Panic Button

by Kylie Logan

  “Uh, Nev.” When I stood up again, I held out my hand so he could see what was in my palm.

  Nev’s eyes popped open. “Is that—”

  “Yup. Gorgeous aqua water. Beautiful underwater greenery. Brilliant red fish. The enameled button.” Another thought struck and I dropped the button on the worktable. “One very wet enameled button.” I ran to the sink and washed my hands. When I turned around again, Nev was ripping the rest of my sandwich into chunks and feeding it to LaSalle at the same time he was giving the button a close look. “I can’t imagine how the crime-scene techs missed it,” he said. “It must have rolled under something.”

  “And LaSalle knew just where to look.” In spite of the fact that he was swallowing the last of my lunch, I gave the dog a pat on the head. “No wonder no one’s ever tried to sell it. The button’s been here all along. That’s good, right?” Like I had to ask? I’d just rescued a valuable button from being eaten. In my world, that makes me something of a superhero.

  Which meant Nev should have looked a little happier. “There goes our motive,” he muttered. “If Angela wasn’t killed for the button—”

  “But maybe she was. Maybe the killer just didn’t find the button.”

  Nev scraped a hand through his hair. Since it was still damp and as shaggy as ever, it stuck up at funny angles. He didn’t have to say a word. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I grabbed a towel and rubbed down LaSalle, and I bet I looked just as miserable as Nev did when I grumbled, “We’re right back where we started from.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  THE NEXT DAY WAS SATURDAY, AND I VOWED I WOULD spend it where I belonged—at the Button Box.

  I kept that promise, too, arriving early and staying late at the shop, keeping busy with the minutiae of button sales and collecting.

  I rearranged one of the display cases, replacing a shelf of tortoiseshell buttons with cute little realistics with a springtime theme, bunnies and flowers and even a couple Easter eggs. I filled an order for military buttons that came in from a group of Civil War reenactors in Philadelphia. I waited on a couple customers, thanked the gods of button dealing for foot traffic, and paid my electric bill and my heating bill and my phone bill. I even balanced my business checking account, going through the motions and fighting to keep my mind on buttons.

  And off murder.

  I should have known from the beginning that it was a losing cause.

  The moment I stopped to sit down and rest, I had the photos of the buttons from Angela’s charm string out on the desk in front of me, and I was staring at the one picture of the one still-missing button.

  “No way anybody killed Angela to get this button.”

  It was Nev’s day off, and he’d called earlier in the day to say he’d stop by in the evening so we could go out and grab a sandwich. It was a sweet offer, and since I was starving, I was more than ready to take him up on it. But button dealer or not, I apparently still have the heart of a detective—I suspected he had an ulterior motive.

  But then, when he showed up at the Button Box, there was a dog biscuit sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.

  That wasn’t my only clue. Yesterday’s rain had stopped, see, but it was still unseasonably cool. I couldn’t help noticing that Nev brought a duffel bag with him (not exactly a necessity for a sandwich date, is it?). And that the duffel bag had what looked like a fleece blanket sticking out of one corner where it wasn’t zipped closed.

  He’d been looking out the front display window, and when I tossed out that comment about the button, he turned around. “Which button? You mean the missing button?”

  I lifted the picture so he could see it. Not that he needed to. Nev has a mind like a steel trap, I knew what he knew, and he knew exactly what that button looked like. “It’s small, it’s metal, it’s worth about a dollar fifty,” I said. “Yet it’s the only button that’s missing.”

  “The only button we think is missing,” he corrected me. “There’s always a chance it will turn up. Like that fish button did thanks to LaSalle. Say…” I’ve always said cops are too down-to-earth to be very good at pulling the wool over anybody’s eyes. Maybe that’s why I thought Nev sounded way too casual when he tried to sound way too casual as he said, “You haven’t seen that dog around today, have you?”

  “He left here last night when we did, after he spit out the button and finished my tuna sandwich you gave him all of,” I reminded Nev, and watched him express not one iota of remorse. “I haven’t seen him since.”

  “But it’s cold.” Nev was wearing a hoodie with the Chicago Bears logo on it, and he chafed his hands up and down his arms. “How’s a dog supposed to live outside when the weather’s like this?”

  “He’s apparently been doing it for a while, and as far as I can see, he’s as happy as a clam. As happy as we would be if we figured out who killed Angela.” OK, this wasn’t exactly subtle, but it was one way to get Nev’s mind off LaSalle and back on the case. I liked LaSalle, too, but I’d learned a lesson about him soon after he showed up in the neighborhood: He was a street dog. He liked being a street dog. My fellow merchants and I could feed him all we wanted, but no way did he want to be pampered. Or pestered. LaSalle had a mind of his own.

