Button Box Mystery: Hot Button Part 8

"You had other things on your mind."

"So did you."

He shrugged. "I told you I wanted to walk you back to your room because I didn't like the thought of you wandering around the hotel by yourself at that hour. So really..." The tips of Nev's ears turned a shade of red that looked particularly vivid with his pallid outfit. "Really, I had you on my mind," he said. "I knew Kaz wasn't any threat to you."

"You could have warned me he was lurking."

"You let him stay in your room?"

Was that a personal question? From Nev? Or was he just doing his job and keeping tabs on the guy who'd already admitted he'd been squatting in the bas.e.m.e.nt laundry room where the murder had been committed?

Before I could decide, the tech called Nev into the bedroom, and I was left on my own.

"Don't touch anything," I reminded myself while I strolled through the room and took as close a look as I dared at the mess. The carry-on Thad had with him at the airport was tossed in one corner, open, and I nudged it with the toe of my shoe (that doesn't count as touching) just enough so that I could peek inside and see that it was empty.

Hands on my hips, I looked around, wondering where Thad might have put the Geronimo b.u.t.ton and, more important, if it was still there.

"So what do you think?"

When Nev stepped back into the living room, his question snapped me out of my thoughts, and I spun to face him.

"About this disaster? Or about you asking where Kaz spent the night?"

Something told me Nev wasn't caught off guard very often, so I had every right to smile when he flinched.

"Natural curiosity," he admitted.

I wasn't about to let him off the hook so easily. "Not really," I pointed out.

Nev's cell rang, and I cursed my luck. At this point in my life, I wasn't looking to jump into a serious relations.h.i.+p with Nev or anyone else. But I did think he owed me an explanation. If there was more to our friends.h.i.+p than the occasional dinner and a movie-or if there could be-I had every right to know.

And an obligation to do my part and not play games.

I waited until Nev finished his call.

"I didn't know what else to do with him, and the hotel is full so I couldn't get him a room of his own. Kaz did stay in my suite," I said. "In the living room. On the couch."

Nev did his best to control a smile. "It's none of my business."

"It isn't, but I don't mind telling you. Kaz and I are..." It was difficult to explain. "Friends is the wrong word."

"But you do have a history."

"Undeniable."

"And you do still have feelings for him."

"Not those kinds of feelings." I walked over to the window and looked out. Thad's room was on the opposite side of the hotel from mine. Where all I could see from my room was buildings and more buildings, Thad's view included a wide swathe of Lake Michigan, glittering in the morning sun. "There are times I want to shake Kaz until his teeth rattle," I told Nev. "There are times I'd like to punch him in the nose. But there are times I want to help him out, too, and I've convinced myself that's the worst thing I can do, so I do my best to back off and back away. Like I said, we aren't friends, but there are times I think we can still be friendly. But just so you know, there is never, ever a time I think we could still be married."

Was that a sigh of relief I heard from Nev?

Unfortunately, I didn't turn around fast enough to confirm it. I did see that, with our personal issues settled (at least for now), he was all set to get back to the investigation. He pulled a small leather notebook from his back pocket and reached for a pen. "What can you tell me about Thad Wyant?" he asked.

"Not much more than I told you last night. Oh, and something I found out this morning." I recounted what Daryl had told me, and Nev took copious notes. "Do you think Daryl saw Thad's killer?"

"Do you?"

Leave it to Nev to remember what I'd told him the night before about not wanting to get involved in another investigation, and to respect my wishes. Leave it to Nev to ask my opinion without asking my opinion. Thinking about his question, I strolled over to the minibar, which was just like the one in my suite. "You want to know if I think Daryl's telling the truth. I can't say." I left out the part about how Daryl wanted to get to know me better in a way I didn't want to know him, and settled for "I never met him before the cruise on Sunday night, and I've only chatted with him a couple times since."

"But he confided in you."

"He did." There was no question about it. "Daryl is a little... Well, you'll see when you talk to him. I guess dorky is the right word, even if it does sound mean. He doesn't seem to have any friends here at the conference, and he's not Mr. Personality. I think because I'm the only person he knows here, he turned to me."

"Fair enough." With his leather notebook, Nev waved me closer. "Look at these things, will you, and tell me what they are."

