Buttoned Up (Button Box Mystery)

by Logan, Kylie

  Gabriel’s phone.

  I’d found it on my dining room table when he dropped me off at my apartment and left for parts unknown the night before.

  “Who forgets their phone when phones are so important these days?” I asked myself, and not for the first time.

  Just like I asked myself if I was brazen enough to poke through the phone and, hopefully, find some clue on it as to how I could contact Gabriel and get it back to him.

  I gave the phone a one-fingered nudge that sent it spinning on my worktable, not sure if I admired myself for, at least so far, not snooping, or if the fact that what felt like a violation of privacy to me simply meant I was too much of a wimp.

  Before I had a chance to figure it out, the bell above the front door jingled.

  “I’ll be right with you,” I called out, and I hopped up to run a brush through my hair and smooth on a fresh coat of lip gloss.

  I always greet customers with, “Welcome to the Button Box,” but this time when I walked out of the back room, the words never made it past my lips.

  Nev stood near my desk.

  “Hey.”

  “Hey,” he said back. He didn’t smile. “I was in the neighborhood and I wondered if you could get time away for lunch.”

  “I just ate.”

  “Oh, OK.” Nev shifted from foot to foot. “You know, I’ve been thinking . . .”

  “About the case. Of course.” I reminded myself that this was my shop—my turf—and I didn’t need to feel uneasy or embarrassed or unsure about anything. Which actually might have been encouraging if I didn’t feel uneasy, embarrassed, and unsure. Especially when I made the mistake of glancing up into Nev’s blue eyes.

  “I can explain about last night,” he said.

  “I’m sure you can. But I don’t need to hear it.”

  “You do.” He stuffed his hands into the pockets of a beige sport coat that he wore with a shirt and tie that were nearly the same color, along with brown pants. Maybe it was the steamy temperatures outside, but he reminded me of a vanilla ice-cream cone. “I was at the gallery last night to talk to Victor Cherneko. He’s got Haitian connections, you know, and I just figured—”

  “You figured it was only natural to have someone along who’s got the inside track on the culture and the customs. Like I said, Nev, you don’t owe me an explanation.”

  “But I do owe you an update.” It wasn’t my imagination. As soon as Nev pulled out the little leather notebook he carried around, he was back in his cop-element and feeling far more comfortable than he did when he was trying to tiptoe through the Evangeline minefield.

  Fine by me. I knew once we were talking about the case, I’d feel more comfortable, too.

  He planted his feet and read from the notebook. “Listen to this. Cherneko admitted that he was inside the Chicago Community Church the night of the murder after everyone else cleared out. But he swears he’s not the one who killed Parmenter.”

  I think Nev expected a bigger reaction than the simple nod I gave him. “He told me that, too, but I bet he forgot to mention to you how he and Richard Norquist have been skimming artwork from Forbis’s collection. Richard steals them, Victor buys them.”

  “That did slip his mind!” Nev made a note of it. “I can see you were at the opening last night for the same reason I was. As usual, you’re better at making people talk.”

  It would have been nice to get lost in the gleam of admiration in his eyes. Just like the old days. Except this wasn’t the old days. “I’m not better at it,” I told him, “just less threatening. People are more willing to open up to me because they don’t think it’s going to hurt them in any way. They’re not intimidated by me like they are by you. It’s the whole cop thing, you know.”

  “Exactly what I was thinking.” Nev tapped his pen against his notebook. “That’s why I was wondering if we could get together and . . . you know . . . do what we’ve done with the other cases we’ve worked on together. We’ve gathered our suspects and then you’ve taken over, explaining how you worked through the investigation and what you discovered about the case. I think having a button dealer call them out about their behavior and their motives catches them off guard, no offense intended. We’ve always caught our murderers that way before.”

  Really, there was no offense taken, because I knew exactly what Nev meant. Besides, I liked the thought of working hand in hand with him again. Or at least I would have if I could get that image out of my mind—the one of a wide-eyed Evangeline, so surprised at seeing me at Forest.

