Part 1 (1/2)

Panic b.u.t.ton.

KYLIE LOGAN.

For Kathleen Morrish, G.o.ddaughter and friend.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Every author gets asked the question: Where do you get your ideas?

I have to say that for me, the answer to that question is different for every book I write. Sometimes, an idea comes from a bit of conversation I overhear. Sometimes, it can result from something I see online or in a newspaper. For Panic b.u.t.ton, the idea started to form the moment I read about charm strings.

What a wonderful, old-fas.h.i.+oned bit of Americana! Imagine young girls collecting b.u.t.tons, trading them, getting them as gifts-all so those b.u.t.tons could be strung and saved. There's bound to be folklore to accompany a hobby that charming, and of course, with the b.u.t.ton strings there is. Collect one thousand b.u.t.tons and your Prince Charming will come along. What writer could resist a legend that delicious!

There are other legends, too, involved in Panic b.u.t.ton, specifically, the legend of Lake Michigan pirate, Thunderin' Ben Moran. Thunderin' Ben is based on a real Great Lakes pirate, Roaring Dan Seavey, who was notorious in the early twentieth century.

As always, my thanks go out to the b.u.t.ton collecting community which has welcomed me-and the b.u.t.ton Box Mysteries-with open arms, to my writing friends who are always there with support and encouragement, and to my family who put up with the b.u.t.ton magazines that come in the mail and the b.u.t.ton museums and exhibits we visit.

Chapter One.

”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 canceled each of our first three appointments and made no apology about the reason-her horoscope, she told me, 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 my bit over five feet 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 got 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. Post-menopausal 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 back her spine, 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 rea.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 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 safety-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, and they gleamed. ”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.”