Panic Button (9 page)

I’m not exactly sure when I realized where this conversation was heading. At least
I wasn’t until goose bumps prickled up my arms. I started for the door. “No,” I said.

“I haven’t asked you to do anything.”

“The answer’s still no.”

“But you’re good at this, Josie.”

“I make a great pasta sauce, too, but you don’t see me opening a restaurant.”

Nev chuckled. “I’m not asking you to open a restaurant. I’m just asking you to help
me out.” I guess he realized I was going to protest, because he sailed right on so
I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.

“You can’t deny the facts,” he said, “and the first fact is that there is one valuable
button missing. If that’s true—and for now, we’re going to say it is, because we don’t
have anything to prove otherwise—that leads to fact number two: our killer knew that
one button was valuable. Fact number three, then, is that our killer must know something
about buttons. What’s that you said outside? That you’re the world’s greatest fabulous
button expert?” I had just turned out the last of the lights and reached for the door
handle. That didn’t keep me from seeing the gleam in Nev’s eyes.

“Our murderer knows something about buttons,” he reminded me. “Or at least about buttons
that are valuable. Josie, that means I really need your help.”

M
Y DEFINITION OF HELPING DID NOT NECESSARILY MESH
with Nev’s.

Ever practical, I suggested spending the next couple days in the shop, calling button
dealers throughout the country who might be approached by a person looking to sell
an unusually beautiful enameled button.

Nev, while admitting that there were benefits to this strategy, had other plans. He
was sure that the only way to root out suspects—and find out which of them knew what
about buttons—was to get to know the people Angela knew. There was no better way for
me to do that, he insisted, than for me to attend her wake and funeral.

This would look completely natural, he insisted, because I’d recently done business
with Angela. No one would suspect that I was really trying to dig up
information. No one would imagine that I had any other motive beside offering my condolences.

No one would think I was a mole.

Me? I wasn’t convinced. For one thing, I wasn’t sure I could blend in as completely
or as inconspicuously with the other mourners as Nev assumed I would. For another…well,
I admit it, attending the wake and funeral of a person I hardly knew made me feel
ghoulish.

Then again, Nev knew I felt a little responsible for what had happened to Angela and
that I spent the weekend playing the ugly game of
What If.

What if I’d taken her more seriously when she talked about the curse?

What if I’d walked her to her car that fateful night?

Maybe aside from a little information, Nev was hoping that my involvement in the investigation
would absolve my guilt.

Maybe I was hoping for the same thing.

The Monday after the murder, I changed my voice mail so customers who called would
know it might take me a day or two to get back to them. I put up a blog post on my
website and a note on the front door of the Button Box: I’d be open for business again
in a couple days. Those details taken care of, I headed north out of Chicago.

“You really didn’t have to do this.” We had just passed a sign that said we were four
miles from the town of Ardent Lake, and I glanced toward the passenger seat of my
car. “You’re going to miss your poker game tonight,” I reminded Stan.

He shrugged away the comment as being of no
consequence. “I can play poker any Monday night. But investigating a murder…” A smile
on his face, he rubbed his hands together. “It’s like the old days! I can’t wait to
get started.”

“You do remember what Nev said?”

“About being subtle? Yeah, yeah, not to worry. I’ve played this game before, remember.
Besides, for all anybody knows, you’re just the button lady who was doing business
with Angela, and I’m just the old friend who came along for the ride.”

All well and good, but talk about guilt! “It’s Marty’s turn to host the poker game
tonight, isn’t it? You’re going to miss his wife’s berry cobbler. It’s your favorite.”

“Cobbler, shmobbler. I can get a piece of cobbler anytime. What I can’t get is a chance
to do some official investigating.”

“Unofficial investigating,” I reminded him. “All we’re supposed to do is talk to people
and get some initial impressions.”

“I know, I know.” Stan shifted in his seat, winced, and pressed a hand to the small
of his back. We’d been in the car a little over an hour, and he wasn’t used to sitting
still for so long. “Nev’s already been here interviewing people, but he knows what
I know: they’re not going to open up. Not to a cop. But when we shake ’em down—”

I laughed. “We’re not trying to shake anybody down. We’re just here to talk about
buttons.”

“Well, sure.” Stan’s smile sparkled in the spring sunshine. “I won’t forget. And I
do appreciate it, Josie. I mean, you inviting me along. You could have asked Kaz.”

I rolled my eyes. Which would have had a bit more of a dramatic effect if I hadn’t
been making a left-hand turn at the same time. “If we’re talking subtle, you know
Kaz would be the wrong choice. Kaz is about as subtle as a tsunami. Besides…” We were
at an intersection, and the traffic light turned red. I slowed to a stop and drummed
my fingers against the steering wheel, debating the wisdom of saying any more. On
one hand, if I told Stan what I’d been thinking, it would look like it mattered. On
the other, if I didn’t say a word and it turned out that it actually did matter…

I grumbled under my breath, and when the light turned green, I eased the car forward.
“He’s not answering his phone,” I said.

“You mean Kaz?” Stan scratched one finger along the side of his nose. “When did you
call?”

“Thursday, and Friday.” I made a face, and as if it wouldn’t actually make me look
pathetic—or worse, like some kind of stalker—I added quickly, “And Saturday and Sunday.
It’s not like I care what he’s up to or anything—”

“I get it, no need to make excuses. You’re just curious.”

I would have been happy to settle for curious, but while it was the truth, it wasn’t
the whole truth. If I didn’t admit it now, Stan would only figure it out himself eventually.
And then the way I was behaving would look more suspicious than ever.

“I’m worried,” I said.

“About Kaz?”

OK, admitting that I cared enough to even think about
Kaz was an odd thing to confess, but Stan didn’t have to make it sound like I was
some sort of deviant.

