Part 4 (2/2)

”Unfortunately, there are plenty of them out in the world.”

That uncomfortable thought was interrupted by Jason arriving with the newest evidence bag. ”I've got them all cataloged,” he said, reaching for the clipboard and the list numbered from one to nine hundred ninety-seven that he'd worked on as I matched b.u.t.tons with photos. He added the uranium b.u.t.ton to the list. ”Now all I have to do is put these boxes in my truck and get them downtown.” He looked from me to Nev. ”I don't suppose you two-”

”We'd love to help.” I was smiling when I sidled past Nev and got to work. Helping Jason with the b.u.t.tons gave me one last chance to look at them, and besides, there was a burger in my future. The sooner we finished, the sooner we could eat.

We helped Jason pack the boxes and load them into his truck, and once we were done, Nev and I returned to the b.u.t.ton Box to turn out the lights and lock up.

I grabbed my purse out of the back room. ”It's been a really long day.”

”You got that right. And if I don't come up with some answers about this case soon, it's only going to be the first of many. What do you think, Josie?” We already had most of the lights in the shop off, but when he stopped at my desk and picked up the two remaining photos, I looked at them, too. ”If we don't find these two b.u.t.tons, does that mean someone took them?”

I wished I had the answer to that one, and I told him that right before I added, ”The metal b.u.t.ton, no. There's no reason anyone would want it. You saw the charm string b.u.t.tons laid out on the tables. There must have been at least two hundred metal b.u.t.tons. b.u.t.tons with eagles on them. b.u.t.tons with animals on them. All of them-including this one that's missing-are pretty common late-nineteenth-century b.u.t.tons. There's nothing special about them. In fact, the artwork on the one that's missing isn't even particularly good. See...” Yeah, the light was bad, but I leaned over and pointed at the details on the picture as best as I was able. ”It's a town of some sort, and a building of some sort. Very uninspired, and not something a collector would find especially appealing.”

”But the other one...”

”Ah, the other one.” I looked at that photo, too, and I swear, even in the dim light, that enameled b.u.t.ton just about jumped off the page and shouted its beauty to all the world. ”If someone brought that b.u.t.ton in here, I'd pay plenty for it, and I'd be glad to do it.”

”But not everyone would know that.”

It seemed a no-brainer. At least to me. ”Anyone who saw it would know it's beautiful.”

Was that a pointed look I got from Nev? I used the dark as an excuse to pretend I didn't notice. ”Come on, admit it, Josie. Pretty or not pretty, ninety-nine out of a hundred people would walk by that b.u.t.ton and not give it a second look. It's just a b.u.t.ton. And that's just what they'd think. It's just a b.u.t.ton.”

”So what you're saying is that a common thief-”

”Wouldn't bother with the b.u.t.ton, no matter how pretty it was. I mean, OK, even if our killer knew that b.u.t.tons could be sold to collectors, wouldn't he have grabbed more of them? Why would just these two be missing? And here's my prediction, we'll find that metal one tomorrow. It probably just rolled under something and the techs missed it the first time through. They were pretty overwhelmed by all those b.u.t.tons.”

I'm not exactly sure when I realized where this conversation was heading. At least I wasn't until goose b.u.mps p.r.i.c.kled up my arms. I started for the door. ”No,” I said.

”I haven't asked you to do anything.”

”The answer's still no.”

”But you're good at this, Josie.”

”I make a great pasta sauce, too, but you don't see me opening a restaurant.”

Nev chuckled. ”I'm not asking you to open a restaurant. I'm just asking you to help me out.” I guess he realized I was going to protest, because he sailed right on so I couldn't get a word in edgewise.

”You can't deny the facts,” he said, ”and the first fact is that there is one valuable b.u.t.ton missing. If that's true-and for now, we're going to say it is, because we don't have anything to prove otherwise-that leads to fact number two: our killer knew that one b.u.t.ton was valuable. Fact number three, then, is that our killer must know something about b.u.t.tons. What's that you said outside? That you're the world's greatest fabulous b.u.t.ton expert?” I had just turned out the last of the lights and reached for the door handle. That didn't keep me from seeing the gleam in Nev's eyes.

