Button Box Mystery: Hot Button Part 22

"At least not for now."

"Look..." I stopped, and because the sidewalk was crowded, I stepped closer to the front display window of a men's clothing store. "I think we need to talk."

Nev made a face. "Not about Kaz, I hope. You don't think I think-"

"It doesn't matter what you think. What matters is what's real. And what's real is that I'm over him. He's over me. He only comes around when he needs something."

"Yeah, but he keeps coming around."

It wasn't jealousy. Not exactly. It was more like Nev was just stating the truth, and that meant I couldn't deny it.

"No doubt, the next time he needs to hide or he's low on money... Yeah, he'll show up again," I said. "But even if he does..."

"Even if he does?" Nev asked.

And honestly, I couldn't think of the right words to explain.

Instead, I showed him. I kissed him.

Right there.

Right on the sidewalk.

Right on the lips.

"Wow!" When I was finished, Nev said what I was thinking. "So now it looks like we have something else to talk about right? First it was murder, then Kaz, now-"

I wasn't ready for the L word, so I didn't let him say it. Instead, I slipped my arm around Nev's waist. "Not to worry. If we run out of things to say, we can always talk about b.u.t.tons!"

MOTHER OF PEARL b.u.t.tONS.

Billions of mother of pearl (MOP) b.u.t.tons were manufactured in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, many of them stamped from the sh.e.l.ls of mussels taken from the Mississippi River. In fact, Muscatine, Iowa, once reigned as Pearl b.u.t.ton Capital of the World.

Of course, since they were so common, MOP b.u.t.tons are not especially valuable. They are, though, quite pretty, with a nice s.h.i.+ne and a s.h.i.+mmer of color.

To determine if a b.u.t.ton is made of sh.e.l.l, hold it to your cheek. Mother of pearl is cooler than plastic. You can also look for striations on the back of the b.u.t.ton.

For more information on vintage b.u.t.tons and b.u.t.ton collecting, contact the National b.u.t.ton Society at www.nationalb.u.t.tonsociety.org.

Turn the page for a preview of.

Kylie Logan's next b.u.t.ton Box Mystery...

Panic b.u.t.ton.

Coming soon from Berkley Prime Crime!.

"DO YOU BELIEVE IN CURSES?"

I was so intent on studying the glorious b.u.t.tons on the worktable in front of me, I only half heard Angela Morningside's question. So who can blame me! Naturally, I blinked, looked up, forced the pleasant whirr of b.u.t.ton daydreams out of my head so I could focus on my customer, and said, "Huh?"

Angela did not seem to hold my inability to concentrate against me. Then again, we'd been working together on this particular project for about six weeks. No doubt, she already knew that antique b.u.t.tons are to me what Hershey bars are to a chocoholic.

When she repeated herself, her expression wasn't exactly as kind as it was patient. And a little pained, too. "I asked you, Josie, do you believe in curses?"

Anyone who's ever met me knows that I am infinitely practical. Which means my first inclination was to laugh. I controlled myself. After all, Angela was the one who'd cancelled each of our first three appointments and made no apology about the reason-her horoscope, she told me, had informed her that making the one-hour trip south from Ardent Lake to Chicago on those days was not a good idea.

If she took horoscopes that seriously, it wasn't much of a stretch to think curses might not be far behind.

I flicked off the high-intensity lamp I'd had trained on the string of b.u.t.tons spread over my worktable and slid off the stool where I'd been perched, the better to walk around to the front of the table and look Angela in the eye. This was not exactly as simple as it sounds, since Angela was a full eight inches taller than me and broader by a mile. Still, I am all about making a valiant effort. I lifted my chin, the better to meet her question head-on. "You're serious?"

Angela's shoulders dropped. Her chin quivered.

Hey, I might be practical, but I am not heartless. I grabbed her elbow, piloted her to the nearest stool, and eased her onto it.

"You are serious." Understatement. I knew that as soon as Angela was seated and I could get a good look at her eyes-and the fear that s.h.i.+mmered in them, as razor-sharp as sunlight sparking off ice. "Angela, tell me what's going on."

"I will. At least, I'll try." We were in the back room of my shop, the b.u.t.ton Box, and Angela's gaze jumped from the antique b.u.t.tons on the charm string to the floor and stayed there. "No doubt you think I'm nothing but a crazy old lady. Postmenopausal delusions. That's what some of my friends have told me." Her gaze snapped to mine. "As if my age has anything to do with it. I'm not imagining any of this, Josie. And I'm not making it up."