  Kind of like a certain button dealer who didn’t like unanswered questions. Or murder. “I was talking about this button.” I waved the photo. “You know, the one that isn’t valuable enough to steal.”

  “Which is probably why nobody stole it.”

  So much for getting a professional opinion.

  “I dunno.” I took another look at the photo I’d taken the night before Angela was killed. It showed the metal button in question, and the picture in raised relief on it. “Small building, low to the ground,” I mumbled, obviously talking to myself since Nev was so busy scanning the neighborhood through the front window, I knew he wasn’t listening. Just to be sure of what I was looking at, I grabbed a magnifying glass. “It might be a log cabin,” I said.

  To which I got no answer.

  My mumbling dissolved into something that sounded more like grumbling. “There’s a bigger building in the distance, behind the log cabin, a schoolhouse.”

  I was talking to myself.

  “And to the right of the schoolhouse…” Whatever was shown in the scene, it was so small, I squinted to try and focus my eyes. It looked like…“A cemetery,” I said. “Or at least a few headstones and behind them, a little building. Who would want a button with a cemetery on it?”

  Even if Nev had been paying attention, this was a question meant only for myself, and I knew the answer even before I asked it. Over the years, button themes went in and out of fashion, just like clothes did. For instance, back in the late nineteenth century, girls wore buttons with photos of their beaus on them. And when celluloid came into common use for making buttons—it was one of the first synthetic plastics and could be made to look like ivory or ebony or other more expensive materials—those were all the rage. Nothing I saw on a button ever came as a surprise so the fact that someone had immortalized this little scene—cemetery and all—really wasn’t all that unusual. In fact, I suspected the button commemorated some event in a town’s history, like the anniversary of its founding, and as such, would have made a prime souvenir for a young lady looking to add it to her charm string.

  As unlikely as it seemed that someone would have swiped this particular button and put it up for sale, I got onto the Internet and checked all the usual auction sites. I’d just clicked off the last one when Nev grabbed the duffel bag, blurted out, “I’ll be right back,” and headed outside.

  Left to my own devices and with my stomach growling for that sandwich he’d promised, I messed around online awhile longer, automatically checking the weather (it was supposed to improve—hurray), my daily horoscope (which unlike Angela, I promptly forgot the moment I closed the page), and the latest listing of antique shows and sales in the area.

  Hey, a button collector never knows when something p
rimo might become available.

  The newest listing I found was for what was being called a presale showing. That wasn’t nearly as interesting as the address of where the preview was being held.

  “Angela’s house!” I sat up like a shot, remembered I was talking to myself, and didn’t much care. Cousin Charles, it seemed, had been one busy little beaver. He was hosting a showing of “Antiques and collectibles of interest to dealers and collectors.” Out loud, I read the words written in Old World–looking script. “Including a vast collection of Royal Doulton figurines, exquisite artwork, books, ephemera, and glassware.”

  It wasn’t a sale. The page made that very clear. But if dealers wanted to come have a first look before the items went on sale, they were welcome at Angela’s the next day.

  The sound of the little brass bell over my front door startled me back to reality and I found Nev looking sheepish and poking one thumb over his shoulder and toward the street. “I just had to go out for a minute,” he said. “I thought I saw somebody I knew.”

  Yeah, and I saw that the blanket was no longer sticking out of his duffel bag and the biscuit was gone from his pocket.

  If I wasn’t so focused on what Charles was up to, I would have stopped to realize just how incredibly cute this was. Not to worry, I did that later in the evening, and decided that even if he didn’t want the world to know—especially because he didn’t want the world to know—Nev was a sweetie.

  I stood up and turned off the lamp on my desk. “We’re going to Ardent Lake,” I told him.

  “Now?” Nev slipped on his jacket and waited for me to get mine.

  “No. Tomorrow. Now…” I turned off the rest of the shop lights and locked the front door behind us. “You’re taking me to dinner.”

  COUSIN CHARLES DIDN’T look especially surprised to see me, but then, his preview of the antiques in Angela’s house was looking like old home week.

  Susan was there. I saw her in the dining room standing next to the wooden Indian.

  Marci was there, too. She was avoiding Susan by staying in the living room and pretending to be interested in the statue of that Greek god.

  I thought I saw Larry duck into the kitchen.

  “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 s
imply 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.”