by Kylie Logan
“And that photographer was outside when you got there.”
I nodded. If I was thinking more like the careful investigator Nevin wanted me to be and less like a woman with her head in a cloud of buttons, I suppose I would have thought of that. “Mike Homolka. OK, yeah, I can see how he might be a suspect. Right time, right place. But it seems to me a guy who just killed somebody wouldn’t stick around.”
“Unless he wanted to get pictures of that someone he just killed.”
“But he could have done that before I got there.”
“Except that he might not have wanted to take the chance of anybody seeing him or of some sharp-eyed cop taking a look at the photos and seeing some little clue that indicated they’d been taken before you got back to the shop. On the other hand, if he arrived at the Button Box with you . . .”
It all made sense. Even if it didn’t prove anything.
“And then there’s Brina and Dr. Levine, of course,” Stan said. “They were right across the street.”
“Of course they were. But you can’t possibly think—”
“When you eliminate people right off the bat like that, that’s called jumping to conclusions, and it’s as dangerous as deciding who’s guilty before you have all the facts.”
It was a valid point, even though there was no way he could ever convince me Brina or Dr. Levine might have been involved.
We walked along quietly for a bit before Stan said, “Then there’s that husband of yours.”
“Ex-husband,” I reminded him. Right before I stopped cold, whirled to face him, and blurted out, “What?”
He shrugged. “You said it yourself; he told you he’d been to the shop.”
“And saw Brina while he was there. Which means Brina hadn’t gone across the street yet. Which means Kate hadn’t arrived.”
“Yeah, sure. That’s what he says.”
“And you think I shouldn’t believe him?” The second the words were out of my mouth, I realized how ridiculous they were. “Of course I can’t believe him. He’s Kaz.”
“Which doesn’t mean he’s lying about this. It just means we’ve got to be careful, that’s all. You know, we’ve got to look at the facts, and get a time line down, and consider alibis and motives.”
“Which pretty much eliminates Kaz.” I felt a little funny standing up for the guy who’d given me nothing but grief, but the order-loving side of me couldn’t let Stan get carried away. Facts were facts, just like he’d said, and this one was inescapable. “Kaz didn’t have any reason to kill Kate. He didn’t even know Kate.”
“Ah, motive!” Stan nodded. “Now you’re thinking like a cop. It’s all important, the who and the what and the where. But the why . . . The why is always the heart of the matter. Figure that out, and the rest just falls into place.”
For all I knew, he was right. Then again, we didn’t exactly have a chance to talk about it. We were close to our apartment building, and from someone in the knot of people, I heard, “There she is!” The crowd surged toward me.
“Stan?” I gripped his sleeve. “Who are they? And what do they want?”
I found out as soon as the first camera flash went off. The next second, a woman in a gray suit shoved a microphone in my face. “You were the first one on the scene,” she said. “So you must have heard Kate’s dying words. Tell us, Josie. The people of America deserve to know what she said. Did she name her killer? Did she talk about Roland? About their doomed love?”
“I . . . I . . .” I blinked, looking around at the crowd of reporters and photographers like a stunned rabbit and wondering how, since I had an unlisted phone number, they’d found out where I lived in the first place. “I have nothing to say.”
“But you must have seen the murderer.” This time, it was a tape recorder that got shoved at me. There was a middle-aged man in a plaid sport coat on the other end of it. “Is that why you’re trying to keep out of the investigation, Josie? Have the cops told you to keep your mouth shut? They have, haven’t they? They want to make sure the killer doesn’t know that you got a good look at him.”
“But I . . . I didn’t . . . I . . .”
A young guy with long hair and bad skin pushed his way to the front of the crowd. “Maybe you don’t want to say anything because you’re not much of a liar. Maybe you were the first one on the scene because you had something to do with the murder yourself. Why did you hate Kate so much, Josie? Was it her money? Her beauty? Her power? What made you kill her?”
