Part 12 (1/2)
Hence my detour on the way to the b.u.t.ton Box that morning.
After our divorce, when I stayed in the apartment where I'd dreamed we'd have our happily-ever-after and Kaz went on (or so he claimed) to build a new life for himself, he'd rented a place above a storefront in a Chicago neighborhood known as Bucktown, and in spite of my objections, he'd insisted I keep a key. ”Just in case,” he said.
I was reasonably sure that just in case should actually have been when h.e.l.l freezes over, but to shut him up, I took the key. It hung on a hook inside my kitchen door, and it had remained untouched-and pretty much forgotten-for more than a year.
But sometimes life holds surprises, and truth be told, this was one of them.
When I arrived at Pelogia's Perogi Palace and went around to the back entrance reserved for the tenants who lived above the take-away Polish food joint, the rain that pelted down from thick gray clouds was icy cold.
h.e.l.l, it seemed, was about to freeze over.
I let myself into the building and climbed the steps to the third floor. From what Kaz had told me, I knew his apartment was up front and to the left.
Yeah, that one.
The one with at least a week's worth of newspapers piled in front of the door like Lincoln Logs.
It's embarra.s.sing to admit, what with me actually being a b.u.t.ton seller and all, but I immediately slipped into detective mode.
No sign of forced entry.
No sounds of distress-or anything else-from inside the apartment.
Nothing that indicated anything was wrong.
That didn't keep me from slipping my key in the lock as quietly as I could. Just as carefully, I pushed open the door.
”Kaz?” Well, he was never going to hear me if I sounded like a squeaky little mouse. I told myself not to forget it, and tried again with a little more oomph. ”Hey, Kaz. It's Josie. Are you home?”
No answer.
Since it was gloomy outside and gloomier in, I felt along the living room wall for the switch that operated the ceiling fan and overhead light and flicked it on. Kaz's apartment is a lot like Kaz himself. That is, pretty basic. He isn't Mr. Neatnik, but he's not a slob, either, and from the look of the issues of ESPN, The Magazine scattered over the coffee table and the beer bottle (empty) on the floor next to the couch, it was impossible to determine when he'd last been in the room.
The kitchen proved no more helpful.
Which only left his bedroom.
I remembered Stan's theory about Kaz shacking up with some buxom blonde and knew (thank goodness!) that if it was happening, it wasn't happening here. There was no sign of a woman's presence, no whiff of perfume, no sound of a throaty, satisfied laugh coming from the bedroom. And no sign of Kaz, either, when I peeked in there and in the bathroom.
I breathed a sigh of relief, and it wasn't because I feared I'd find Kaz with some cutie. That might have been embarra.s.sing-not to mention awkward-but it wouldn't have broken my heart. Kaz had done that long before and for all different reasons.
No, truth be told, I knew there was always the possibility of Kaz getting on someone's bad side. Someone he'd borrowed money from. Someone he'd lost to in a poker game. Someone he'd beat in a poker game (hey, it actually happened once in a while) who was a sore loser. At least I could put that image to rest, the one of Kaz lying by the side of his bed, kneecapped and b.l.o.o.d.y.
”Very odd,” I told myself, plunking down on the couch and taking another look around the room. While I was at it, I wished Kaz had a landline instead of just a cell. That way, at least I might be able to check his messages. I was just about to throw in the towel when I noticed a couple pieces of mail on the coffee table. The postmarks showed they'd been sent nearly two weeks before, and that told me that nearly two weeks ago, Kaz had been home.
Also on the table was a pile of charge receipts and I shuffled through them: Dinner at the local greasy spoon.
Jeans and sweats.h.i.+rts from a nearby emporium.
And a receipt from a sporting goods store that showed the purchase of one waterproof tent, a metal detector, and a sleeping bag.
Camping? Not exactly a pastime I'd ever a.s.sociated with Kaz, and as befuddled as ever, I left the apartment, locking up behind me.
”Camping, huh?” I grumbled once I was outside, huddled in the folds of my raincoat, my s.h.i.+vers keeping tempo with the rain that pinged against the sidewalk. ”Well, at least that explains where Kaz is. Maybe.”
