Panic Button

by Kylie Logan

  “But you did what you did because you’re Mr. Nice Guy.”

  I was going for funny.

  Charles didn’t laugh.

  I, too, set aside my plate. If ever there was a moment to get down to business, this was it. “What you’re telling me is that Angela wasn’t very generous.”

  Charles grunted. “That’s putting it mildly. All that stuff Aunt Evelyn left her? I guess that’s all the proof anyone needs.”

  “You mean the charm string.”

  Charles leaned to his right, closer to me. “Aunt Evelyn was loaded. And not just with money. The old girl had been collecting antiques for years.”

  “And Angela—”

  “Got it all.”

  “But you were her nephew, just like Angela was her niece.”

  One corner of Charles’s mouth pulled into what was almost a smile. “I knew I liked you,” he said.

  I wasn’t sure I took that as a compliment.

  “So you can see why I’m curious, right? About the charm string?” Charles gave me a wink.

  I didn’t like that, either.

  “If I could get a hold of some of those buttons and pawn ’em off to some collector, at least I could recoup some of my losses. And before you think you can get away with anything…” This time, he looked me right in the eye. “I’ve done my homework. I know the black glass and the mother of pearl aren’t worth all that much. But that enameled button, the one with the fish on it, that ought to bring in a pretty penny.”

  It was a good thing I stopped eating. I would have choked on my lunch. “You know something about buttons?”

  “I make it my business to know about things that can affect my bottom line.”

  I tried to sound casual when I asked, “How much of a bottom line are we talking?”

  “For the charm string? You tell me. I do know that last week on eBay, a button almost just like that fish button sold for nearly four hundred dollars.”

  I watched the auctions, and I’d seen that button. I didn’t have the heart to tell him it was nowhere near the quality, or that in my experience, there were few buttons like the enameled one on Angela’s charm string. I also didn’t bother to mention that if I was selling the buttons off the charm string—or buying it for that matter—four hundred wouldn’t even come close. Not for the enameled button.

  “I’ve already called the cops in Chicago,” Charles added. “I’ve informed them that I’m Angela’s only living relative. I’ve told them when they’re ready to release those buttons, I’m the one who gets them. Hey, you could put in a good word for me.”

  I was about to tell him I didn’t have that kind of influence with the police or with anyone else.

  Charles didn’t give me a chance.

  He scooted his chair a little closer. “I knew you’d understand,” he said. “I could tell yesterday. Right when we met. I knew you weren’t like these mindless morons who were fooled by Angela’s act. All that crazy talk about curses and astro-signs. All she wanted was for people to think that she was this harmless, scatterbrained lady.”

  “When she was really…”

  “Conniving,” Charles said, and nodded to emphasize the point. “Selfish and conniving. You want proof?”

  I did, though I didn’t expect him to offer it right then and there.

  Charles popped out of his chair, and reaching for my hand, he pulled me up to stand beside him.

  “We’ll go over to Angela’s,” he said, quietly enough so no one else heard. “And I’ll show you.”

  I’m a big girl. A professional. A business owner.

  And I’d already investigated a couple murders on my own.

  Of course I knew it wasn’t wise to up and leave with a man I barely knew, especially when he’d just come right out and told me that he was jealous of the favoritism ol’ Aunt Evelyn had shown Angela, and angry that Angela never shared the wealth.

  Charles had motive.

  And that meant one of two things:

  Either he was as innocent as the driven snow and, thus, didn’t care about revealing his true feelings about Angela.

  Or he was one devious—and deviously clever—murderer.

  Chapter Eight

  ANGELA LIVED IN THE HEART OF ARDENT LAKE, JUST a block from the park where I’d met Marci Steiner the night before. Her house was one of the big Victorians, this one painted white with touches of purple, gold, and flamingo pink that livened up the curlicue woodwork on the front porch, the gables, and the framing around the tall, pointed windows.

  The inside of the house was surprisingly modern.

  And incredibly cluttered.

  “Wow.” Charles and I stepped in the front door and I got my first look at the avocado green shag carpet, the sleek leather oxblood-colored couch, the oak end tables, and what looked to be a lifetime’s worth of…

  Stuff.

  Afraid to move and not sure where I’d go if I did, I tried to take it all in.

  There were dozens of paintings in all shapes and sizes leaning against the couch, and hundreds of pieces of glassware—from pink Depression glass serving platters to elaborate china vases—on every flat surface.

  “Wow.” I couldn’t help myself. It seemed the only reasonable response.

  “See? It’s just like I said.” Charles carefully picked his way down a foot-wide path between a pile of antique quilts and a life-size marble statue of some Greek god with a harp in one hand and an apple in the other and very little in the way of clothing. “I told you Angela got it all.”

  “You mean…” Panic flashed through me when I watched Charles turn a corner and pictured losing him in the maze and never finding my way outside again. I hurried after him, sidling between the statue and a curio cabinet filled to bursting with Royal Doulton figurines. “This all once belonged to Aunt Evelyn?”