He pointed behind the couch, where Thad-or whoever had trashed his room-had tossed a pile of stuff, and when I got over there, he handed me a pair of latex gloves like the kind I'd seen crime-scene investigators wear on TV. I slipped them on and bent closer to the pile for a better look, picking my way through it carefully so I could put it right back the way it was when I was done.

"Plastic sleeves for keeping b.u.t.ton trays protected, card stock for mounting the b.u.t.tons-"

I glanced over my shoulder at Nev. "These are the things Langston Whitman said Thad stole from his booth down in the dealer room. And that awl with the cherry handle..." I remembered the scene down in the linen room, and the awl that had been thrust into Thad's neck, and I sat back on my heels. "Langston was right. Thad did steal all this stuff, and one of the things he stole ended up being the murder weapon." I yanked off the latex gloves, stuffing them in my pocket, and hugged my arms around myself. "How creepy is that?"

This interested Nev, and he made a note about it, then offered me a hand up.

It wasn't until we were toe to toe that we realized we were still holding hands and scrambled to untangled our fingers.

I was glad. Not that I didn't enjoy the sensation, but the last thing we needed was a skin-to-skin moment with a crime-scene tech in the room just beyond and murder on our minds.

I told myself not to forget it. "Why would a man like Thad need to steal b.u.t.ton supplies?" I spoke even as I glanced around the room again and didn't see a sign of what I was looking for. "And where are the b.u.t.tons? If he needed card stock and sleeves, he must have had b.u.t.tons to mount. More important, Nev, where's the Geronimo b.u.t.ton?"

"As far as we can tell..." He lifted his arms, taking in the entire suite. "There isn't one b.u.t.ton in this room, and believe me, we've looked everywhere."

My stomach turned to ice. "Then whoever killed Thad..." My mouth was suddenly dry, and I ran my tongue over my lips. "They killed him to steal the Geronimo b.u.t.ton?"

"Too early to know."

Of course Nev would say that. He didn't understand b.u.t.ton collecting-or b.u.t.ton collectors. Not really. If he did, he'd know that collectors took b.u.t.tons very seriously. "It's an important b.u.t.ton," I said by way of explanation. "I hate to think that any collector would value a b.u.t.ton over a life, but if somebody wanted the Geronimo b.u.t.ton bad enough..."

He scribbled a few more notes. "How valuable?"

It wasn't often I was put on the spot. Not when it came to b.u.t.tons. I am, after all, one of the country's leading experts. Still...

"It's hard to say," I admitted. "The b.u.t.ton itself... Well, according to the articles I've read that Thad wrote about the b.u.t.ton, it's made of mother of pearl. What we in the business call MOP." I remembered this would not mean to Nev what it would to a collector and explained. "Don't think of the pearls that are found in oysters out in the ocean. Mother of pearl was harvested from mussel sh.e.l.ls found in the Mississippi River. Hundreds of thousands of MOP b.u.t.tons were made during the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries. b.u.t.ton production was a huge industry in places along the river."

"Hundreds of thousands translates into not so valuable."

"Except that we know Geronimo owned the b.u.t.ton and sold it to a man who came to visit him. That takes it from just another vintage b.u.t.ton into a whole new realm."

Nev understood and he nodded. "Impossible to p.a.w.n and hard to resell."

"But so satisfying to keep in a personal collection and call your own!" I was afraid I sounded a little too wistful, so I shook away my pleasant b.u.t.ton daydream. "I can't believe anyone here at the conference-"

"Would kill for a b.u.t.ton? Come on, Josie, you said it yourself. It would be something of a coup to own that b.u.t.ton."

"But if you can't ever tell anyone..."

"I've seen people kill for weirder things: a pair of sneakers, a jacket, some skewed notion of how they'd been done wrong. Of course, killing for a b.u.t.ton-" He realized what he'd almost come right out and said, and he bit off his words.

"Don't apologize." I held up a hand to stop him before he could start. "I get it. Most people don't understand about b.u.t.ton collecting, and there's no reason they should. b.u.t.tons are small; they're common. From the outside looking in, this whole b.u.t.ton-collecting thing looks as crazy as crazy can be."