“OK, that’s enough.” Stan gripped my forearm and pushed through the crowd and went straight for the door of the apartment. “Josie’s got nothing to say to any of you clowns.” He unlocked the door and pushed me into the lobby ahead of him.
“Thanks!” I pressed my back to the wall and closed my eyes, hoping to calm myself. “That was awful!”
“Fools!” Stan was glaring out the window, and I saw a few flashes go off. No doubt, one of these days soon, some tabloid would feature his picture on the front page. He would not be happy about that.
“I can’t believe they’d care that much about me,” I groaned. “I don’t know anything. I can’t tell them anything.”
He scraped a hand along his chin. “I guess they’re just doing their jobs,” he admitted a second before his eyes narrowed. “But if they ever get pushy like that with you again, I’m going to show them a thing or two.”
I knew he would. Which is why I smiled.
I’d just shifted away from the wall and was headed toward the elevator when the doors opened and Brina stepped into our postage-stamp-sized lobby—Brina and Mike Homolka.
“So, yeah, this is the elevator she rides every day,” Brina was saying. “And you saw her door and talked to her neighbors and—” She caught sight of me, and her face went as pale as the silvery streak she’d added to her hair since last I saw her. “Oh, hi, Josie.”
Homolka flashed a picture.
“You?” I guess I wasn’t all that surprised, but I was plenty outraged. “You’re the one who told these jackals where to find me?”
“Oh, come on, Josie.” When Brina squinched up her nose, that stud in it sparkled in the overhead lights. “It’s business. You understand about business. You’re the one who’s always saying—”
“They paid you?” I could barely swallow around my outrage. “Well, of course they did. That’s why you sold me out.” I swung toward Homolka. “You looking for an exclusive?” I asked him.
His eyes shone with excitement. “You bet! What have you got to say?”
“You can tell the world loud and clear. Brina here? She just got fired.”
IT TOOK A couple hours, a long shower, and a glass of wine to get me settled down. Once I was feeling more like myself and less like a zebra carcass left on the Serengeti for the hyenas to feast on, I pulled out every button reference book I owned (there were a lot of them), settled myself on the couch, and got to work.
“Wooden buttons,” I mumbled to myself, flipping through the pages of the first book. I found the chapter I was looking for, skimmed it, found nothing that was even vaguely helpful, and went on to the second book.
And the third.
And the fourth.
And the fifth.
It wasn’t until I’d been through all my books and done a thorough Internet search that I realized my eyes burned and my neck felt like it was in a vise. That’s the first I bothered to check the clock. It was past nine, and my rumbling stomach reminded me that I hadn’t had dinner. I stretched, rubbed the small of my back, and dragged into the kitchen for a yogurt. Just so I didn’t sit there and accomplish nothing while I was eating it, I grabbed a couple of the books I’d already looked through and flopped them on the kitchen table.
“Carved buttons, wooden buttons, realistic buttons,” I mumbled to myself, paging through the books. I got nowhere fast, and aside from some antique boxwood buttons from China, I didn’t see anything that even came close to the boxwood hawk in style or workmanship.
&n
bsp; Just to be sure, I checked the photographs Nevin had provided for me. Again.
I nodded, confirming something to myself. “Good work, kiddo,” I told myself, just like Stan would have if he were there. In fact, he would have been proud of me. I’d refused to let myself jump to conclusions, checking and rechecking all the references and all the facts before I made up my mind, even though I’d been tempted to do just that the moment I saw the button.
All along, I suspected it was what we in the button biz call a studio button, that is, a button made in limited quantities and not by a factory or a manufacturer, but by an artist. Studio buttons aren’t really even intended to go on clothing. Most of them are snapped up by collectors.
Trouble is, the style and craftsmanship of this studio button didn’t ring any bells.
I rifled through the photographs the police had taken, including the one I’d insisted on that showed the back side of the button. “No artist’s signature, no marking, nothing to indicate who made it or where it came from.”