  Charles nodded. At least I think he nodded. It was kind of hard to tell because he was on the other side of a mahogany buffet heaped with Limoges. Yes, buttons are my first love. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate other beautiful old things. I took a closer look at a fabulous china punch bowl beautifully hand-painted with bunches of red and purple grapes.

  “This stuff is amazing,” I said. “Aunt Evelyn had good taste.”

  I heard Charles tsk. “Except when it came to her niece.”

  I had no time for family drama. There was too much to see. My attention was caught by the colored glass balls hanging in each of the room’s three windows.

  Charles had been there before and had apparently developed the talent of seeing over and through the heaps of antiques. “Witch balls,” he said, looking where I was looking. After he looked at me from between two gigantic Limoges urns, that is. “And they’re not antique. Angela bought them new, another one every few months. You’ll see them hanging in all the windows. They have something to do with some old New England fishing tradition. I don’t remember the details though, believe me, Angela told me plenty of times. What it comes down to is that a witch ball is supposed to trap any evil that tries to get into your home. There’s other weird stuff around here, too.”

  From behind the mountain of porcelain, I saw Charles point to the French doors that separated the living room from the dining room. There was a fabric bag hanging from the knob of each door.

  “Some kind of herbs,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “They’re supposed to ward off evil. At least that’s what Angela always said. All I know is that when she got fresh ones, they smelled terrible.”

  “Too bad none of these good luck charms worked in her case.” I carefully made my way over to where he was standing. Through the French doors, I could see into the dining room, and the kitchen beyond that. Every bit of space in the house was crammed with more stuff.

  There was a life-size wooden cigar store Indian standing next to the dining room table and the table itself was jam-packed with antique clocks. There were old hatboxes stacked on the floor, and in the kitchen, all but one square foot of counter space was piled wi
th more glassware. In fact, the only thing that was perfectly clear in there was the table, and that had a singe mark the color of ebony piano keys in the center of it, a remnant of that fire Angela told me about.

  “How could she live like this?” I asked no one in particular. “And why would she want to? Angela seemed so organized, so together.”

  “Well, she was. Or at least she used to be.” Charles crossed his arms over his chest. “Until all this stuff got delivered from Aunt Evelyn’s.”

  “And Angela never put it away? Never gave it away?”

  I might have known this last question would have elicited a sour look from Charles. “She never had much of a chance. Aunt Evelyn died only four months ago. At first, Angela bragged that she’d have everything under control and organized lickety-split, but when she realized there was so much…well, it just goes to show, she wasn’t as perfect as she thought she was. Not even Angela could decide what to do with Evelyn’s collections. Of course, she could have shared a little with me.”

  Rather than deal with his bitterness, I glanced around. “Have the cops been here?” I asked Charles.

  He grunted an affirmative.

  “Then if we looked around a little more…” I was already doing that; I had my hand on one of the French doors.

  Charles shrugged. “I can’t imagine it would hurt anything. And hey, poetic justice—it will all be mine one of these days, including the house, I imagine.”

  “It’s not what I expected,” I admitted, referring to the house, not Angela’s will and what might, or might not, be coming to Charles. “I mean, the house is so over-the-top Victorian on the outside and in here…”

  We were both in the dining room now, and there was a very un-Victorian-like sleek ceiling fan above the glass and chrome table, more shag carpeting, more clutter. “Not so much. You’d think with all the time and effort everyone here in Ardent Lake puts into restoring their homes—”

  “You’re kidding me, right?” Shaking his head—I wasn’t sure if it was because he felt sorry for me or if he was just disgusted—Charles led the way around the corner. Between the dining room and the kitchen was a stairway that led to the second floor. “If you want to know more about Angela, her bedroom is upstairs. While you’re up there looking around, maybe you could start to get a handle on what you think all this stuff might be worth. Obviously, I don’t have room for it all, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want to keep half of it. I’m going to unload this junk and cash in, fast.”

  I didn’t tell him I was qualified to appraise absolutely nothing except for buttons. Why take a chance? No way was I going to miss out on the golden opportunity to get a look into Angela’s private life.

  I took the steps two at a time. Not the best plan since I was wearing black pumps. My calves screaming in pain, I paused on the landing at the top of the steps. Angela’s bedroom was straight ahead at the end of the hallway, and I promised myself I’d have a good look around in there after I checked out the room directly to my left, one she obviously used as an office.

  There was no clutter up here, thank goodness, and I imagined it was because Angela knew she could never work crowded by the flotsam and jetsam of Aunt Evelyn’s life. The glass and metal computer desk was spotless except for a couple small piles of paper. No date book, and that’s what I’d hoped to find. Then again, I knew Nev had been there before me, and he was a thorough sort of guy. I glanced through the papers, notes about work, one about calling a repairman to look at the air conditioner and another reminding herself to get her best suit from the dry cleaners for the ceremony at the historical museum. There was a small pile of receipts, too, and when I shuffled through them, Charles waved in my direction.

  “Just take the garbage,” he said. “The cops didn’t think any of it was important, and I can’t imagine it is, either, but hey, if you get rid of some of the junk, it will mean one less thing for me to clean out once I get the all-clear from Angela’s attorney and the place is officially mine.”