  I played it cool. And not because I was trying to be coy. I needed to keep calm for my own sake, not for Nev’s. I was still stinging from seeing him with Evangeline, and I didn’t want to fool myself into thinking I could forget that, simply because I fell in with his plan. At this point, I couldn’t afford to forget that we were talking about two separate things: our investigation, that was one thing. But my relationship with Nev . . . well, that was something else altogether.

  I told myself to keep focused on the investigation and strolled over to the old library card catalogue files that held my glass buttons. “Who did you have in mind?” I asked him.

  “Cherneko, of course. And now that I know about what he and Norquist were up to, I need him in on this for more reasons than I thought. Parmenter left him high and dry about some big project in that new building of his, you know. I figured a man like Cherneko holds a grudge as big as his ego. I thought that gave Cherneko motive. But if Parmenter found out that he was buying stolen artwork from Norquist and threatened to have him arrested. . . well, that gives Cherneko motive number two. Oh yeah, Cherneko’s on my suspect list. Then there’s Norquist, of course.”

  “Forbis fired him.”

  “And he was stealing.”

  “And he’d been skimming the profits of the shows for a long time. If Forbis found out about that—”

  “Another motive for him.” Nev made a note of it. “And then, of course, there’s Laverne Seiffert.”

  “What?” I am not the type who usually confronts authority, but really, this was ridiculous and I told Nev so. “Laverne’s a sweet woman.”

  “She had the opportunity. She was the last one to leave the building and we know she doesn’t have an alibi. And she knows where all the extra keys were kept. It would have been easy for her to pop into the minister’s office and take those extra keys, stash them somewhere to make it look like someone had stolen them, and then use her own keys to get back into the church. I’ve had my eyes on Laverne since day one.”

  “But we’ve got to consider motive.” I crossed the shop to stand nearer to Nev. “You’ve always told me that, Nev. You’ve always said that why a killer does what he does is as important as what he does in the first place.” Even I cringed at this convoluted logic, but sharp guy that he is, Nev followed right along. “Laverne doesn’t have a motive. She barely knew Forbis.”

  “But she did know Richard.”

  “Which doesn’t mean—”

  “You heard her yourself, Josie, she’s nuts about Richard. If she knew Forbis fired him—”

  “She’s not going to be so nuts about him once she finds out what a lowlife Richard really is.” I made a face. Poor Laverne. A woman concerned with social justice wasn’t going to tolerate a man with sticky fingers, no matter how many bittersweet memories she had of their days together in college. “She didn’t do it,” I told Nev.

  “Maybe.” I saw him write down Laverne’s name anyway, and every scratch of his pen only served to remind me how unreasonable he was being. “Either way, we can invite Laverne to our little suspect powwow. She knows more about Richard than any of us do. Even if she’s not our murderer, she might be able to help us on that front.”

  “I agree there. But I don’t agree that she looks guilty,” I added just so he knew he hadn’t changed my mind.

  “So . . . great.” Nev flipped the notebook closed. “What about tomorrow evening? That will give me a chance to get in touch with everyb
ody. I’ll invite them here, tell them you’re having a sort of private memorial for Parmenter. Wine and cheese, that sort of thing. I can say you want to do it here at the shop because of what buttons meant to Parmenter. Does that make sense?”

  “Only if you invite Evangeline, too.”

  I waited for the firestorm I expected would result from this suggestion and when it didn’t come, I bent at the waist and looked up into Nev’s face “Evangeline? You do remember her, right?”

  He’s a tall, rangy guy. He shook himself like a Labrador coming out of a lake. “I thought you said you understood. I thought you said I didn’t owe you an explanation. Evangeline was with me last night because I thought she could provide some insights into Cherneko’s interests into Haitian religions, but other than that, come on, Josie. You know she’s really not involved in the investigation. I can ask her to come if you think there would be some benefit, but I hate to put her out like that. I’m guessing she’d be pretty bored.”

