Buttoned Up (Button Box Mystery)

by Logan, Kylie

  No doubt, some artist’s idea of turning tradition on its head.

  “So . . .” I looked from the ceiling to the other artwork around us. “What does your arts journalist self have to say about Forest?” I asked Gabriel.

  “Eclectic.” At the same time he said this, Gabriel checked out a way-bigger-than-life bronze sculpture of a lobster riding a pony. “If I were writing about the event, I might even throw in words like idiosyncratic, whimsical, and haunting.”

  “You might.” I took a tiny sip of champagne and strolled nearer to an installation of garden tools covered with mud. “If you were an arts journalist.”

  Gabriel stepped back to give the tools a better look. “Commonplace and weathered. Still, they brim with yearning and are aquiver with history.” He slid me a sidelong look and warmed it up with a smile. “Arts journalist enough for you?”

  I suppose it was, and told myself to stop obsessing. Who—or what—Gabriel really was and why he was really mixed up with Forbis and the Button of Doom didn’t matter at the moment. Not as much as locating the button—and the murderer who’d probably taken it off the loa box.

  As if in response to the thoughts swirling through my head, I caught a glimpse of Victor Cherneko across the gallery. Gabriel saw him, too, and side by side, we headed over to greet him.

  “Oh . . . er . . . Ms. . . .”

  “Giancola.” I filled in the blanks for Victor and believe me, I didn’t hold it against him that he didn’t remember my name. A man who lived in the stratosphere barely had time, much less memory, for those of us mired on terra firma. “We met when I returned your onyx stud.”

  “Of course! Of course!” A lifetime of cocktail parties, board meetings, and dinners at the country club had served Victor well. He must have known we hadn’t run into him simply by chance, yet he was as gracious as if we’d met at the polo grounds. “I was grateful that you took the time to bring the stud back to me. They were a gift from my wife for our thirtieth anniversary and you know how women can be about things like that.” He looked Gabriel’s way for support and, not finding it, Victor glanced around. “So . . . what do you think of Forest?”

  “Idiosyncratic, whimsical, and haunting,” I said. “But what I’m really wondering is why I found your shirt stud under those ceremonial drums in Forbis’s exhibit back at the church. You couldn’t possibly have been near those drums—at least not until after everyone left the church that night.”

  Victor’s face turned to stone. “You’re not saying—”

  “I’m saying it’s curious. And I bet the cops would love to hear all about it.”

  Oh yeah, I was playing hardball and that’s not like me at all, but then, with a guy like Victor, I was pretty sure I had to. A man didn’t get to be a billionaire because he had warm and fuzzy tendencies. Or because he happened to suddenly feel like sharing his secrets with some woman he hardly knew.

  I knew this. But I also knew that billionaires don’t like to have their luxury boats rocked. If I was going to get anywhere with Victor, I had to push the envelope and make him more than just a tad uncomfortable even on what was essentially his turf.

  I guess my strategy worked because Victor cleared his throat and stepped back from the crowd and toward a doorway that led into a service corridor alongside the gallery. Gabriel and I followed.

  When the door closed behind us and shut out the hum of conversation and the soft beat of the music, Victor shifted from foot to foot and tugged at his left earlobe. “You two . . .” His gaze zipped from me to Gabriel and back to me. “You’re not saying . . . well, you couldn’t possibly be!” His laugh echoed against the high ceiling. “Why would I possibly want to—”

  “Mr. Parmenter was supposed to complete a commission for that new headquarters building of yours.”

  This was news to me, and I hoped the look I shot Gabriel told him so; I didn’t like being blindsided.

  But I wasn’t about to admit it in front of Victor. “The mural in your lobby . . .” I picked up on the hint from Gabriel and ran with it. “It was supposed to be done with buttons. When did Forbis back out?”

