Panic Button (21 page)

“Don’t look at me that way.” Charles closed in on me and Nev in the small space between
the front door and the oil paintings he’d strung out for display along the living
room wall. I wasn’t sure which way was the way we were looking at him, but he blushed
from chin to forehead. “I’ve talked to my attorney. It’s all on the up-and-up. He
just so happens to be Angela’s attorney, too, and he assured me I’m getting the whole
kit and kaboodle. All I’m doing is inviting a few friends in. You know, to have a
look around. No sales. Not before Angela’s estate is settled.”

I didn’t know if I should congratulate him or tell him I thought he was a greedy creep.
Rather than do either, I reintroduced him to Nev, who’d talked to Charles, of course,
right after the murder and who was looking around Angela’s living room like he’d memorized
the contents the first time he’d been there and he was just checking to make sure
it was all still there. Knowing Nev, that actually might have been what he was doing.

In the spirit of the moment, I checked that mahogany buffet across the room and breathed
a sigh of relief when I saw the Limoges punch bowl was back where it belonged.

I’d just had a pleasant drive from Chicago to Ardent Lake with Nev. The sun was shining.
He had a second
day off (and two in a row is something of a record for a homicide cop), and we’d stopped
on our way out of town for what I’d found out was one of Nev’s favorite foods—pancakes.

I knew he was in a good mood.

This did not explain the crease in his forehead.

“The brakes went on Angela’s car a couple weeks before she was killed,” he said, as
casual as can be. Not to me, of course. I already knew this. So did Charles, but that
didn’t stop his face from going pale. It might also explain why he excused himself
and scurried away the moment someone in the kitchen called out a question about a
vintage mixer.

“You think…” I looked toward where Charles had disappeared. “You think the charm string
was just a diversion.”

“I think…” Nev glanced around again. “I think what I thought the first time I was
here,” he said. “There’s a lot of money tied up in these antiques. And a lot of money
always makes for a good motive.”

“So Charles didn’t want just the charm string.” Careful to keep my voice down, I thought
this over. “He wanted it all. And the entire time…” I swallowed hard. “You don’t think
he was just trying to steal the charm string with the fire and the break-in. You think
all along that he wanted Angela dead.”

“Don’t you?”

Before I had a chance to answer, there was a commotion on the front porch and I stepped
aside to let the newcomer by. Turns out it was Mary Lou Baldwin, the
nice Garden Club lady who’d come to Chicago to sell me those buttons.

She smiled when she saw me. “I might have known you’d be here,” she said, shaking
my hand, then Nev’s when I introduced him. “Though I have to say, I’m pretty sure
there aren’t any buttons around. I remember when Angela first talked about the charm
string. She said they were the only buttons Evelyn had left to her.” Mary Lou glanced
around. “Incredible, isn’t it?”

“Not exactly the word I’d use,” I said.

She smiled. “We all suspected Evelyn had a stash the likes of which has never been
seen in the civilized world. I guess this proves it. But hey…” She rubbed her hands
together. “I own the Cottage, the B and B over on the edge of town. I’m always looking
for furniture and paintings and glassware and such. I can’t wait to get my hands on
some of this stuff.”

“Not until after Angela’s estate is settled,” I reminded her.

Mary Lou’s grin widened. “You’ve been talking to Charles.”

An elderly couple arrived, and as if we’d choreographed our movements, Nev, Mary Lou,
and I stepped away from the front door and scooted by the Greek god. Since I was close,
I took a look at a stack of old books piled nearby. The top book had a battered brown
leather cover. It was a collection of Sherlock Holmes stories, and I reminded myself
to put in a good word with Charles for it. It would make a perfect gift for Stan’s
upcoming birthday. While I was at it, I took a look at the punch bowl on the buffet,
too.

I’m not saying Nev’s theory about Charles being our murderer wasn’t valid, but I had
to wonder…did Marci give in without a fight and bring back the stolen punch bowl just
so we’d think more kindly of her when it came to examining her motives for Angela’s
murder?

“You are coming, aren’t you?”