I propped my elbows on the table and cradled my chin in my hands. If I was going to figure out where the button came from and—more importantly—why it was on the floor right where Kate’s body had been found, I was going to need more to go on. It was late, and unlike a certain button dealer who pretty much lived and breathed her business, most of the other dealers and collectors I knew had actual lives. It was too late to call them, and I promised myself I’d do it in the morning. For now, all I could do was wonder. About the button and its maker. About whoever had brought it to the shop.
About those suspects Stan had mentioned.
Mike Homolka.
Brina, my first and now my former employee.
Dr. Levine.
Why any of them would have the button was as much of a mystery as why it had ended up being left with Kate’s body.
“And none of it’s getting me anywhere,” I mumbled to myself. Right before my cell phone rang.
I would have kept on mumbling and let the call go to voice mail, but as far as I knew, nobody but friends had the number. Whispering a silent prayer that I hadn’t, in a moment of weakness, given it to Brina, I answered.
“Josie, is that you?” I barely recognized Hugh’s voice. But then, he was sobbing. “Josie, baby girl, I need to talk to you. Now. Josie . . .” He gulped. “You’ve got to help me out. Like you always do. It’s about Kate, see, and . . .” He let go a shaky breath. “I think I did something really, really stupid.”
Chapter Seven
I WAS CARDED AT THE FRONT DESK OF HUGH’S LUXURY hotel and again outside the elevator that was for the sole use of those staying in its priciest suites. Up on the thirty-first floor, my ID was checked once more, this time by a strapping guy in a dark suit who walked me to a set of double doors and handed me off to a trim and efficient-looking woman in black who introduced herself as Lucia. She told me to have a seat and that Hugh would be with me in a moment. Even though it was after ten o’clock, Lucia didn’t seem fazed by my visit, and I imagined I knew why; I pictured Hugh’s opinion of me in neon lights, flashing over my head.
Good ol’ Josie—reliable, dependable, predictable.
No wonder Lucia wasn’t surprised. If she knew that much, I figured she also knew that things had always been this way between Hugh and me, even back in college. He needed help—with anything from homework to laundry—and I pitched in. At first, it was because I had an aching crush on Hugh and I was hoping to get him to notice me. But even a button nerd is not completely dense. It didn’t take longer than the first semester for me to realize I was out of his league. Hugh liked his women tall, busty, and gorgeous. I was none of those things, but he liked me, anyway. As a friend. A friend who could get things done.
Good ol’ Josie always pitched in, and always without a complaint.
Only this time . . .
Lucia excused herself, and waiting for Hugh, I glanced around the incredible living room, with its startling post-modern furniture, the white and plum decor, and an amazing view of Lake Michigan out the floor-to-ceiling windows that took the place of two walls.
This time, I had to admit, I was worried. About Hugh’s phone call and that problem he said he had. About what he expected me to do about it.
There was more than a thread of panic in his voice when we talked, and I couldn’t get that, or what he said, out of my head.
You’ve got to help me out. Like you always do. It’s about Kate . . . I did something really, really stupid.
I wondered how stupid really, really stupid was.
And if that really, really stupid had something to do with murder.
“Hey, baby girl!” Hugh’s voice zapped me out of my thoughts and back to reality. I looked up just in time to see him walk out of what must have been the bedroom of the suite. Hugh had always been good-looking, in a film-student, artsy sort of way. It was the long dark hair and the soulful eyes that had gotten to me years before along with the ragged jeans, the secondhand denim jackets, and the endless supply of T-shirts he borrowed from the endless one-night stands who were only too happy to share. These days, he preferred Dior to denim and a corporate haircut that made him look every inch the Hollywood power broker he was.
None of that could disguise the furrows of worry on his forehead. The forced cheeriness in his voice didn’t fool me, either. Hugh’s eyes were red. So was his nose. His hair stuck up at odd angles like he’d been tugging at it.