  Victor scowled. “After it was too late to do anything about it. I had no choice but to open the building with that damned blank wall sticking out like a sore thumb. But you don’t think . . .” When a waiter walked by on his way into the gallery, Victor deposited his empty champagne glass on the man’s tray. “Give me a break, you two. You can’t possibly think that Forbis backing out of a contract gave me reason to kill him. Kill him in court, yes. I planned to sue the pants off that goofy man. Imagine him telling me that he didn’t have time for me anymore. That he didn’t have time to complete the mural. It’s unfathomable! But I certainly didn’t kill him to exact some sort of revenge. I’ll find another artist. Believe me, with what I’m willing to pay to get that mural completed, they’re lined up like pigeons on a telephone wire.”

  “Still, it must have been plenty aggravating,” I suggested. “Not to mention humiliating. Especially with Forbis’s art star rising.”

  Victor’s opinion came out as a grumbled harumph. “I know art. I have a house full of it. And the money to buy more. Why would you think that I had any appreciation for Forbis and his silly buttons? Yes, yes, it would have been quite a spectacular mural in the new building, one wall entirely covered with buttons. It would have been unique. And people talk about unique. Forbis had sent sketches. A Chicago skyline. A rendering of Lake Michigan. If he’d been able to pull it off, and all in buttons, it would have been something to talk about, all right. But that other stuff of his? The drums and the statues and the household utensils covered with buttons? Silly.”

  “And valuable,” I suggested.

  “Possibly.” Victor threaded his fingers together. “I honestly don’t know. I never cared enough to look into it.”

  I gave him the moment, and another one after that. Then again, as a once-upon-a-time theater major, I knew the value of timing. As a button dealer who was sometimes a detective, I also knew that waiting for the exact right moment before I said another word could do more than just about anything to advance an investigation.

  I let another heartbeat pass then said, “If you didn’t think Forbis’s works were valuable, why did you have Richard Norquist stealing them for you?”

  Victor was a big guy, so I guess it was a good thing that when the starch went out of him, he collapsed against the wall. I didn’t much like the thought of picking him up off the floor.

  “How do you . . . how did you . . . ?” He gasped like a fish out of water. “You can’t possibly know—”

  “But I do.” When I took a step closer, I had to look up to look Victor in the eye. “I know Richard Norquist was skimming off the top of Forbis’s art show sales. And that tells me that Richard is a conniving little thief. That means he’s not above swiping whatever he can get his hot little hands on. And what he got his hot little hands on . . . that’s what he brought you at Remondo’s the night of the murder, wasn’t it?”

  Victor didn’t have to answer. The fact that his face went ashen pretty much told me everything I needed to know.

  “Richard brought a package to the bar. He left without it.” Victor knew this, of course, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to explain this part of the story to Gabriel. “That package went home with you, Mr. Cherneko, and I know what was in it.” (OK, so I didn’t, not for certain, but hey, like I said, timing is everything and this wasn’t the time to sound unsure of myself.) “Richard stole one of Forbis’s smaller works and you bought it from him. When the police find out—”

  “Really, Ms. Giancola!” A waiter came in from the gallery and the noises of the party and the music overlapped with Victor’s harsh whisper. “Keep your voice down,” he said and he put a hand on my arm.

  For exactly one nanosecond.

  But then, that was because Gabriel stepped between me and Victor so fast, I don’t think poor Victor knew what had happened until he realized that instead of looking into
the sweet but determined eyes of a button dealer, he was staring into eyes as gray as they were steely.

  “OK. All right.” Victor flattened himself against the wall. “I didn’t mean anything by touching Ms. Giancola. I only thought I’d remind her—”

  “Whatever you’re going to remind her . . .” Gabriel’s words were half growl, all warning. He backed away from Victor and stood at my side. “You can remind her from right where you are.”

  “Yes, of course. I didn’t mean . . .” Victor coughed. “What I meant, of course—”

  “What you meant is that you know you could help clear things up,” I suggested, hoping to take advantage of a contrition I knew wouldn’t last long. “All we’re looking for is the truth, Mr. Cherneko. If you had nothing to do with Forbis’s murder, you won’t mind sharing it.”

  “That . . .” Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest. “And your interest in le Bouton de Malheur.”

