by Kylie Logan
“By the way,” he added, “the cops loved hearing about how Hugh Weaver was jealous and how desperate he was to get back together with Kate. They were practically salivating when I told them that little detail.”
“I can’t believe you talked to them at all, I mean, without being paid for it.”
Homolka twitched his wide shoulders. “Me, neither! But cops, they have a way of convincing a guy, huh? Besides, they got no reason to be suspicious of me. For me, Kate was a cash cow. Money from Weaver for following her. Money from the tabloids and the newspapers and the cable TV shows for the pictures I took while I was following her. I was probably the last person on earth who wanted her dead. Now I could make even a little more money, you know, if you’d just talk to me a little. Tell me all about how upset you were when you found the body and how you’re helping the cops try to figure out what really happened.”
This was clearly a fishing expedition. There was no way he could know about the button or about how this particular button expert was turning out to be a button flop. I knew if I was smart, I’d keep it that way. And if there was one thing I am, it’s smart.
Except if I really was all that smart . . .
The photos of the mystery button were in my tote along with all those research books, and just outside the El station, I stopped and cradled the tote in my arms, thinking.
If I told Homolka about the button . . .
If he knew it had been found under Kate’s body . . .
And that it might have been left there by the killer . . .
If I allowed him an exclusive in exchange for getting the pictures published in one of the tabloids he worked with . . .
I drew in a breath, taking the thought to its logical conclusion.
If I did all that, it would create a lot of buzz. Newspapers. TV. Internet. By the time it made its way around the world and back again, the sensation might spark a call from someone who knew something about the button.
In a case that seemed to be out of options, it was a not-half-bad plan, and considering it, I gave Homolka the once-over.
That was all it took for me to change my mind.
I didn’t trust the man, not as far as I could throw him, and besides, I’d been wrong to think there were no alternatives. In fact, I thought of one. Just like that. It wasn’t perfect, but hey, what’s that old saying: better the devil you know than the one you don’t.
It was time to swallow my pride and call on the one I knew. I just hoped Estelle Marvin didn’t gloat too much when I told her I was ready to transform myself into the Button Babe.
“ONCE THE LIGHTS are on, you’re going to look as pale as one of those ugly little fishes that lives at the bottom of the ocean.” Estelle was smiling when she said this. I don’t think it was because she was trying to soften her criticism. It’s safe to say Estelle doesn’t care about anyone’s feelings but her own. She waved over a makeup person, who proceeded to plop so much blusher on my cheeks, I was sure I looked like a cheap floozy.
Then again, I was feeling a little like one, too. I’d nearly sold out to Mike Homolka and now here I was, really selling out, all for a chance to show off the mystery button to Estelle’s supersize audience.
The makeup girl finished, and Estelle leaned closer for a better look. “You look like a prune.”
“I thought I looked like an ugly little fish.”
“You looked like an ugly little fish before you got some color in your cheeks. Now you’d better smile because I’m telling you, honey, you look like a prune.”
I tried my best. Honest. It wasn’t easy considering my insides were filled with rampaging butterflies, my outside was sweaty and shaking, and I was surrounded by all the madness of a just-about-to-be-on-the-air-live TV show.
Cameramen. Production people. A director who looked so on edge, I was afraid the poor woman was going to have a breakdown before the cameras ever rolled.
And Estelle, of course. Queen of the beautiful life. CEO of a media empire. Mover. Shaker. Style maker.
And, if what Hugh had told me was even half true, a woman who was over the moon when Kate agreed to be on the show—and furious when she changed her mind.
I reminded myself not to forget it. This was a little two-birds-with-one-stone investigating, and I had to make the most of every moment of it.
“Remember what you promised,” I told Estelle, hanging on to the tote bag where I’d tucked the mystery button. It wasn’t easy talking Nevin into turning it over. In fact, he only agreed on condition that I didn’t mention that the button had any connection to Kate’s murder.
“You said you’d let me show a very special button on air.”
“I know. I know.” Estelle was slipping shoes off and on, trying to decide which looked exactly right with her fresh-blueberry-colored linen suit. “You going to tell me what this button business is all about?”
“You agreed. If I came on your show—”
“I wouldn’t ask any questions.” She opted for a pair of taupe peep-toe pumps and snapped her fingers so one of her minions could take away the other shoes. “I just wish you would have given me more time.”
I would have liked to have given her less, and when I called Estelle the previous Thursday and told her I’d changed my mind and would be on the show, I wanted to get it over with the next day. That is, until I realized I still had that scrape across the bridge of my nose. Bad enough I was about to be seen live by a couple million people, recorded by a couple million more, and that I’d be part of the show archived on Estelle’s website and the couple gazillion DVDs she sold every year. Instead of a Friday appearance, I waited for Monday, and now, the scrape was mostly invisible, and I didn’t want to wait any longer. My black pants covered the still-smarting abrasions on my knees. My black jacket hid the bandages I wore on my wrist and elbow. I was as good to go as I’d ever be.
“If we had more time to find just the right cabana boy—”
“That’s unfortunate.” She didn’t believe I was sincere any more than I did, so I didn’t elaborate. “But I told you, I need help finding out more about this special button, and I need help fast.”
“And . . .” Estelle looked at me long and hard. “You know I don’t screw around, Josie. And I don’t tolerate lies or double-dealing. If I do this for you . . . ?”
As if it would prove it, I held up one hand, Boy Scout style, swallowing my pride along with my scruples. “I’ll come back. I’ll be on the show again. I’ll be the Button Babe and do the cabana boy segment.” She kept staring until I added, “I swear.”
“Good.” Her smile was sleek. In spite of the “No Smoking” sign above her head, she popped a cigarette out of an antique sterling case, lit it, took a drag, and let out a stream of smoke that floated in my direction. “You are going to tell me what this little mystery is all about, aren’t you?” she asked.