  “Are you trying to make this as hard as it can possibly be?” I groaned and tipped my head back, thinking about the best way to ease into an explanation. “Oh heck!” I slapped a hand against my thigh. “I’m done playing games, Nev, so here’s what I think. If you’re going to drag Laverne here because she looks like a suspect to you, then I think Evangeline has to be here, too. As a suspect.”

  He looked as stunned as if I’d started talking Martian. That is, until his mouth thinned. “You’re talking crazy.”

  “I’m talking sense. Forbis’s show was about vudon, and nobody knows more about vudon than Evangeline.”

  “Which doesn’t mean she had anything to do with his murder.”

  “Which doesn’t mean we can’t poke around in that big brain of hers just a little.”

  “No.” It was as simple as that. At least to Nev. He spun around and headed for the door. “I’m not going to insult Evangeline by making her come over here and—”

  “And what? Show respect for Forbis at a private memorial service?” I followed on his heels. “That is what you’re going to tell everyone else, right? Why shouldn’t she hear the same story?”

  “Because I don’t tell Evangeline stories. And I don’t let her get mixed up in murder investigations.”

  “No, you leave that for me.”

  Admit it, it was a great parting shot.

  Too bad Nev had already banged out the front door and never heard it.

  • • •

  After Nev left and I spent an appropriate amount of time fuming, I decided to rearrange the biggest of the glass display cases at the front of the store. I emptied it and carefully stowed away the mother of pearl buttons that had been in there, then cleaned the glass until it sparkled. I filled the case with wooden buttons, decided they looked too dull and heavy to match the summer sunshine, and emptied the display case again.

  Buttons, buttons, buttons.

  Buttons, I knew, would keep my mind off the little tiff Nev and I had, and I went through drawer after drawer of buttons, looking for exactly the right ones to feature in the display.

  I decided on lacy glass, those wonderful old buttons with painted backs and fancy molded surfaces that sometimes mimic the texture of fabric.

  I arranged the lacy glass buttons one way, then another. I scooped them out of the display case and tried again, grumbling to myself all the while. It was Nev’s fault. Nev and Evangeline. Though what exactly was their fault—the fact that I couldn’t think straight, or the fact that I couldn’t make the display look the way I wanted it to—I didn’t know.

  I did know I wasn’t happy with the lacy glass button display.

  Grumbling some more, I stepped back and wondered what I could do that would look different, interesting, and I thought about that installation I’d seen at Forest the night before, the tea service stuck on the ceiling.

  “Buttons stuck to the sides and top of the display case!” I swooned and really, that should have told me something right there. As much as I love my buttons, I am usually not obsessive (well, at least not too obsessive) about displaying them. I’m pretty sure I was knee-deep in what psychologists call transference, and perfectly willing to transfer my frustrations about my relationship with Nev to my button-display capabilities. I got on the computer and did a little research to see how an artist could possibly stick a tea service to the ceiling.

  By the time I was done, I still didn’t have the display case done.

  But suddenly, I had an idea about Forbis Parmenter’s murder.

  • • •

  NoTICE I SAID idea.

  At this point, all the pieces hadn’t fallen into place yet.

  That didn’t happen until I forced myself to calm down, put away the lacy glass buttons in a pleasing manner that had nothing to do with sticking them to anything anywhere, and got a bottle of water in the hopes that deep breaths and hydration would help me make sense of everything I’d just discovered.

  That’s when I saw Gabriel’s phone still sitting there on my worktable, and that’s when I knew I had to throw caution to the wind and take the chance of being a busybody and looking through his phone.

  Good thing I did.

  Because with what I found in his picture file . . .

  Well, that’s when I knew for sure what was going on, and who killed Forbis Parmenter.

  Chapter Nineteen

  By the time I got where I was going, I was hoping Nev would be with me or at least that he’d be on his way, but no matter how many times I called him (and believe me, I called him a lot of times), he refused to pick up.