  What was that I said about the right words at exactly the right time?

  Victor’s spine accordioned. His mouth fell open. He rubbed his hands over his face. “How do . . .” He looked at us through his fingers. “How do you two know about the button?”

  “Oh, come on, Victor!” Gabriel gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “You think you’re the only one with an interest in island legends? Josie here . . .” He glanced my way. “She knows about the button. I know about the button. Forbis Parmenter, he certainly knew about the button. But then, so did his father and his grandfather.”

  Victor nodded, but no words came out of his mouth. Not for a few moments, anyway. Finally he sputtered, “Like you said, it’s just a legend. That’s all. There isn’t anyone who takes that sort of thing seriously!”

  “Except I bet you do.” This was me, and yes, I was going on nothing but instinct alone. Three cheers for me, because it worked.

  Victor passed a hand over his eyes. “All right. Since you know so much, I might as well tell you. Then you’ll see . . .” He twitched his shoulders. “Yes, I know the legend. I first heard talk of it in Haiti. There was a story about a special button that had been made there two hundred years ago, a button with special powers. Le bouton was taken to Jekyll Island when the houngan who owned it was transported there as a slave. And yes, I know what happened to Parmenter’s father and grandfather. They were given the button.”

  “And died terrible deaths soon after,” I reminded him.

  Victor nodded. “The button was the reason I was at that tacky little excuse for an art show in the first place,” he said. “I mean, really, the Chicago Community Church?”

  I really had never wanted to wring the man’s neck. At least not until I saw the way his top lip curled when he talked about the church.

  “I’ve been interested in Mr. Parmenter’s work for a while and thanks to Mr. Norquist’s . . . er . . . assistance, I’ve been able to obtain a couple pieces of it for my own private collection,” Victor went right on. “When I heard Parmenter was coming to town, I was mildly interested. When I heard he’d made vudon the theme of this show . . . well, I doubted it was possible that the Button of Doom would be there, but you can’t blame me for being curious. An artifact of such age and such power . . .” His shoulders shot back and his chin came up and Victor had to rein himself in. “Well,” he said, “I knew it wasn’t likely that the button would be there, but I thought it was worth taking a chance and showing up to see.”

  “And did you see it?” I asked him.

  Victor pressed two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t need to see it. I saw Parmenter’s reaction when he walked up to that loa exhibit. I knew the button was there.”

  “And you stole it,” I said.

  Victor’s smile was slow and sinister. “There are some people who believe le Bouton de Malheur has great power. Power to vanquish enemies and eliminate all opposition. Any man who had that sort of power could easily use it against his rivals.”

  “If you believe such things,” Gabriel said.

  “Yes, of course.” Victor’s smile was quick. “But the only way to find out . . .” He splayed his fingers and held out his hands. “I made my fortune taking chances and I wasn’t about to pass up one like that. After Parmenter ran out of the church and the party broke up, I went into the men’s room and stayed there for a long, long while. I thought that by the time I came out, the coast would be clear and I could take a look around the exhibit and figure out which of those buttons Parmenter was looking at when he lost his nerve.”

  “And did you see the button?” I asked him.

  Victor ran his tongue over his lips. “I saw . . .” He squeezed his hands into fists. “When I got over to the exhibit, I saw Parmenter’s body on the floor. I understand that’s not where you eventually found it, Ms. Giancola. That tells me the murderer heard me coming. He was still there. Right nearby, and when he saw me, he hid. I didn’t know that at the time, of course, I only know that Parmenter laid there, all pale and waxy and with buttons glued to his eyes and his lips and . . . I panicked. Of course, I panicked. At least for the moment. I don’t know what I did, I suppose I might have . . .” He clutched both of his hands to his heart. “I suppose I made some sort of gesture and that’s when I lost my shirt stud, that’s how you found it under the ceremonial drums. All I know for sure is that I ran out of that church as fast as I could.”

  “‘At least for the moment.’” I glommed onto the words that seemed so out of place in his story. “Does that mean you went back?”

