Part 13 (1/2)

LaSalle spit out whatever he'd had in his mouth and it rolled under my worktable. He was happily munching on tuna before I even had a chance to bend down and retrieve what had almost been his breakfast.

It was a good thing I did.

”Uh, Nev.” When I stood up again, I held out my hand so he could see what was in my palm.

Nev's eyes popped open. ”Is that-”

”Yup. Gorgeous aqua water. Beautiful underwater greenery. Brilliant red fish. The enameled b.u.t.ton.” Another thought struck and I dropped the b.u.t.ton on the worktable. ”One very wet enameled b.u.t.ton.” I ran to the sink and washed my hands. When I turned around again, Nev was ripping the rest of my sandwich into chunks and feeding it to LaSalle at the same time he was giving the b.u.t.ton a close look. ”I can't imagine how the crime-scene techs missed it,” he said. ”It must have rolled under something.”

”And LaSalle knew just where to look.” In spite of the fact that he was swallowing the last of my lunch, I gave the dog a pat on the head. ”No wonder no one's ever tried to sell it. The b.u.t.ton's been here all along. That's good, right?” Like I had to ask? I'd just rescued a valuable b.u.t.ton from being eaten. In my world, that makes me something of a superhero.

Which meant Nev should have looked a little happier. ”There goes our motive,” he muttered. ”If Angela wasn't killed for the b.u.t.ton-”

”But maybe she was. Maybe the killer just didn't find the b.u.t.ton.”

Nev sc.r.a.ped a hand through his hair. Since it was still damp and as s.h.a.ggy as ever, it stuck up at funny angles. He didn't have to say a word. I knew exactly what he was thinking. I grabbed a towel and rubbed down LaSalle, and I bet I looked just as miserable as Nev did when I grumbled, ”We're right back where we started from.”

Chapter Thirteen.

THE NEXT DAY WAS SAt.u.r.dAY, AND I VOWED I WOULD spend it where I belonged-at the b.u.t.ton Box.

I kept that promise, too, arriving early and staying late at the shop, keeping busy with the minutiae of b.u.t.ton sales and collecting.

I rearranged one of the display cases, replacing a shelf of tortoisesh.e.l.l b.u.t.tons with cute little realistics with a springtime theme, bunnies and flowers and even a couple Easter eggs. I filled an order for military b.u.t.tons that came in from a group of Civil War reenactors in Philadelphia. I waited on a couple customers, thanked the G.o.ds of b.u.t.ton dealing for foot traffic, and paid my electric bill and my heating bill and my phone bill. I even balanced my business checking account, going through the motions and fighting to keep my mind on b.u.t.tons.

And off murder.

I should have known from the beginning that it was a losing cause.

The moment I stopped to sit down and rest, I had the photos of the b.u.t.tons from Angela's charm string out on the desk in front of me, and I was staring at the one picture of the one still-missing b.u.t.ton.

”No way anybody killed Angela to get this b.u.t.ton.”

It was Nev's day off, and he'd called earlier in the day to say he'd stop by in the evening so we could go out and grab a sandwich. It was a sweet offer, and since I was starving, I was more than ready to take him up on it. But b.u.t.ton dealer or not, I apparently still have the heart of a detective-I suspected he had an ulterior motive.

But then, when he showed up at the b.u.t.ton Box, there was a dog biscuit sticking out of the back pocket of his jeans.

That wasn't my only clue. Yesterday's rain had stopped, see, but it was still unseasonably cool. I couldn't help noticing that Nev brought a duffel bag with him (not exactly a necessity for a sandwich date, is it?). And that the duffel bag had what looked like a fleece blanket sticking out of one corner where it wasn't zipped closed.

He'd been looking out the front display window, and when I tossed out that comment about the b.u.t.ton, he turned around. ”Which b.u.t.ton? You mean the missing b.u.t.ton?”

I lifted the picture so he could see it. Not that he needed to. Nev has a mind like a steel trap, I knew what he knew, and he knew exactly what that b.u.t.ton looked like. ”It's small, it's metal, it's worth about a dollar fifty,” I said. ”Yet it's the only b.u.t.ton that's missing.”

”The only b.u.t.ton we think is missing,” he corrected me. ”There's always a chance it will turn up. Like that fish b.u.t.ton did thanks to LaSalle. Say...” I've always said cops are too down-to-earth to be very good at pulling the wool over anybody's eyes. Maybe that's why I thought Nev sounded way too casual when he tried to sound way too casual as he said, ”You haven't seen that dog around today, have you?”

”He left here last night when we did, after he spit out the b.u.t.ton and finished my tuna sandwich you gave him all of,” I reminded Nev, and watched him express not one iota of remorse. ”I haven't seen him since.”

”But it's cold.” Nev was wearing a hoodie with the Chicago Bears logo on it, and he chafed his hands up and down his arms. ”How's a dog supposed to live outside when the weather's like this?”