"Maybe. To some people." Nev tucked his notebook back in his pocket. "I was actually going to say that killing for a b.u.t.ton... Well, that makes this whole investigation trickier because b.u.t.tons are small and easy to hide, and for those of us who aren't experts, they're easy to overlook, too. I was going to ask if you'd have a look around. You know, just to make sure that b.u.t.ton isn't here and we missed it completely."

He didn't have to ask twice. When it came to the Geronimo b.u.t.ton, I wasn't just anxious; I was dying to look.

Poor choice of words considering the circ.u.mstances.

I put the latex gloves back on and started a methodical search of the room, poking through drawers, Thad's luggage, and even inside the minbar. The only interesting thing I found...

I was at the table in the dining area of the suite, and I bent at the waist for a better look.

"Nev." I waved him over. "Two things. Take a look."

He did, first checking out the upholstered chair. There was a tiny, rusty colored spot on it that looked as if it had been smeared.

"Blood?" I asked.

He looked closer. "Certainly a possibility."

"And this," I said, pointing again.

Nev looked down at the table, then glanced at me with more than a little skepticism. "Dust. So the housekeeping staff isn't all it's cracked up to me."

"Only it's not dust. It's little bits of card stock. You know, like the kind collectors use to display their b.u.t.tons."

"You think so?" He took another look.

"I'm sure of it." I was, but I leaned in nice and close, holding my breath so I didn't disturb one little sc.r.a.p. "I've mounted a ton of b.u.t.tons in my lifetime, and that means I've cleaned up a whole bunch of flecks just like this."

Nev stood up. "And that means..."

"Well, it's weird, don't you think?" I stood, too, and since I'd been bent over so long, I pressed a hand to the small of my back. "Thad stole card stock for mounting b.u.t.tons. And he stole an awl. And he obviously used both, because when he poked the awl through the card stock, it left these little sc.r.a.ps on the table. So he was mounting b.u.t.tons, but..." I don't know what I expected to see, but I did another quick scan of the suite. "The Geronimo b.u.t.ton isn't here. There aren't any b.u.t.tons here."

"And you think that means somebody stole the b.u.t.tons Thad was working with."

It wasn't a question. Nev and I looked at each other, and his expression fell.

"So you're telling me..." He pulled in a breath, and believe me, I knew just how he felt. My stomach was doing flip-flops, too. But then, I had every right to feel queasy; I think I understood the enormity of our task even better than he did.

Nev's already wan complexion paled. "You're telling me we need to find b.u.t.tons," he said. "At a b.u.t.ton convention."

HELEN HAD EVERYTHING under control in the judging room-as usual-so I didn't feel guilty about cutting out of the conference for a couple hours.

At least not too guilty, anyway.

Then again, I had a perfectly good excuse. All my b.u.t.ton research materials were at my shop, and if I was going to be any help to Nev, I would need them. In the interest of saving time and getting back to the conference as soon as I could to relieve Helen, I hopped a cab and headed to Old Town. Just a short while later, I was in front of the converted brownstone that was my dream come true, the b.u.t.ton Box.

I pushed open the robin's-egg-blue front door, breathed in the scent of lemony furniture polish, and sighed. There was something about every single one of the twelve hundred square feet of this real estate-from the hardwood floors to the old tin ceiling-that soothed me and made my soul sing. Maybe it was the thousands and thousands of b.u.t.tons in my inventory, b.u.t.tons that were stored in antique library catalog files and displayed in gla.s.s-front cases and in frames on the walls. And b.u.t.tons always made me smile. Or maybe it was because the b.u.t.ton Box was my badge of independence. My shop. My b.u.t.tons. My responsibility. Yes, the shop had been open for about six months, but there were times when I still woke up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat, worried about if I'd be able to make a go of it, if my dream would, indeed, last a lifetime. But hey, worry comes with the small-business territory, and besides, the worry wasn't nearly as important to me as the exhilaration, and the exhilaration of being a business owner and indulging my pa.s.sion for b.u.t.tons... There were times that still took my breath away.

"Hey, kiddo!" Stan Marzcak, my friend, neighbor, and shop sitter for the duration of the conference, came out of the back room carrying my steaming "I b.u.t.tons" coffee mug. "Good to see you! And here I thought I finally had a customer."