Mary Lou’s question snapped me out of the thought, and I guess she realized it, because
she laid a hand on my arm to make sure I paid attention this time. “The festival?
You’ve heard about it, right? I’m sure it sounds like small potatoes to you kids from
Chicago, but hey, around here, we take our fun where we can find it. We’re having
a festival. Next weekend. To celebrate the draining of the reservoir. Oh, and there’s
a cocktail party at the Big Museum on Saturday night, too.” Mary Lou reached into
her purse, pulled out two tickets, and handed them to me. “My treat,” she said, her
smile wide, and added, “I’m on the board at the museum. I had to buy a bunch of tickets
or I’d look bad. The whole weekend will be perfect for you, Josie. You like history.
You’ll get to explore the Big Museum plus we’re all going to get a chance to see what’s
left of Ardent now that the water’s been drained.”

It sounded like it would be interesting, and I was about to tell her as much when
Mary Lou gave me a wink. “I’ll reserve a room over at my B and B,” she said, glancing
from me to Nev and leaping to the mother of all conclusions. “You know, for the two
of you.”

“We aren’t…That is, we don’t…” I am an adult, and a divorced woman. I am mature and
responsible and not usually bashful. But the more I tried to find the words
to explain a relationship with Nev that even I didn’t understand, the dumber I sounded,
so I simply clamped my lips shut until I was sure I could talk without sounding like
a moron.

“I’ll check my schedule,” I finally told Mary Lou, firmly refusing to look in Nev’s
direction. “It does sound like fun.”

As soon as Mary Lou walked away, I realized what I’d said. I’m sure my cheeks had
been red before, but now I felt them burst into flames. “I was talking about the festival,”
I stammered, still refusing to look at Nev. “I meant the festival sounded like fun.
I wasn’t talking about the part about her reserving the room for us together at her
B and B, and—”

My words dissolved when he crooked a finger under my chin.

Did I feel better or worse seeing that his cheeks were as red as mine? I can’t say.
I am absolutely sure, though, that my heart jumped into my throat when Nev said, “I
think that part sounds like fun, too.”

“Excuse me.” That older couple behind us pushed their way past, and Nev dropped his
hand. He didn’t look at me again until they disappeared behind a stack of quilts,
and when he finally did, I think he realized exactly what he’d said, too.

He cleared his throat. “I hope…That is, that was out of line. I hope I didn’t—”

“You didn’t.”

“Because I didn’t mean—”

“I know.”

“Because I wouldn’t want you to—”

“I don’t.”

How’s that for being adults and talking about our relationship?

I like to think we actually might have gotten past the awkward stage if Susan didn’t
pick that exact moment to slip by. “Excuse me. I’m so sorry.” She squeezed between
me and Nev and we had no choice but to back away from each other. At least as far
as we were able.

“I can’t believe I left my purse in my office.” Susan shook her head, disgusted with
herself. “Not that I need a wallet or a credit card or anything, no one’s selling
anything here today, of course,” she added, and I wasn’t sure if it was for Nev’s
benefit or mine. “But I hate being without my cell phone.” She glanced over her shoulder.
“If you catch up with him, tell Larry I’ll be right back. I’m not even going to take
my car, I’m just going to run over to the museum and get my phone and run right back.”

I promised we would deliver her message to Larry and our closest-we’d-ever-come-to-a-magic
moment interrupted, Nev and I made our way over to where Marci was looking at a collection
of vintage salt and pepper shakers shaped like everything from lobsters to parrots.
The second she laid eyes on us, she clutched her hands together behind her back.

“I returned every last bit of it,” she blurted out. “Just like I promised. You didn’t
bring him…” Her gaze slid to Nev. “You’re not going to arrest me, are you?” she asked.

“I’m not here to arrest anybody.” His words were not technically true, since I practically
went into cardiac arrest when he said what he’d said about the night at the B and
B. “We’re just visiting.”

“Visiting. Yes.” Grinning, Marci slid around us, her eyes on a stack of Depression
glass dessert sets.

Twenty minutes later, Nev and I found ourselves alone in the kitchen. I was checking
out a set of juice glasses. He was watching the crowd out in the dining room. It was
a perfect opportunity for us to be grown-ups and talk about the delicate topic Mary
Lou had broached.

Call me crazy, but I’m pretty sure that’s exactly why the subject of murder came up.

“My money’s on Charles,” Nev said out of nowhere.