“He hasn’t called,” I said. “He hasn’t stopped to see me.”

“I thought we decided that was a good thing.”

“It is. Except it’s weird. And unusual. And now he’s not answering his phone and…oh
my goodness!”

These last words rushed out of me at the end of a breath of pure astonishment.

But then, we’d just driven past a gorgeous wooden sign painted blue with the town’s
name highlighted in gold, and I’d just gotten my first look at Ardent Lake, Illinois.

Wide streets lined with trees that were just beginning to sprout and added touches
of fresh green to the landscape.

Redbrick sidewalks.

Houses set beyond neatly trimmed lawns and bordered with bright swaths of spring flowers.

Daffodils in front of the first house.

Crocuses (in gorgeous shades of purple and yellow) in front of the next.

Early tulips—pink and white—bordering the front walk of the third.

In fact, everywhere I looked, there were bushes springing to life, and flowers poking
their heads out of the earth and Victorian homes the likes of which I’d never seen
anywhere.

“It’s like something out of a storybook! Look at the gingerbread on that house, Stan.”
I let go of the steering wheel just long enough to point. “And the wraparound
porch on the one next door. Honest to goodness…isn’t it amazing?”

“Humph.” Stan crossed his arms over his chest just as we drove past an ice cream parlor
with a brightly colored red and white striped awning and one of those old-fashioned
popcorn carts outside the front door. “All this Victorian bric-a-brac. Seems awful
fussy, don’t you think?”

“Awfully wonderful.” My GPS told me to turn right, and I did, onto a street lined
with houses that looked like they’d come out of the pages of an architectural magazine.
Turrets, porches, more gingerbread…I am not usually one for frills, but it was all
done so tastefully. And it was color-coordinated, too.

“You suppose they had some big town meeting and all went out and bought paint together?”
Stan was thinking what I was thinking and he must have been looking where I was looking,
too, at perfectly tended house after perfectly tended house, each painted a soft pastel
color that coordinated—perfectly, of course—with the one next door to it. Soft gray
accented with taupe and grape. Blush pink touched with white and steel. Lilac made
to look all the more delicious with eaves painted pewter and a mauve gazebo out back.

“What amazes me is the way it’s all preserved and maintained,” I said. “Imagine every
Victorian building in town restored to perfection. No wonder the historical society
was so interested in Angela’s button string. It was made for a place like this, and
it would obviously be appreciated by the folks here. The whole town is simply amazing.
And you…” Again, I darted a look in Stan’s direction. “You’re not impressed.”

“Haven’t you learned anything about police work?” He shook his head sadly. “Never
trust anyone or anything that’s perfect.”

Perfect.

Ardent Lake certainly was.

In a Stepford kind of way.

The thought hit just as I spotted the sign for Foder’s Funeral Chapel and a feeling
like cold fingers on my neck sent a chill down my spine. I didn’t have time to indulge
the fantasy, and maybe that was a good thing. Though the wake had started only a short
while earlier, the parking lot next to the funeral home was crowded, and I waited
for a car to leave so I could park, then took a good look at the building.

Foder’s was a sturdy building with a wide front porch and a roof that was topped with
a cupola. Unlike the pastel colors we’d seen on so many of the homes we passed, the
building was painted a deep, dusty blue, its somber hue in keeping with its purpose.

I tilted the visor so I could put on a fresh coat of lipstick, ran a brush through
my hair to tame my shoulder-length brown curls, and when I got out of the car, I tugged
the black suit jacket I’d worn with a knee-length black skirt and taupe-colored camisole
into place.

Inside the building, Stan excused himself to find a men’s room (and to do a little
sleuthing, too, I’d bet), and I stepped into my role as mole.

There was a sign hanging outside a room down the corridor and to my left: “Angela
Morningside, Services Tomorrow, 10
A.M.
, First United Methodist Church of Ardent Lake.” And a long line waiting outside the
door.
I wasn’t surprised. Angela was middle-aged, which to me, meant she was probably still
active and had a circle of friends. Plus, she owned a successful business. It stood
to reason that she knew a lot of people. I took a quick look at the sober expressions
of the people waiting in line ahead of me, wondering as I did which, if any, of them
might be the murderer.

There was only one way to find out.

When the woman in line directly in front of me made eye contact, I pounced. In as
polite and non-mole-like a way as possible, of course.

I introduced myself, and made sure I mentioned my button connection to Angela.

The woman, older than me by ten years or so and neatly dressed in a short-sleeved
black dress decorated with tasteful pink and blue flowers, lit up like a Christmas
tree and stuck out a hand to pump mine.

“Susan O’Hara, and isn’t this a piece of good luck. I didn’t expect you to be here,
of course. But I was hoping.” It seemed Susan was good at reading blank expressions,
because she took one look at mine and laughed in the uncomfortable way people do when
they realize they may have committed a social gaffe. “I’m sorry, I’m not making a
whole lot of sense. But then, I haven’t been thinking clearly. I mean, not since I
heard the terrible news about Angela. It’s hard…” Her voice broke, and she turned
toward the window to our right, and in the light that filtered through the lace curtains,
I realized I’d been wrong about Susan.

Not in her forties. She was fifty at least. There was a network of crow’s-feet at
the corners of her eyes, and her
ashen hair was streaked with more silver than I’d noticed at first. Her lips were
pinched and dry and her fingernails were chewed to the quick.

She pulled a tissue out of her purse and touched it to her eyes. “You’ll have to excuse
me, I’ve never been to the wake of a person who was…” Her voice dipped even lower
as if she knew something no one else there at Foder’s knew. “You know, someone who
was murdered. It’s all too horrible to even think about.”