  Victor nodded. “The next morning. By then, I thought I could deal with seeing the body again. My plan was to get into the church, get the button, and be gone by the time anyone else was around, but you . . . You and the police were already there.”

  “You were wearing Bob the maintenance man’s uniform!” I pointed in an aha! sort of way. “No wonder Bob thought there was a zombie around.”

  “Did he?” There was no laughter in Victor’s voice. “I obviously didn’t get close to the exhibit that day, either, so I didn’t have a chance to look for le Bouton de Malheur, but as you can see, I’m not the one who killed Parmenter.”

  “You didn’t give up, though, did you?” Another thought hit and just for good measure, I added another aha! gesture. “You didn’t know that the button was already gone. But you did know that you didn’t have the luxury of picking through that exhibit, button by button. You broke into the church and ripped the front off the loa box. Then when you realized the Button of Doom wasn’t there, you dropped the box at my shop because you knew I’d get it back where it belonged.”

  “Yes.” Victor lifted his chin and moved toward the door. “I’m more than willing to pay a fine for trespassing and destroying Parmenter’s work. So go ahead and report me if you like. But while you’re at it, make sure you tell the cops that I didn’t kill the man. I couldn’t have. By the time I saw him after the show broke up, he was already dead.”

  When the door swung closed behind him, Gabriel and I exchanged looks. “When he mentioned he was willing to cop to what he’d done, he forgot to mention stealing Forbis’s artwork,” I said.

  Gabriel grinned. “It’s kind of nice to think of the cocky bastard getting his due. You’ll tell your policeman friend?”

  “Yes.” I pulled out my phone to check the time. “Only it’s kind of late. Nev’s pretty much an early bird.” I pushed open the door to walk back into the gallery. “I’ll wait until tomorrow and—”

  And what?

  Honestly, at that moment, I couldn’t remember. But then, that was because I found myself face to face with Nev.

  Nev and Evangeline.

  I’m not sure who was more surprised to see who. Or is it whom? And did it matter anyway when Evangeline and I exchanged startled and oh-so-embarrassed looks?

  Lucky for me, Gabriel was either unaware of the mortified vibes or he really didn’t give a flip. “Hey,” he pumped Nev’s hand, “we were just talking about you.”

  “We were just . . .” Ne
v had a canapé in one hand and he popped it in his mouth. “That is, we heard about the opening and we thought we’d stop in and . . .”

  “Talk to Victor Cherneko. Yes, I figured.” Did I? Or was I just trying to save a situation that was obviously headed down the tubes? Maybe I was simply trying to save my own suddenly flaming face. “He went thataway.” I pointed toward Victor’s retreating back. Last I saw them, Nev and Evangeline were headed after Victor.

  I headed for the door.

  “You’re going to tell him aren’t you?” Gabriel asked, scrambling to catch up with me. Can a short woman with short legs really move that fast?

  “Tell him . . .”

  “Everything Victor told us. When it comes to the police, Cherneko might not be in much of a talking mood.”

  I glanced over my shoulder to where I saw Nev chatting it up with Victor. But only for a moment. I pushed through the door and took a long, deep breath of outside air.

  “So you are going to tell him everything, aren’t you?” Gabriel asked again.

  “There’s nothing more important than solving the case,” I said.

  “Which means you’re more than willing to share.”

  “I always have been before.”

  I didn’t bother to add the words that finished the thought and swirled in my head to the funny beat of the hurt and disappointment that mixed it up on my insides.

  Except this time.

  Chapter Eighteen

  After all he’d done for me, there was no way I could ask Stan to mind the Button Box for another day. The day after the opening at Forest, I got to the shop early and told myself in no uncertain terms that there was no suspect, no investigation, and no distraction that was going to make me leave.

  I stuck to my guns and luxuriated in all the wonderful, mundane tasks that made the shop so special to me. By one, I pulled out the ham salad sandwich I’d brought with me for lunch and sat down in the back room with it and a nice tall glass of iced tea. I actually might have been able to enjoy both if there wasn’t something niggling at the back of my mind.