I wasn’t so sure, and I told him so. “Charles might have wanted the antiques, and
the money, but he doesn’t have the nerve. Now Marci…” She’d just sailed past the doorway,
her eye caught by some prize in the far corner of the dining room. “She’s plenty bold,
she’s already proved that. She could just be playing along with us. And Susan’s no
shrinking violet. I’ve been to her museum. It’s impressive. It takes a lot of brains
to keep a place like that afloat, and people with a lot of brains make clever murderers.”

My theory was interrupted by a high-pitched shriek from the living room. Crowded house.
Lots of people.

I still would have recognized Charles’s voice anywhere.

Nev didn’t miss a beat; he was out of the kitchen in a second and I was right on his
heels, but we had to get through the crowd in the dining room before we could see
what was going on. By the time he elbowed his way through the throng gathered in the
doorway between the living room and the dining room and I excused myself left and
right in his wake, we found Charles backed up
against the mahogany buffet, his face as pale as chalk and his mouth hanging open.

There was a large, middle-aged woman standing toe-to-toe with him. She had one meaty
hand wrapped around a mantel clock. She was using the other to poke a finger right
at Charles’s nose.

“How dare you invite us here under false pretenses!” Poke. Poke, poke, poke. “How
dare you play us for fools! You haven’t heard the last of this, Charles.”

“But I didn’t…I mean, I couldn’t…I mean, how could I…I didn’t.” He swallowed so hard,
I saw Charles’s Adam’s apple jump all the way from where I stood. “You could be…”
He pulled in a rough breath. “You might be wrong, you know, Millicent.”

“Me? Wrong?” The woman pulled herself up to her full height, which was a whole lot
taller than Charles, and gave him a glare that would have frozen him in his tracks
if he wasn’t already too frightened to move. “You know me better than that, Charles.
I’m a certified appraiser. An expert on clocks and other mechanical antiques. You
thought you could fool me, did you?”

“But I didn’t…” Out of the corner of his eye, Charles caught sight of me and Nev and
breathed a sigh of relief. “Josie…” He gave me a frantic, one-handed wave. “Come over
here, Josie. Tell Millicent…” He dared another glance at the irate woman and gulped.
“Tell her you’ve looked over the contents of the house, Josie. Tell her how I asked
you to value it all.”

I stepped through the crowd. “You asked me,” I reminded him. “I told you I wasn’t
qualified.”

“There. See.” Millicent banged the clock down on the
nearest table. “Besides, whoever she is…” Millicent turned a glare in my direction
before she swung back toward Charles. “Even if she put a value on this junk, I would
tell you she was wrong. These clocks are fakes, Charles. Every single one of them.
I wouldn’t be surprised if some of these other things aren’t, too.”

“You got that right.” A voice from the dining room behind us made us all spin around
to find a man with silvery hair holding up a small wooden drawer. “These tables look
like early New England woodworking, but take a look at this. No dovetail joints. No
wooden pegs. And the smell…” He held the drawer to his nose and drew in a long breath.
“No oily odor. In fact, no odor at all, which means that desk over there is finished
with a water-based latex acrylic. No way that piece is an antique. And before you
try to say it is and that it’s been restored…” He, too, pointed a finger at Charles.
I was beginning to think it was a vintage and antiques collector’s gesture that I
had somehow failed to learn. “Let me show you the
pièce de résistance
.” He flipped over the drawer and pointed, and a collective gasp went up from the
crowd. The man’s eyes gleamed with rightful indignation. “It’s a Phillips-head screw!”

“Screw is right!” someone screamed from the back of the crowd.

“How dare you try to pass off reproductions as real antiques, Charles,” another voice
called out.

As one, the crowd moved toward the door. Getting out of it was another thing, but
one by one, the gawkers and the collectors filed out of Angela’s house.

By the time it was over, Nev, Charles, and I were the
only ones left. Nev stood back, his arms crossed over his chest, looking far more
intimidating in jeans and a sweater that matched the color of his eyes than I’d ever
seen him look in one of his crumpled suits.

Charles, it should be noted, was so stunned, I’m not sure he realized everyone had
left until he shook himself out of his daze and glanced around at the flotsam and
jetsam piled around us. “It’s phony.” He passed a hand over his eyes. “Finally, I’ve
inherited it all, and it’s all…it’s all junk.”