I'm pretty sure I was still grumbling like this when I got off the El at the stop nearest to the b.u.t.ton Box and approached the shop. I already had the key to my front door in my hand before I noticed the car parked in front of the shop. And the slightly disheveled guy behind the steering wheel watching my every move.
”Hey.” Nev, man of many words. He walked around the unmarked police car and joined me on the sidewalk, apparently oblivious to the rain that was soaking his sandy-colored hair and turning it to a shade that reminded me of honey. ”I was surprised the shop wasn't open when I got here.”
”I had an errand to run.” I guess I didn't have all that many words to offer, either. Besides, I was wet and cold and anxious to get inside, and this seemed a simpler explanation than the whole bit about Kaz and how I wasn't missing him.
I opened the shop, discarded my wet coat in the back room, and went through my morning routine, turning on spotlights over the display cases, flicking on my computer and the stained gla.s.s lamp that sat atop my desk, putting on a pot of coffee.
”What's up?” I asked Nev when I was done.
He'd slipped off his trench coat and hung it over the back of the chair next to my rosewood desk. ”I just wondered what you found out in Ardent Lake yesterday.”
Where to begin?
I told him about Marci and made sure to add that she'd promised to return everything to Angela's. That way, it was up to him to decide if the Ardent Lake police should get involved. I also told him Larry and Susan were a couple again, though since he didn't react, I guess he didn't think it was relevant. Maybe he was right.
”What I really don't understand,” I admitted, ”was why Angela promised the charm string to the Little Museum, then gave it to the Big Museum.”
”You think it matters?”
I glanced his way. That morning, Nev was wearing a gray suit, a cream-colored s.h.i.+rt, and a green plaid tie. He hurt my eyes. ”Do you think it matters?” I echoed back. ”I'm just the b.u.t.ton expert here, remember. You're the professional.”
”If only that meant I had all the answers!” The aroma of fresh-brewed coffee filled the b.u.t.ton Box, and Nev went into the back room. When he returned, he had a mug in each hand and he set one down on the desk in front of me.
”That Marci, the first museum curator, she might have been mad at Angela for changing her mind about the charm string,” he said, falling into professional mode and walking us both through the case. ”Or from what you've said about her stealing, she might have been worried that Angela knew what she was up to. That gives her motive, too.”
”It does.” I took a sip of coffee, enjoying the heat against the back of my throat.
”The second museum curator was jealous that Angela stole her man from her. And now that Angela's out of the way, they're back together. Which pretty much proves that Angela was the one keeping them apart. That looks like pretty good motive for her.”
”And the man in question...” I was just about to take another drink of coffee and I paused, the cup near my lips and the aroma tickling my nose. ”He and Angela had a fight. The afternoon of the day she was killed. He says they were golden again by the time she left the hardware store, but there's no way to prove that. So that might give him motive, too. And all we need to do is figure out which motive is the motive that's the motive for murder.”
Big points for Nev, he did not mention how nearly incomprehensible my last comment was. In fact, all he did was s.h.i.+ver. ”I can't get warm today,” he admitted. ”It's like the cold goes right through you out there.”
”Which means it would be terrible weather for camping.”
Blank stare.
Well, what did I expect?
Fortunately, I didn't have to explain. The phone rang, and I spent a pleasant fifteen minutes talking b.u.t.ton gossip with a collector from Saint Louis who was interested in some of the moonglow b.u.t.tons featured on my website. We came to an agreeable price, she gave me her credit card number, and I promised to s.h.i.+p the b.u.t.tons that day and send her an e-mail receipt.
”Receipt.” I hung up, mumbling the word and drumming my fingers against the phone. ”There were receipts,” I said, and no, I didn't add at Kaz's. Like I said, all that was too complicated to explain to a cop on a rainy morning. ”Receipts at Angela's,” I said. I dug through my purse to look for them, and when I fished them out, I was sure to mention that Charles had given me permission to take them. Just so Nev didn't get any ideas about me having a felonious side.
When I set them on the desk, he nodded. ”They were in her home office. I looked through them when I was there the day after the murder. As far as I remember, there was nothing promising. Or even anything interesting.”