In the six weeks since Angela had first called and told me about the charm string she'd inherited from her great-aunt, I'd come to learn that she was usually as serious as a heart attack and as levelheaded about her successful medical transcription firm back in Ardent Lake as I was about my shop where I sold antique and collectible b.u.t.tons to dealers, hobbyists, and discerning sewers and crafters. Sure, the woman not only read her horoscope each day, but actually remembered it and acted on its advice. That didn't mean she was crazy, did it? Out of the ordinary. Sure, I'd go along with that. But ruddy-cheeked, well-dressed, understated Angela never struck me as crazy.

"Of course you're not making any of it up," I said, because really, a woman like me found it impossible to even imagine that a woman like her could. "You're obviously upset. What's going on, Angela? And what does it have to do with the charm string?"

She tried for a smile, but it wavered around the edges. "I'm not surprised you figured out it's all about those d.a.m.ned b.u.t.tons. I heard you were smart. That's one of the reasons I chose you when I looked for someone to put a value on that... thing."

Again, her gaze landed on the charm string. But only for a second. Angela might be trying to put on a brave face, but her body language spoke volumes. She sat up a little straighter and angled her spine back, putting as much distance as possible between herself, my worktable, and the charm string on it. A skitter shook her shoulders. "You knew, and I didn't even have to tell you. Can you feel the psychic vibrations, too?" Her palm flat, she put a hand over the b.u.t.tons that many years ago, her great-great-grandmother had painstakingly slipped onto a heavy piece of string, the way so many girls had in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. Making charm strings had been something of a fad back then. Girls collected and strung b.u.t.tons, and the tradition was that each b.u.t.ton had to be different. b.u.t.tons were traded, given as gifts, and brought back as souvenirs from places like Niagara Falls and New York City, and legend said that when b.u.t.ton number one thousand came into a girl's life, so would her Prince Charming.

I can't say if that last bit about happily-ever-after held true for every charm string maker, but I do know that strings with all one thousand b.u.t.tons on them are rare enough to make any b.u.t.ton collector salivate.

Angela's charm string had exactly one thousand b.u.t.tons on it, and I had been salivating over it since the day she called and asked me to take a look at the photos she'd taken of the b.u.t.tons so that I could value the charm string for tax purposes before she donated it to her local historical society. Of course, I'd been trying to get her to sell it to me since that day, too.

So far, no dice.

Which, to me, was my own version of a curse.

I snapped out of the thought to find Angela still with her hand poised over the b.u.t.tons. "I can practically feel the bad luck bubbling off this thing," she said.

This was the point at which I seriously began re-a.s.sessing my opinion of Angela.

Not that I could let on. I wasn't about to honk off a customer who was willing to pay for an appraisal just because she was a little... er... eccentric. Especially not when six weeks after she'd sent my b.u.t.ton mania into overdrive by sending me the photos, she'd finally brought me the genuine article to study, admire, and yes, covet anew.

I sc.r.a.ped my palms against the black pants I was wearing with a spring-green cotton sweater. "You keep looking at the b.u.t.tons as if they're going to ignite and take the whole shop with them."

Angela glanced from side to side before she leaned forward and lowered her voice. "I wouldn't be surprised."

"So you really do think the b.u.t.tons are going to bring you bad luck?"

"No, no, Josie. They're not going to bring me bad luck. They have brought me bad luck. Ever since the day I inherited them. And funny you should mention fire. I had a fire at home. Not two weeks after I brought these b.u.t.tons into my house."

Before I'd followed my dream and opened the b.u.t.ton Box, I'd once worked as an administrative a.s.sistant at an insurance agency. I knew the statistics. "Home fires are not all that uncommon," I said, and believe me, I tried to put a kind spin on it. "As a matter of fact, every year-"

"Yes, yes. I know all that." Angela hopped off the stool and paced the length of my workroom, from the counter where I have one of those mini-refrigerators, a microwave, and a coffeemaker, to the far wall, and back again. "Don't think other people haven't tried to tell me things like that. It was an accident, Angela. It was unfortunate. It happens all the time." Her voice singsonged over the false comfort the way I'm sure her friends' had when they offered it. "But don't you see, Josie? This is different!" She pulled to a stop directly in front of me and, fists on hips, looked down her long, slim nose.

"The fire came after the attempted break-in. And the attempted break-in just so happened to come the day after I got the charm string out of Aunt Evelyn's safe-deposit box and brought it home. That..." She stopped here like she expected me to interrupt, and with a glance, dared me to even think about it. "That was the same day the brakes went on my car. While I was on the freeway." The way her voice trembled said volumes about how terrifying the incident must have been.

"As far as that fire," she went on, "maybe the whole thing won't sound like just another statistic when I tell you that not four months earlier, there was a fire at my great-aunt's house, too."