”He's apparently been doing it for a while, and as far as I can see, he's as happy as a clam. As happy as we would be if we figured out who killed Angela.” OK, this wasn't exactly subtle, but it was one way to get Nev's mind off LaSalle and back on the case. I liked LaSalle, too, but I'd learned a lesson about him soon after he showed up in the neighborhood: He was a street dog. He liked being a street dog. My fellow merchants and I could feed him all we wanted, but no way did he want to be pampered. Or pestered. LaSalle had a mind of his own.

Kind of like a certain b.u.t.ton dealer who didn't like unanswered questions. Or murder. ”I was talking about this b.u.t.ton.” I waved the photo. ”You know, the one that isn't valuable enough to steal.”

”Which is probably why n.o.body stole it.”

So much for getting a professional opinion.

”I dunno.” I took another look at the photo I'd taken the night before Angela was killed. It showed the metal b.u.t.ton in question, and the picture in raised relief on it. ”Small building, low to the ground,” I mumbled, obviously talking to myself since Nev was so busy scanning the neighborhood through the front window, I knew he wasn't listening. Just to be sure of what I was looking at, I grabbed a magnifying gla.s.s. ”It might be a log cabin,” I said.

To which I got no answer.

My mumbling dissolved into something that sounded more like grumbling. ”There's a bigger building in the distance, behind the log cabin, a schoolhouse.”

I was talking to myself.

”And to the right of the schoolhouse...” Whatever was shown in the scene, it was so small, I squinted to try and focus my eyes. It looked like...”A cemetery,” I said. ”Or at least a few headstones and behind them, a little building. Who would want a b.u.t.ton with a cemetery on it?”

Even if Nev had been paying attention, this was a question meant only for myself, and I knew the answer even before I asked it. Over the years, b.u.t.ton themes went in and out of fas.h.i.+on, just like clothes did. For instance, back in the late nineteenth century, girls wore b.u.t.tons with photos of their beaus on them. And when celluloid came into common use for making b.u.t.tons-it was one of the first synthetic plastics and could be made to look like ivory or ebony or other more expensive materials-those were all the rage. Nothing I saw on a b.u.t.ton ever came as a surprise so the fact that someone had immortalized this little scene-cemetery and all-really wasn't all that unusual. In fact, I suspected the b.u.t.ton commemorated some event in a town's history, like the anniversary of its founding, and as such, would have made a prime souvenir for a young lady looking to add it to her charm string.

As unlikely as it seemed that someone would have swiped this particular b.u.t.ton and put it up for sale, I got onto the Internet and checked all the usual auction sites. I'd just clicked off the last one when Nev grabbed the duffel bag, blurted out, ”I'll be right back,” and headed outside.

Left to my own devices and with my stomach growling for that sandwich he'd promised, I messed around online awhile longer, automatically checking the weather (it was supposed to improve-hurray), my daily horoscope (which unlike Angela, I promptly forgot the moment I closed the page), and the latest listing of antique shows and sales in the area.

Hey, a b.u.t.ton collector never knows when something primo might become available.

The newest listing I found was for what was being called a presale showing. That wasn't nearly as interesting as the address of where the preview was being held.

”Angela's house!” I sat up like a shot, remembered I was talking to myself, and didn't much care. Cousin Charles, it seemed, had been one busy little beaver. He was hosting a showing of ”Antiques and collectibles of interest to dealers and collectors.” Out loud, I read the words written in Old Worldalooking script. ”Including a vast collection of Royal Doulton figurines, exquisite artwork, books, ephemera, and gla.s.sware.”

It wasn't a sale. The page made that very clear. But if dealers wanted to come have a first look before the items went on sale, they were welcome at Angela's the next day.

The sound of the little bra.s.s bell over my front door startled me back to reality and I found Nev looking sheepish and poking one thumb over his shoulder and toward the street. ”I just had to go out for a minute,” he said. ”I thought I saw somebody I knew.”

Yeah, and I saw that the blanket was no longer sticking out of his duffel bag and the biscuit was gone from his pocket.

If I wasn't so focused on what Charles was up to, I would have stopped to realize just how incredibly cute this was. Not to worry, I did that later in the evening, and decided that even if he didn't want the world to know-especially because he didn't want the world to know-Nev was a sweetie.

I stood up and turned off the lamp on my desk. ”We're going to Ardent Lake,” I told him.

”Now?” Nev slipped on his jacket and waited for me to get mine.

”No. Tomorrow. Now...” I turned off the rest of the shop lights and locked the front door behind us. ”You're taking me to dinner.”

COUSIN CHARLES DIDN'T look especially surprised to see me, but then, his preview of the antiques in Angela's house was looking like old home week.

Susan was there. I saw her in the dining room standing next to the wooden Indian.