by Logan, Kylie
There was Evangeline, of course.
That’s what I was going to say.
Evangeline who seemed to use every opportunity she got to remind me that she and Nev had once had something special.
“Who?” Gabriel demanded.
“Nobody. It’s nothing.” I got up to get another piece of pizza and while I was at it, I brought over both boxes, so Gabriel could grab another slice, too. “Besides, the last time I saw her, she was perfectly nice to me. And she was helpful, too, as far as information regarding vudon. She’s not even close to what I’d call an enemy.”
“If you say so. Then what about—”
Gabriel didn’t have a chance to finish asking the question. My phone rang and since it was in my purse in the dining room, I headed that way.
It was Nev.
“Hey!”
“Hey,” he said back. “Are you busy?”
I glanced at the clock. It was a little before five and Nev probably thought I was at the Button Box. “Not so busy,” I said, avoiding the subject of being home and why I was there. Then again, I obviously wasn’t the only one avoiding. If Nev thought I was at the shop today, he mustn’t have known I wasn’t there the day before.
I slugged down a drink of water to squelch the bitter taste that filled my mouth. “What’s up?” I asked him.
“Well, I thought you’d like to hear the latest. I just got the lab report.” In the background, I heard him shuffle papers. “You know, the results of the tests on that smudge of white stuff we found in Reverend Truman’s office and up in the choir loft at the church.”
So much had happened in the days since Forbis’s murder, I’d nearly forgotten that little detail.
Nev put a hand over the phone and said something to someone. “Hey,” he said again, talking to me this time, “I’ve got to go. My lieutenant wants to have a meeting. But just so you know, that smudge of white, it was theatrical makeup.”
“Makeup?” When I told him good-bye and got off the call, I tapped my phone against my chin and made my way back into the kitchen. “Why would anybody wear theatrical makeup to the church?” I asked myself, and Gabriel. “There was nobody there in costume that night.”
His eyes lit. “There was no one we know of who was there in costume. Not anyone we saw.”
I knew exactly what he was getting at, and I sat down to think it over. “If Forbis really was frightened to death, you think it might have been by someone wearing a costume.”
He pulled out his phone. “What color theatrical makeup?”
“White.”
“Exactly.”
He flipped the phone around and I looked at the image on the screen and sucked in a breath.
The Congo Savanne I’d seen made of buttons was scary enough, but this drawing—one that showed the loa as huge and glowering and with the red fire of hate glittering in his eyes—was positively terrifying.
“It makes perfect sense.” I didn’t like the way my voice shook, but then, I didn’t like the chill that ran up my spine when I looked at the picture of the loa, either. I glanced away, and I guess Gabriel got the message, because he put his phone screen-side down on the table. “If someone wanted to scare Forbis, it makes perfect sense that they’d dress like the scary loa. Imagine seeing that coming at you. Seeing it come to life. The poor man!” I could picture the scene, Forbis crouched in the choir loft, frightened by the sight of the Button of Doom. And the loa, alive, horrifying—and hunting him.
I shook the thought away and came back to reality to find that I’d wrapped my arms around myself. Gabriel watched me closely.
“It makes even more sense when you think of the old legend,” he said. “You did say the police believe Forbis was killed in the choir loft, right?”
I nodded.
“And there’s an old legend that you’ll find no matter what branch of the religion you look into—voodoo, vodou, or vudon. It says that the only way to find protection from a loa who seeks to crush your bones and devour your soul is in the voice of God. What does that mean? I can’t say. But I do know that if I was desperate and very much afraid, I might think the voice of God—and protection of some sort—could be found in the choir loft.”
It was a theory that explained everything, but I didn’t bother telling Gabriel that. I was too busy listening to all the questions that spun around inside my head.
“You seem to know an awful lot about stuff an arts journalist shouldn’t know about,” I blurted out. “Even back at Mambo Irma’s. What was that bit about Eleggua—”
“The spirit of the crossroads, yes. He opens and closes doors and is called on to remove evil and misfortune.”
“And Chango?”
“He’ll protect you against enemies.”
“And Oggun.”
“Another protector. Like I said . . .” Gabriel’s smile might have been devastating to a woman who hadn’t already been involved in her share of murder investigations. To this one. . . . well, let’s just say I’d always been a pragmatist and being involved in murders had only served to ramp up my logical side. Not to mention my suspicious one.
That didn’t stop him from turning up the fire of his smile a notch. “I know all sorts of useless information.”
“Like about firewands and wish papers and where to find the most powerful mambo in Chicagoland. Call me crazy . . .” With a look, I dared him to even think about it. “But that seems like a mighty big stretch for an arts journalist.” I pressed my palms to the table and leaned forward. “Unless you’re not really an arts journalist.”
Gabriel scraped his hands over his face. “I like you,” he said from between his fingers. “You’re smart and you’re pretty and you’re gutsy and that’s a rare combination in a woman.”
I forced myself not to notice the tingle that started up in my bloodstream and waited for more.
“But—”
I cut him off before he could even get started. “I’m smart. You said so yourself. I know there’s something else going on, so don’t hand me some line about how you just happen to know a lot of weird things for no reason at all. I’m going to keep asking questions, Gabriel, until I find out the answers.”