"Aunt Evelyn? You mean the one who-"

"The one who left me the charm string in her will. Yes, that's the one." Angela's smile was gotcha! sleek. But only for a heartbeat. The next second, she was right back to looking upset. And pacing again.

"Don't you see, Josie, when Aunt Evelyn was still alive and was the one who owned the charm string, there was a fire in her kitchen, and n.o.body, not even the Ardent Lake Fire Department, has been able to figure out how it started. Luckily, I just happened to stop in that afternoon to drop off some cookies I'd baked for Evelyn. Good gracious, the woman was eighty-three. If she'd been there alone..." Angela didn't finish the thought. She didn't have to. The way her shoulders shook told me she knew exactly what would have happened to Aunt Evelyn if she hadn't shown up.

"And the fire at your house?" I asked.

"Same scenario." As if she'd been over it a thousand times and was no closer to finding an answer now than she had been all those other times, Angela shook her head. She had a head of curls that were far too dark for a woman her age. "A fire in the middle of the kitchen table? Come on, that doesn't just happen. I certainly didn't leave a pile of newspapers there, and that's what caught on fire. And no one else was in the house. I live alone. I can't even sleep at night, thinking about how bad things might have gotten. At Aunt Evelyn's, you see, I jumped right into action as if I'd been trained. I grabbed a pitcher of water and put that fire right out. At my own house..." Though we'd only just met, I knew instinctively that Angela was not the kind of person who liked admitting to weakness. No woman who wore a crisp navy business suit and starched white blouse to what was, essentially, a casual meeting, could possibly be. She glanced away. "I smelled the smoke, I raced into the kitchen, and then... I froze." Her shrug told me she still didn't understand. "I stood there like a zombie watching my kitchen go up in smoke and I couldn't move a muscle. Things would have gotten really ugly if not for Larry."

For the first time since Angela had mentioned the curse, the lines of worry on her face smoothed out and, in the light of the overhead fluorescents, her eyes sparkled. "In fact, Larry is the only good thing that's happened to me since those b.u.t.tons came into my life."

I'm a smart enough businesswoman to know that dealing with a happy customer is far easier than trying to talk one down who's convinced herself that her life is ruled by b.u.t.ton bad luck. I knew this was one safe subject and I decided to stick to it.

"Tell me about him," I urged.

"Oh, Larry." Angela shook her shoulders in a way designed to make me think he was no big deal, but the little smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth said otherwise. "He owns the hardware store in Ardent Lake. Has for years. It's not a very big town, so of course, I've always seen him around and b.u.mped into him now and then. His wife died a few years ago, and after that, he kept to himself for a long time. But now..."

Because she wouldn't say it, I figured I would. "He's your boyfriend."

Her cheeks turned the color of a Chicago sunset. "That sounds so silly, doesn't it? Like we're in high school or something. Larry and I, we're... friends. Well, I guess we're more than friends at this point. And you know, Josie, it's really wonderful. It's nice to have someone to go to the movies with and to cook dinner for. What with Aunt Evelyn dying and all I've had to do to settle her estate, Larry's been a real rock." Her cheeks still flaming, she glanced at me out of the corner of her eye. "He's cute, too."

It was impossible not to smile. Then again, I'd always been a believer when it came to happily-ever-afters. That was the only thing that could possibly explain how I'd been suckered by Kaz, my ex, into thinking that true love is as unalienable a right as life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

But I digress. Thinking of how my marriage had gone sour wasn't exactly appropriate, what with Angela glowing like the spring suns.h.i.+ne outside the b.u.t.ton Box's front display window.

"I'm glad," I told her, and it was true. "But doesn't the fact that you've met Larry tell you something? You've got the charm string, and it's got one thousand b.u.t.tons on it. Prince Charming has come into your life!"

She twinkled like a beauty queen. "Don't think I haven't thought of that. It's one of the reasons I want to get this charm string out of my life as soon as possible. I can't take the chance that anything will go wrong. Not when it comes to Larry."

Talk about the perfect opening!

I whispered a prayer at the same time I said, "You could profit very nicely from the charm string, Angela. If you're interested in selling it rather than donating it-"

"Absolutely not." Her words were as firm as the way she held her jaw. "I don't mean to be difficult, but you've got to understand, Josie. This charm string is most definitely cursed. That means any money I made from selling it would bring bad luck, too. No. The only thing I can do is donate the charm string to the Ardent Lake Historical Society. Everything's arranged. I'll pick up the charm string from you tomorrow, and the next day, the historical society is having a tea in my honor. That's when I'll present them the charm string. They've got the display all ready, and they're going to set the charm string into it in front of everyone at the tea." She brushed her hands together. "That will get it out of my life, once and for all."