Instinctively, I stood, prepared—as always—to offer him comfort and a shoulder to cry on.
He didn’t give me a chance. Before I could move away from the couch, he was right up in my face. He grabbed both my hands and squeezed tight.
“I didn’t do it. You know that, don’t you, Josie? You know I had nothing to do with Kate’s murder.”
Startled by his intensity, I gathered my thoughts, hung onto my composure, and took a moment to study Hugh. Though we chatted on the phone occasionally, it had been years since we’d been face-to-face, since that first summer after college, in fact, when we worked on Trolls together, and I could see there was more to his transformation than pricey clothes and designer hair.
Hugh’s teeth were unnaturally white, and they’d been straightened since last I saw him. So had his nose. Come to think of it, I remembered his chin being rounder and fuller. At this point, I guess none of that mattered. Not as much as the way he hung onto me. Yeah, the phrase for dear life popped into my head.
“You believe me, don’t you, Josie?” His words shivered from trembling lips.
Too bad I wasn’t in any shape to offer reassurance. Listening to Hugh, seeing the desperation that shone in his eyes, my stomach flipped.
I commanded it to settle down and extricated myself from his grip. I might not have been feeling it, but in an effort to at least look calm, I sat back down, and said, “Apparently, we have a lot to talk about.”
He nodded. Took my lead and sat down. Stood up again. “There were lots of people who wanted Kate dead,” he announced.
OK. Have I mentioned this was getting weird?
Clearing my throat, I ordered my thoughts and gave him the kind of stare I’d once seen a trainer use on an unruly Jack Russell terrier. “Maybe you better start from the beginning,” I said. “I’m a little confused.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Hugh did a spin around the room. Sort of like that Jack Russell did when the trainer made an effort to control him. “It’s just that . . . The police called. They want to talk. To me.” Even though the suite was bigger than the entire fourth floor of my apartment building, he was moving a mile a minute, and by this time, he was already back in front of me.
I knew Nevin was the one who must have made the call since he was lead investigator on the case, and really, it wasn’t hard to think like Nevin. Nevin Riley might be more than a little rough around the edges when it came to personal relationships, but as he’d pointed out the last time we talked, he was a professional. With him, a case was bound to be all about the logic.
<
br /> I held on tight to the thought and clutched my hands together on my lap. “Of course they called you,” I told Hugh. “You and Kate were working on a movie together, and they’re going to want to understand what Kate was up to in the days before she died. They talked to me, too. They’re putting together a time line. Your work with her and her visit to my shop, that’s all part of that time line.”
“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” For the space of a few heartbeats, relief swept across his face. Right before he fell to pieces again. “But what if they ask questions I can’t answer?”
“Then you’ll tell them you can’t answer. It’s better than concocting a lie.”
He didn’t respond, so I tipped my head, trying to catch his eye.
“Did you hear me, Hugh? There’s nothing to be gained from lying to the police. They’ll find out eventually. And what . . .” A new and very disturbing thought hit. I sat back and swallowed hard, and when I forced myself to ask the question burning in my brain, my voice was breathy. “What do you . . . Is there something you need to lie about?”
He paced to the bar, poured Scotch into a crystal glass, and slugged it down. “Charlie, the movie we were shooting. . . Charlie’s shot to hell,” he grumbled. “A third of the way through, and Kate is in just about every scene. How the hell can anybody expect me to finish a movie about the most famous madam in Victorian-era Chicago when the madam in question has gone and gotten herself killed?”
I laced my fingers together. “You didn’t call me for business advice, Hugh. If I can believe what I’ve been reading in the papers these days, nobody knows the movie business better than you do. Besides, I’m sure this sort of thing has happened before. The production company must have insurance.”
“Yeah. Sure. Right.” He poured another drink and took his time with this one, sipping and studying me over the rim of the glass. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said. His chest rose and fell. “Josie . . . You’re the only one who can help me.”