He steepled his fingers. “But—”
“And I’m the one who got tricked by black magic, remember. As far as I’m concerned, that means I’ve already gone above and beyond in the name of this investigation. You owe me an explanation.”
“It’s like this . . .” Gabriel was quiet for so long, I thought he might leave it at that, but when his gaze met mine and he drew in the tiniest breath, I hoped it meant we’d turned a corner.
“What if I was something else?” he asked. “Something other than an arts journalist? I’m not saying that’s true,” he pointed out. “This is just speculation. But let’s pretend it is true, just for a moment. Let’s pretend I’m someone who takes special commissions from various discerning collectors. Let’s say I’m a person who finds things that other people really want.”
Don’t ask me how I knew, I just did. Deep in my bones. Down in my gut. As sure as I knew it was Wednesday, and we were in Chicago. “Things like the Button of Doom.”
His smile was so quick, I might have imagined it. I for sure didn’t imagine that he didn’t ask what the Button of Doom was or what I was talking about. “Do you believe there really is such a thing?”
“Do you believe I could have been on the bad end of a vudon curse?”
“So if there is such a button . . .” He paused to choose his words carefully. “If there really was such a thing and if a collector of oddities in Shanghai wanted that button badly enough—”
“No!” Honest to goodness, I wasn’t sure I believed in such nonsense. At least I never had until I saw that voodoo doll. But just thinking about someone getting their hands on the Button of Doom made my breath catch. “Nobody can actually want the Button of Doom. Evangeline told me that the legend says that anyone who’s given the button will die a quick and terrible death.”
/>
“Given it, yes. But not if he seeks it. Not if he pays for it. Not if he wants to get his hands on it because he’s convinced its power is real and he can use it against his rivals.”
I wrinkled my nose and considered the possibilities. From every angle, it looked like nonsense. “You don’t really think that’s possible, do you? That somebody would use a button to gain the upper hand on some rival? It’s like some crazy plot for an Indiana Jones movie.”
Gabriel pushed his chair back from the table. “I think it’s worth considering. After all, we’re just dealing in a hypothesis anyway, right?”
I got the message and reined in my skepticism. “OK.” A deep breath helped calm me. “So hypothetically . . .” I emphasized the word just as he had. “Hypothetically, if there was someone who wanted the button and if there was someone else who was trying to get that button for him, how did you . . . I mean, how would that person even have known the button was going to be at the exhibit? Obviously, Forbis didn’t even know, and it was his exhibit. He was scared out of his wits when he saw the button. That tells me he wasn’t the one who put it there.”
“Hypothetically . . .” Gabriel grabbed another piece of pizza. Something told me he wasn’t as hungry as he was simply looking for something to do and something to distract him from my questions. He folded the slice in half and looked at it as carefully as if he’d never seen a piece of pizza before. “If that person knew there was an exhibit about vudon in town and the exhibit had something to do with buttons, and if that person had heard the legend of le Bouton de Malheur, he might have thought it was worth checking out. He might have thought he would never be lucky enough to actually get his hands on the button, because after all, in certain circles and with certain collectors it’s quite a famous and desirable thing. But when he saw the way Forbis reacted when he got close to the exhibit . . . well, that person might be very smart, you know.” His shoulders shot back just a tad. “He might have figured out that the only thing that would make Forbis Parmenter get all wonky was that very famous button, a button that I suspect was given to his father and his grandfather before him. And maybe once that person realized that, he made a call to that man in Shanghai, the one he knows who collects oddities of all sorts.”
Semantics aside, I saw exactly what was going on.
“You don’t really care who killed Forbis. You don’t really care that there was a hex put on me. All you want is to find the button.”
“Not me.” He chomped into the slice of pizza. “Truth be told, I’m as curious as the next guy as to who killed Forbis. And as for you and that curse . . . I happen to care very much. Which explains why I ordered pizza for dinner, and oh, by the way, finish that bottle of water and have another one.”
“I don’t want another bottle of water.”
“Mambo Irma insists.” Gabriel leaned back in his chair and reached over to the counter for another bottle. He tossed it to me. “Are you always so obstinate?”
“Are you always so evasive?”
“Do you really think it matters? If you’re helping the cops find out who killed Forbis—”
“Then what happened to the button is a critical piece of the puzzle. Because it was there at the exhibit the night the show opened. I saw it. But I know it wasn’t there a couple of days later. And if I needed it, I now have positive proof because the entire front of the loa box was ripped off and left behind my shop and there’s no sign of the Button of Doom.”
“So someone else is looking for the button.” Gabriel thought this over. “Interesting, and it all goes back to the same place we started. Who wanted to hex you?”
I drummed my fingers against the table. “I’m beginning to think it might have been you.”
“Really?” I didn’t think it was funny, but Gabriel did. When he saw that I was as serious as a heart attack, he wiped the smile off his face. “Why would I want to hurt you?”
“To get to the button.”
“But you don’t have the button.” He reached across the table and snatched up my hand in his and his eyes snapped to mine. It was evening, and light slanted into the kitchen from the window above the sink. It made his gray eyes look darker and brought out flecks in them, like iron. “Do you?”