"Of course. That's up to you." Big points for me, I managed to say this without weeping. "But before you make your final decision, there are a couple things you should know." I went over to the worktable and turned on the high-intensity lamp. "Most of the b.u.t.tons on your charm string aren't all that remarkable," I told Angela. "They're all very old, which makes sense since the string was made by your great-great grandmother. But old doesn't always mean valuable. Most of these were fairly common b.u.t.tons at the time she made the charm string. There are some mother-of-pearl s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons..." I found one and pointed it out, and Angela looked, all right, but she refused to get too close. "There are bra.s.s b.u.t.tons." I showed her some of those, too. "There are lots of black gla.s.s b.u.t.tons. Individually, at a b.u.t.ton show, most of these b.u.t.tons wouldn't sell for more than a couple dollars each. But..." I swept a hand over the entire length of the charm string. "It's rare to even find partial charm strings these days. To find one that's complete... well, honestly, it's enough to take a b.u.t.ton collector's breath away!"

Angela clutched her hands at her waist. "All the more reason to get the thing displayed at the historical society. Then lots of people can see it and admire it."

"That's true. But there are collectors-and not just me, Angela, so don't think I'm saying this for my own selfish purposes-there are collectors who would pay you a bundle for this charm string."

Her chin came up a fraction of an inch. "I told you. I don't want the money. I don't care how much we're talking about."

"And you should also know..." I looked down the length of the string, and the b.u.t.ton I was looking for wasn't hard to find. I tilted the light so that it glimmered against the b.u.t.ton's enameled surface. "Like I said, most of the b.u.t.tons here are common, but this one..." Every time I looked at this particular b.u.t.ton, my breath caught in my throat. "It was made in China," I told Angela. "Sometime around 1850. It's enameled, and the details are exquisite." The b.u.t.ton was about an inch across, and right in the center of it was a s.h.i.+mmering red fish set on a background that featured green aquatic plants and turquoise water. "I know collectors who would pay thousands for this b.u.t.ton," I told her. I controlled myself; I didn't add that I was one of them.

Angela's lips clamped tight. "Don't care," she mumbled. "Don't want the money."

"That's fine." It wasn't. Not to me. To me, the charm string was the embodiment of every b.u.t.ton fantasy I'd ever had. At least I was lucky enough to have it to myself for a while so I could compare the actual b.u.t.tons to the photos Angela had sent and make my final decisions regarding values. I took comfort (not much) in the thought. "I figured it was only fair to tell you."

"And I appreciate it." Angela backed toward the door. "I hope you can appreciate how I feel about the whole thing."

I did. Even if I didn't understand it.

It was clear Angela was anxious to get out of the b.u.t.ton Box and away from the charm string, and I didn't try to stop her. After all, the sooner she left, the sooner I could immerse myself in studying the b.u.t.tons. Two days wasn't nearly enough, but it was all I had, and I was anxious to get to work.

"You'll be back tomorrow evening?" I walked to the front of the shop with Angela. "I'm usually open until six, but I can stay late if that works better for you." I prayed it did. That meant extra hours with the charm string.

"I'll call," Angela a.s.sured me, pulling open the front door of the shop and stepping out into the bustle of my Old Town neighborhood. When she looked down at the sidewalk, there was a hitch in her step, and she hopped on one foot, then turned around and gave me a sheepish smile. "Step on a crack," she said, pointing down at the fracture in the sidewalk, "and break your mother's back."

I smiled, too, like I knew she was kidding. Even though I was pretty sure she wasn't.

"I'll talk to you tomorrow," I'd already said, when I realized Angela wasn't listening. Her gaze was riveted to a park bench a few storefronts down, where a whole bunch of crows were digging into what looked to be the last of a hamburger and an order of fries that had been left on the sidewalk.

I grimaced. "Sorry," I said, "not exactly the ambience the merchants around here want. I bet somebody left it for LaSalle. He's a stray dog we've all sort of adopted," I explained, looking up and down the street. "I'm surprised he hasn't been by for his breakfast. He usually is by now. It's tacky leaving food around, I know. We're not really a garbage dump, and the crows, they're not usually anywhere around here. They must have come over from one of the parks near the lake."

"Crows." Angela's face was as pale as ashes. "Don't you know what it means, Josie? Haven't you counted them? Don't you know the old saying about crows?"

I didn't have to ask what she was talking about, because Angela filled me in. "One's bad," she said. "Two's luck. Three's health. Four's wealth. Five's sickness. And six..." Her lips moving, she counted wordlessly, then swallowed hard. "Six is death."

Berkley Prime Crime t.i.tles by Kylie Logan.

b.u.t.tON HOLED.

HOT b.u.t.tON.