  I tucked the receipts in my purse, and moved on to the table next to the desk. It was covered with books, and since Angela owned a medical transcription service, I wasn’t surprised to see that many of them had to do with specialized medical terminology. Those books were neatly arranged between a set of stainless bookends. In front of them, scattered over the table, were maps.

  “Ardent Lake,” I said, picking up the top map and looking it over. “And…” I reached for the map below it. This map showed a wider view of the area, with the town marked by a star at the very center. Along with the maps, there were more books on the table. Absently, I picked up one called Early Illinois, and set it back where it came from next to another slim volume titled Ardent, The Lost Town.

  With as little respect as Angela had for the charm string, I was surprised she was interested in history. And speaking of the charm string—

  My hand froze over the table.

  Next to the pile of history books was another pile, photos of the charm string buttons, much like the ones I’d taken, only not nearly as meticulous. I had taken photos of each button individually. Angela had taken pictures of sections of the charm string, and she’d done it right here in her office; the charm string was laid out on the desk. Through the glass top I saw the champagne-colored carpeting at my feet.

  I studied the picture on top of the pile. This particular section of charm string included black glass buttons, a couple metal buttons, and a particularly sweet little one in white china decorated with a blue floral pattern, what’s called a calico button. Angela had circled each of the black glass buttons and in the photo’s margin, she had scrawled…

  I squinted and tipped the photo toward the window, trying to bring Angela’s cramped handwriting into focus.

  “‘A dime a dozen.’”

  I was so intent on looking at the picture, I jumped when Charles read the words from over my shoulder. “I’ve seen Angela’s handwriting before,” he said without bothering to apologize for nearly causing me apoplexy. “I know it’s next to impossible to read. ‘A dime a dozen.’ That’s what she’s written on the photo.”

  The next photo was similar. This one had arrows drawn on it, each one pointing to one of the metal buttons.

  “‘Fifty cents at the local thrift shop.’” Charles supplied the translation of the tight script before I could even begin to decipher it, and pointed to the words, too, just in case I missed them.

  “She was doing her homework.” I set the photos down. “Just like you did.”

  “Then I bet she found out the same things I found out. Those buttons weren’t worth much. All that talk about curses. I think Angela was just blowing smoke. She probably decided to donate the charm string to the museum because if she sold the buttons, she’d get next to nothing, but if she took the cost of the charm string as a tax deduction…well, you know all about that. How many thousands of dollars was she going to tell the government that charm string was worth?”

  He was trying an end run around the question he’d asked earlier about the value of the charm string, and I wasn’t biting.

  Fishing, though, was another matter.

  “You’re right about one thing, she’d get next to nothing for most of the buttons,” I reminded Charles. “Except the red enameled one, of course.”

  I’d hoped to get something more out of him than simply a grunt, and when that didn’t happen, I left the room and went into Angela’s bedroom.

  It was a pleasant enough room, though hardly dramatic or inspired. The walls were painted an icy blue that matched the embroidery on the white bedspread. The furniture was utilitarian and unremarkable. There was a flat-screen TV on a stand across from the bed, and more witch balls—a cobalt blue one in the left window that looked out over the front of the house and a yellow one in the right window. Like the office, the bedroom was free of clutter, and I was grateful. If we’d had to pick our way through Aunt Evelyn’s antiques, I never would have seen the photographs that were piled on the dresser.
>
  Unlike the ones in Angela’s office, these had nothing to do with buttons.

  “Angela and Larry.” I knew Charles was hovering at my shoulder, so when I picked up the first framed photograph, I tipped it so he could see. Even though she was huddled in a down coat and looked like her teeth were chattering, Angela was all smiles. She was standing near a picnic table and behind her was a long, narrow lake, its waters icy, its shoreline frosted with snow. His smile as wide as hers, Larry stood at her side. He was a tall man with vivid blue eyes. His arm was around Angela’s shoulders.

  From what I’d seen of him, I wasn’t sure Charles would know happiness if it came up and bit him, but I offered my opinion. “They were a nice couple. They look good together.”

  Charles’s shrug told me he didn’t know and he didn’t care. “She talked about him ad nauseam. Larry did this and Larry did that. Larry said this and Larry said that. Honestly, you’d think a woman her age—”

  “It doesn’t matter how old Angela was. She was still entitled to happiness. And a little romance in her life.”

  I set the photograph down and threw out a line. “So…” I leaned back against the dresser, my arms crossed over my chest. “Larry and Angela, they look pretty happy together. Like the perfect couple. But I heard—”

  “What?” Charles’s head snapped up.

  I eased into the subject, the better to make it look like it was no big deal. “Well, I don’t put a lot of stock in gossip. But I heard that Larry used to date Susan O’Hara. You know, the curator of the historical museum.”

  Charles rolled his eyes. “Ardent Lake! The Peyton Place of Illinois.” He glanced my way, then looked away again quickly, his cheeks fiery. “You don’t seem to be the kind of woman who’d listen to rumors.”

  “Is that what it was, a rumor? Larry and Susan never dated?”

  His answer was begrudging. “I saw them around together a few times. At some of the restaurants in town. And last summer at the big band concert.”

  “So they were dating?”