“If I did, I’d know who killed Forbis.”
“Well then you see, we do both want the same thing.” Gabriel laughed, and though he loosened his hold, he didn’t let go of my hand. In fact, he slipped his fingers through mine. “Tell me, who are your suspects?”
“You?” I didn’t actually believe it, but I figured it was worth a try.
Gabriel shook his head . “Not me. Anyone else?”
“Richard Norquist for one. Forbis fired him and they fought before Forbis came into the church. And Nev says Laverne Seiffert, but I don’t believe that for a minute.”
“Because . . . ?”
“Because she’s too nice.”
“Not logical, but I’ll accept that as an explanation for a moment. Who else?”
“Well, there’s Victor Cherneko.”
“Aha!” His eyes lit. “He has a factory in Haiti.”
“I know.”
“And from what I’ve heard, a rather unhealthy interest in the occult.”
This was news, and I turned it over in my head. “None of that explains why he’d want to hurt me with a voodoo doll. He hardly knows me. In fact we only spoke once, when I returned an onyx stud that belonged to him. One I found at the church.”
“Someplace where it shouldn’t have been?”
I nodded.
“He may feel threatened,” Gabriel pointed out. “The trick might have been designed to send a message about how you should mind your own business.”
That much made sense, but Victor Cherneko, patron of the arts, as some sort of vudon bokor . . .
“I’m not buying it,” I told him. “Why would Victor want to kill Forbis?”
“You mean other than that multimillion dollar stink of a lawsuit they were involved in?”
I guess the look on my face said it all, because Gabriel smiled. “That nice policeman boyfriend of yours seems to have forgotten to mention that to you.”
“Then I . . .” I was out of my chair before I even stopped to think where I might be going. “I’ve got to talk to Cherneko.” I glanced at the clock on the microwave. “It’s just after five. I bet he won’t be at the office”
“No.” Gabriel still had his phone in front of him and he navigated his way through a couple of screens. “But he will be here.”
He turned the pad around so that I could see the screen and a homepage done in gorgeous shades of green with touches of teal and red.
I glanced from the screen to Gabriel. “Forest?”
“A new gallery. It’s supposed to be beyond fabulous. Tonight is the opening reception.” He looked me up and down. “Do you own anything stunning?”
“You don’t think button sellers can be stunning?”
Gabriel stood. “Not what I said. But if we’re going to fit in, stunning is the word of the night.” He’d already turned to head out of the kitchen when I caught him by the arm.
“We’re going to the opening? How do you know Cherneko is going to be there?”
His smile warmed the air between us. “The opening of a grand new gallery? Of course he’ll be there. You can take my word for it.” He gave me a wink. “I’m an arts journalist, you know.”
Chapter Seventeen
I am not a flashy dresser, but I guess I did a pretty good job of getting ready for the art show opening because when I walked out of my bedroom in the nipped-waist, black lace, sleeveless dress with the short, slightly flared skirt, Gabriel’s eyes lit. Then again, I suppose I had the same reaction when I saw him. While I was getting ready, he’d gone . . . where? . . . and when he came back, he was dressed in a tux.
“Well, you can’t expect me to go to an opening like tonight’s in jeans,” he said in response to my open-mouthed appreciation.
Slack ja
w is not a good look for me. I snapped my mouth shut, then reminded him, “You went to Forbis’s opening in jeans.”
“That was at the Chicago Community Church. Forest is a little more upscale.”
He was right.
From its Michigan Avenue address to the valet parking out front, Forest was a whole different ballgame. While the website was drenched in warm colors that gave off earthy vibes and there was a sort of green tree thingy just inside the front door (tapestry? sculpture? I wasn’t sure) that played on the theme, the gallery itself was an eye-popping extravaganza of high ceilings, stark white walls, and stainless-steel accents. A jazz trio played in the far corner of the room and servers in black pants and white shirts circulated with tiny appetizers and glasses of champagne.
I am no bumpkin, but in a room where every man wore a tux and every second woman had on more jewelry than I have owned throughout my lifetime, I can’t say I felt at home.
Not so Gabriel. By the time we got to the halfway point in the long gallery, he’d already returned the greetings of a dozen or so of our fellow guests. While he was at it, he scooped two glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing server and handed one to me at the same time he asked, “What?”
I guess he knew what I was thinking. Or maybe he saw the question in my eyes.
“You know everyone.” As if to emphasize the point, a dowager type loaded down with diamonds put a hand on his arm and greeted Gabriel. “Everyone knows you.”
“Of course they do.” His smile was as bright as the sparks off the elderly woman’s jewels. “I attend all these things. Arts journalist, you know.”
I imagined a wink going along with the comment, but truth be told, I wasn’t looking Gabriel’s way. My attention had been caught by the art installation that dominated the center of the room. Center of the room and up.
My gaze naturally went right there, and I found myself looking at the accouterments of a full, formal English tea—china cups and saucers, silver teapots, lace-covered table and all. All upside down and facing us from where they were stuck to the gallery ceiling.