I’d gotten in nearly a
week, and I beamed enough for the both of us. “I’m so glad! Who found them? Where were they?”

Baffled, Helen shook her head. “The committee decided the only thing we could do was work with the buttons we had, and we were going to announce the winners at lunch. We were going through the entries one last time, and well…” She pressed a hand to her heart. “My goodness, there they were!”

“Right back where they were supposed to be?” OK, I understood now why Helen seemed so confused. I couldn’t blame her. This was more than a little weird.

And I wasn’t about to question it. I was too grateful.

Helen had always been a stickler for fairness, so I wasn’t surprised when she said, “We’ve got judges looking over the found entries right now. They’ll be included in the contest just like they were never gone.”

“And you’ll announce the winners?” I asked Helen, and I didn’t wait for her to answer. She was the judging committee chair, after all, and I was sure by the time lunch was over, she’d be less shocky and more inclined to share the good news.

Feeling (slightly) less worried than I had in days, I headed into the ballroom. There was a tech there from the video company we’d hired to record each of our sessions, and while I had the opportunity, I went over the details of how the DVDs would be available in the vendor room the next morning and how the company would ship a supply to the secretary of our organization for people who wanted to order them via our website. That taken care of, I composed my thoughts and went over in my head what I’d say to the collectors who’d be assembled there for lunch.

The minutes moved like hours. But then, I was anxious
to walk up to the podium and make the announcement I knew would galvanize the crowd.

W
HEN LUNCHTIME FINALLY
rolled around, I was seated at a table at the front of the room, picking my way through a chicken Marsala that was having a hard time getting past the lump in my throat and trying not to look too anxious when I saw Nev slip in through the doors at the back of the room.

I was so on edge, my hands were trembling, and I tucked them in my lap. After all, Kaz was seated there at the committee table with me, and I couldn’t let him catch on to what was up. What I had to say had to come as a surprise—to everyone. And all I had to do, I reminded myself, was keep calm and get through the announcement of the button-contest winners.

The moment the thought hit, I cringed. It was no wonder why. The announcement of the winners is usually my favorite part of any button show (well, in addition to the panels, the featured speakers, the vendor room, and the chance to reconnect with friends and customers), and I hated that I was so wrapped up in the investigation that I was wishing the time away.

Buttons.

This was all about the buttons and the dedicated collectors who put so much time and trouble, so much money and sweat equity, in to assembling their most wonderful buttons to show off to their fellow aficionados.

I owed it to those collectors—and to myself—to pay attention and join in the applause as each winner was announced.

“Our next category…” Helen was barely taller than the podium. I watched her silvery hair bob behind the microphone. “The next category is ivory buttons. And our winner is…” She paused, drawing out the suspense. Or maybe Helen just couldn’t find her place in the list of winners on the podium in front of her. That is, until she said, “Gloria Winston.”

I sat up like a shot, and dazed and confused, I watched Gloria, shoulders back and head high, march up to the front of the ballroom to receive her prize for first place. Yes, I applauded. Just like everyone else in the ballroom. But all the while, all I could think about was that scene in the ladies’ room with Gloria just a couple days earlier and how she’d been so upset about the measle she’d gotten for including a bone button in among her ivory ones.

The measle that had disqualified her tray from the contest.

The tray that had then gone missing.

And was found.

And was now a winner.

Honestly, I didn’t know what any of it meant. But I recognize weird when I see it.

And this was weird.

“But how. . ?” I mumbled the words under my breath, then stopped myself. It was bad form to look like I was questioning the results of the contest.

Even though I was questioning the results of the contest.

And apparently, Nev could see that.

Across the ballroom, he gave me a quizzical look that I sloughed off with a (hopefully) casual lift of my shoulders. It was all the time I had to consider the mystery. Helen finished presenting the last of the prizes, and it was my turn to take center stage.

I walked out to the dais, positioned myself behind the microphone, and drew in a breath for courage. “It’s been quite an exciting week,” I said, and at any other conference, I’m sure the attendees would have smiled at me and nodded and mumbled comments on how much they’d enjoyed this panel or that one, this speaker or that one. But this wasn’t any other conference, and nothing about it had been normal. Before they could meet my remark with stony silence, I headed them off at the pass. “That’s an understatement,” I groaned.

Good move. There was a ripple of laughter from the audience.

“I have to say, when I volunteered to chair this conference, I never thought I’d be dealing with murder. Of course, you all know about that. It’s no secret that a horrible event happened here on Monday night. But there are some things about the death of the man you all knew as Thad Wyant that you’re not aware of, and before we each go our separate ways tomorrow, I think the least I can do is tell you as much of the truth as I know. I will warn you now: none of it is good news.”

Another ripple. This one was more like the rumble of thunder.

“Number one,” I said and steeled myself for the reaction I was sure was coming, “Donovan Tucker was here.”

The rumble rose to a roar, and I silenced the crowd with a wave of one hand. “There’s not much we can do about it now,” I told them. “He attended the conference under a false name, he had a hidden camera, and he kept it rolling the whole time. My only consolation is that although he might have been trying to show the world how crazy button collectors are, I don’t think he got much of a chance. Our panels have been excellent. Our speakers—every last one of
them—were professional and interesting and informative. If Donovan Tucker wants to make fun of that, so be it. My guess is no one who watches his movie—if anyone watches it at all—will agree. What they’ll see is some fine, intelligent, and educated people discussing a subject they love, and doing it with style and class.”