”Our murderer knows something about b.u.t.tons,” he reminded me. ”Or at least about b.u.t.tons that are valuable. Josie, that means I really need your help.”

Chapter Six.

MY DEFINITION OF HELPING DID NOT NECESSARILY MESH with Nev's.

Ever practical, I suggested spending the next couple days in the shop, calling b.u.t.ton dealers throughout the country who might be approached by a person looking to sell an unusually beautiful enameled b.u.t.ton.

Nev, while admitting that there were benefits to this strategy, had other plans. He was sure that the only way to root out suspects-and find out which of them knew what about b.u.t.tons-was to get to know the people Angela knew. There was no better way for me to do that, he insisted, than for me to attend her wake and funeral.

This would look completely natural, he insisted, because I'd recently done business with Angela. No one would suspect that I was really trying to dig up information. No one would imagine that I had any other motive beside offering my condolences.

No one would think I was a mole.

Me? I wasn't convinced. For one thing, I wasn't sure I could blend in as completely or as inconspicuously with the other mourners as Nev a.s.sumed I would. For another...well, I admit it, attending the wake and funeral of a person I hardly knew made me feel ghoulish.

Then again, Nev knew I felt a little responsible for what had happened to Angela and that I spent the weekend playing the ugly game of What If.

What if I'd taken her more seriously when she talked about the curse?

What if I'd walked her to her car that fateful night?

Maybe aside from a little information, Nev was hoping that my involvement in the investigation would absolve my guilt.

Maybe I was hoping for the same thing.

The Monday after the murder, I changed my voice mail so customers who called would know it might take me a day or two to get back to them. I put up a blog post on my website and a note on the front door of the b.u.t.ton Box: I'd be open for business again in a couple days. Those details taken care of, I headed north out of Chicago.

”You really didn't have to do this.” We had just pa.s.sed a sign that said we were four miles from the town of Ardent Lake, and I glanced toward the pa.s.senger seat of my car. ”You're going to miss your poker game tonight,” I reminded Stan.

He shrugged away the comment as being of no consequence. ”I can play poker any Monday night. But investigating a murder...” A smile on his face, he rubbed his hands together. ”It's like the old days! I can't wait to get started.”

”You do remember what Nev said?”

”About being subtle? Yeah, yeah, not to worry. I've played this game before, remember. Besides, for all anybody knows, you're just the b.u.t.ton lady who was doing business with Angela, and I'm just the old friend who came along for the ride.”

All well and good, but talk about guilt! ”It's Marty's turn to host the poker game tonight, isn't it? You're going to miss his wife's berry cobbler. It's your favorite.”

”Cobbler, shmobbler. I can get a piece of cobbler anytime. What I can't get is a chance to do some official investigating.”

”Unofficial investigating,” I reminded him. ”All we're supposed to do is talk to people and get some initial impressions.”

”I know, I know.” Stan s.h.i.+fted in his seat, winced, and pressed a hand to the small of his back. We'd been in the car a little over an hour, and he wasn't used to sitting still for so long. ”Nev's already been here interviewing people, but he knows what I know: they're not going to open up. Not to a cop. But when we shake 'em down-”

I laughed. ”We're not trying to shake anybody down. We're just here to talk about b.u.t.tons.”

”Well, sure.” Stan's smile sparkled in the spring suns.h.i.+ne. ”I won't forget. And I do appreciate it, Josie. I mean, you inviting me along. You could have asked Kaz.”

I rolled my eyes. Which would have had a bit more of a dramatic effect if I hadn't been making a left-hand turn at the same time. ”If we're talking subtle, you know Kaz would be the wrong choice. Kaz is about as subtle as a tsunami. Besides...” We were at an intersection, and the traffic light turned red. I slowed to a stop and drummed my fingers against the steering wheel, debating the wisdom of saying any more. On one hand, if I told Stan what I'd been thinking, it would look like it mattered. On the other, if I didn't say a word and it turned out that it actually did matter...

I grumbled under my breath, and when the light turned green, I eased the car forward. ”He's not answering his phone,” I said.

<script>