  “Be that way,” I mumbled, shoving my phone back in my pocket and telling myself it was for the last time. “You’ll be plenty sorry.”

  Oh, how I hate it when I’m right!

  See, Nev was already there. On the floor, his back propped against a wall. The second I saw him, my heart bumped and my adrenaline kicked in. I’d been thinking I’d assess and evaluate and get the lay of the land before I took the chance of letting anyone know I was there, but those plans pretty much went right out the window when I saw that Nev’s eyes were half-closed, his color was off, and his chin was on his chest.

  “Nev? Are you OK? What happened?” I was on my knees next to him in record time and I checked his pulse. It was slow and steady, but his skin was clammy. I chafed his hand between both of mine. “Nev, can you hear me?”

  Except for an eye flicker, he didn’t respond, and I didn’t hesitate. I stood and reached in my pocket for my phone.

  “That’s a really bad idea.”

  Like I was about to let a voice from out of the dark stop me?

  My fingers slipped against the numbers: 9-1 . . .

  “I said it’s a bad idea.” Evangeline stepped into the light of the single spot that shone over the Field Museum Yoruba exhibit, and, dang, I would have gone right on dialing if that light didn’t glint against the barrel of the gun in her hand, the one she had trained on Nev.

  “You wouldn’t.” My voice bumped over the words, and the hand poised above my phone trembled.

  Not so Evangeline’s. As cool as a cucumber and as emotionless as if she’d been carved from rock, she motioned for me to drop my phone on the table of Yoruba divination trays on my right.

  I did as I was told.

  “I was hoping this would be quick and easy,” she said. “I’m sorry you showed up and ruined it.”

  “Nev got here before me. He knew before I did, didn’t he?”

  “He suspected. He didn’t know. Not until that very last moment when I stepped so close to him and raised my lips to his.” Evangeline tipped her head back and closed her eyes. Just as quickly, she snapped them open again and her smile was sleek. “That was when I stuck him with this.” She took a syringe out of her pocket and tossed it on the table next to my phone. “Oh, you should have seen his face then. That’s when he knew for sure, and by then, it was too late.”

  My mouth went dry. “Is he . . . will he be . . .”

  “He’ll
be fine. At least that was the plan. All I wanted to do was knock him out for a while. The security guard won’t get to this section of the building until at least ten tonight. That would have given me plenty of time to get to O’Hare and get out of here. But now . . .” Evangeline slid the gun in my direction. “Now you’re here and you ruined everything.”

  “Hey, I don’t care if you leave. Go!” I made a little shooing motion that Evangeline ignored. “If that’s what you want to do, go ahead. Get going.”

  Her smile never wavered “I’ve got time. Poor, sweet Nev will be out of it for another couple of hours and like I said, there won’t be a security guard by for a while. How did you get in here, anyway?”

  I didn’t exactly feel like shooting the breeze, but there was something about having a gun trained on me that made me chatty whether I wanted to be or not. “There’s a fund-raiser going on downstairs,” I said. “And volunteers were coming in through a side door, and while no one was looking—”

  “While no one was looking, you decided to come up here and play the hero. Perfect.” Evangeline didn’t look like she meant it. “You just can’t keep your nose out of my business, can you?”

  “I never put my nose in your business. Or at least I never wanted to. You were the one who came around and—”

  “And took your boyfriend away?” Her teeth were blindingly white and so perfect and even. Evangeline shook her head and in the light of the spot, her hair looked like liquid ebony. “That wasn’t hard.”

  “Because it never happened. Nev and I, we’re—”

  “Bickering? Fussing? Finding faults where there never were any before?” I didn’t think it was funny, but I guess Evangeline did because she laughed. “How easy it is to influence the minds of the weak!”

  “A spell?” Even I couldn’t believe I was saying it, much less thinking it actually might be true. “You’re the one who had Nev and me going at each other. You’re the one . . .” Trembling or not, I pointed a finger in her direction. “You stashed that voodoo doll in the Button Box!”