"None, huh?" Well, what did I expect? All the customers I usually dealt with were at the conference. "That's OK," I said so Stan wouldn't feel as if he'd somehow let me down. "I've got plenty to do without new orders, and once the conference is over, I know they'll come pouring in. That's how it always works. Collectors hear lectures and their interest is captured, and they decide to venture into a new specialty. Or they see other people's trays in the compet.i.tion, and they're convinced they can't live without b.u.t.tons just like that. Not to worry. I've got plenty to keep me busy."

"Yeah, so I saw in this morning's paper. Murder, huh? Who woulda thought a b.u.t.ton conference could be that interesting." Stan tapped one finger against the newspaper open on my rosewood desk. "You need help investigating?"

This might have seemed like a funny question coming from anyone else, but Stan is a retired Chicago Police Department detective, so it was only natural he'd ask. He's also a bit-how should I say this?-not comfortable with his life of leisure. Stan might be in his seventies, but his mind is as sharp as a tack. No doubt, when it came to Thad Wyant's murder, he'd have all sorts of advice to offer. Just as certain, I'd take every bit of what he had to say to heart.

I set my purse down on the chair behind my desk, took a folded tote bag from it, and went into the back room, where I kept not only that coffeepot Stan had used to fill his mug, but a worktable, packing supplies for the b.u.t.tons I sold and s.h.i.+pped, and a library's worth of reference materials. "I don't think Nev actually needs help with the investigating part," I told Stan, and I'd bet anything he agreed; in spite of the fact that Nev had taken over what was once Stan's job on the force, Stan respected Nev, both as a person and as a police officer.

"What he can use some help with is research." Along one wall of the back room, there were bookcases filled with b.u.t.ton reference books, b.u.t.ton magazines, and various and sundry publications that came from b.u.t.ton clubs around the country, and I stood in front of it, scanning t.i.tles and doing my best to remember what information I'd seen where.

"It's all about the Geronimo b.u.t.ton," I told Stan, skimming my finger over the books until I found the one I was looking for, Nineteenth-Century b.u.t.tons of the Old West, by Thad Wyant. I flipped open the chapter on the Geronimo b.u.t.ton and saw that my memory served me well. Just like I'd told Nev, the b.u.t.ton was a MOP. Along with Thad's narrative of how he'd come to own it, there was a full-page color picture of the b.u.t.ton.

"Doesn't look like much," Stan commented from over my shoulder. "You don't think that guy really got killed for that little b.u.t.ton, do you?"

"I'm afraid so. At least that's what I think."

"Riley doesn't." Stan didn't sound disappointed at this news. In fact, a smile lit his face. "The kid's got a good head on his shoulders. He knows not to make a decision about motive until he's got more of the facts."

"Maybe. But why else would someone kill Thad Wyant?" I flipped to the back of the book. There was no picture of Thad there, and I wasn't surprised. Up until this conference, he'd always kept a low profile. His bio was there, though, and I glanced over it and grumbled.

"Something interesting?" Stan asked, leaning closer.

"It says he's a devoted vegan." I remembered the Italian beef sandwich Thad had requested, and the scene he'd made on the cruise when the roast beef didn't meet his red and mooing standards. "Guess he wasn't all that devoted."

"But n.o.body killed him because he started eating meat."

"You think?" I glanced at Stan. OK, I wasn't expecting him to say it actually might be a motive, but I was hoping he would. Somehow, a crazy vegan getting revenge on the fallen sat better with me than a greedy b.u.t.ton collector.

I tucked the book into the tote bag, then grabbed a few of the magazines that I knew contained articles Thad had written over the years. "At least Nev can see what the b.u.t.ton looks like," I told Stan. I headed back to the door, grabbing my purse on the way by. "You can close up early if it's not busy."

He waved away my offer. "Getting ready for that c.o.c.ktail reception you've got scheduled here Friday night. You know, dusting and polis.h.i.+ng and all. It's keeping me out of trouble."

As I got to the door, I turned to find Stan leaning against one of the display cases, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles, and a spark in those rheumy blue eyes of his.

"It ought to be way more interesting now that Wyant's dead, don't you think? Not that I don't think those b.u.t.ton friends of yours will be fascinated with this place," he added when he thought I might be offended. "But it seems to me, talk of murder always adds a little zing to any festivity."