I hadn’t planned on it. As far as I was concerned, Estelle was as much a suspect as anyone else I’d talked to, and when I pulled out the button and showed it on air, I wanted to gauge her reaction. Then again, she was doing me an incredible favor. And I wanted to bring up the delicate subject of murder before the cameras rolled. This seemed as good a time as any.
“I found the button mixed in with my inventory,” I said, avoiding the when and where and sticking to what was, technically, the truth. I pulled out the button and held it up for her to see. “I don’t recall buying it, and that’s unusual for me.” Another statement that toed the line between true and not-so-much. I was getting good at this weaving and dodging stuff.
“It’s especially odd that I don’t remember because the button is unusual and beautiful,” I added. “I want to know more about it for a lot of reasons, but one of them is that I want to find the artist so I can buy more of them.” That was a truth I had never admitted to Nevin. I had a feeling he wouldn’t approve if he knew my research had ulterior motives. “Your viewers are discerning. They’re the type who might know where to find this sort of one-of-a-kin
d button. I’m hoping someone can help. Your director . . .” I glanced that way and prayed the director wasn’t so harried, she’d forget. “She said you could do a crawl across the bottom of the screen with my phone number and my e-mail address.”
“Hmmm.” Estelle bent to give the button a closer look, but when she puffed out another lungful of smoke, I closed my fingers over it. She shot me a look. “You’re overprotective.”
“It’s a piece of art.”
“And you’re willing to compromise your principles and be on my show because of it.” There was a crystal ashtray nearby, and she tap, tap, tapped her cigarette against the rim of it. With each tap, I could practically see the wheels turning inside her head. “I understand why you want to find the artist and buy more of them,” she finally said. “Lord knows, not the button part, I’ll never understand that. But I’ve been taken by an objet d’art a time or two, all feverish to get my hands on more. What I can’t understand is why you’re so anxious to get the information right this very moment. Unless you’ve got a buyer for this particular button and you know you could make a killing with a few more of them?”
“It’s a possibility.”
“Or if you pushed to be on the show today just because you knew it didn’t give me time to work on the cabana boy segment.”
“There’s that, of course.”
“Or . . .” Another drag on the cigarette before she stubbed it out. “This has something to do with Kate, doesn’t it?”
I was grateful she’d brought up the subject, but I managed to play it cool. Not so easy since behind Estelle, I saw a production person give the set a final once-over, smoothing the cushions on the white wicker furniture where we’d be sitting, fluffing the yellow and blue floral print pillows. We were about to go on the air, and I was about to be what I’d spent my whole life trying not to be—the center of attention. My heartbeat sped up, but my voice was perfectly calm when I asked her, “Why would you say that?”
Estelle gave me one of those smiles that the magic of television made look so friendly and sincere. Too bad it didn’t translate when she was up close and personal. This close, that smile was cold, calculating, and as friendly as a cobra.
She didn’t say a word, and I knew if I was going to find out anything, I’d have to push. Just a little. “You told me Kate was going to be on your show,” I said.
There was a mirror nearby, and Estelle gave her hair a final fluff. “That’s what she told me.”
“You mean before she changed her mind.”
When she turned back to me, her smile was flash-frozen. “You don’t know that.”
“Come on, Estelle. You’re not exactly shy and retiring. Everyone on the set of Charlie knew you were mad at Kate, and everyone within shouting distance knew why. You showed up there and pitched a fit about her canceling out on you. You didn’t think you could keep that a secret, did you? You lost money when Kate pulled out.”
She cocked her head and looked me over, and oh yeah, I knew what that glint in her eyes meant: suddenly, she realized I was more than just a mere Button Babe. Not more good. Just more. “You and Hugh Weaver are friends. He’s the only one who could have told you about the money.”
“So it’s true.”
The director appeared, nervously shifting from foot to foot, and Estelle acknowledged her with one tip of her head. “We need to get on the set,” she said without another look at me, and she led the way.
She settled herself on one end of the wicker couch and I took the other. I’d told the director that I had a special button to show the audience and she’d provided me with a black-velvet-covered cushion to set it on. I put the button and the cushion on the coffee table where I could easily reach them both when the time was right.
Somebody snapped on the studio lights, and I squinted against the brightness.
“Prune, dear,” Estelle crooned in a singsong voice. “Do that, and you’ll look like a prune.”
I pried my eyes open, smoothed a hand over my pants, and held my breath, waiting for the signal that we were on air. It didn’t come in one second, two, or three, and I ran out of air, let go of a gasp, and watched the director make a few last-second adjustments.
With a few extra seconds to work with, I decided to make a few adjustments of my own. “You were angry at Kate,” I said out of the corner of my mouth. “Do you have an alibi for the night of her murder?”
Estelle’s smile was brighter even than the studio lights. “Of course I don’t,” she said, just as the director signaled that we were on the air. Her familiar theme music wafted over us along with Estelle’s own voice-over that welcomed all lovers of the beautiful life. The intro gave her just enough time to lean toward me. “Once the cameras are rolling, you say one word about how I was angry with Kate or how I was alone the night she was murdered and no one can vouch for me, and my goodness, darling, I will bury you and that sweet little button shop of yours so deep, they’ll have to dredge Lake Michigan to find you!”
Chapter Eleven
I HAD TO RETURN THE BOXWOOD BUTTON TO THE COPS, OF course, so I promised Nevin I’d call the moment I got back to the Button Box after the show. Good thing, too, because while I was at it, I could tell him it looked like somebody had tried to break in again.
“You got that right.” He arrived just a couple minutes after my call, which was no easy thing considering late-afternoon Chicago traffic, and now, he bent to examine the scratches around the door lock. “It’s an amateur job, that’s for sure. Looks like he used a small screwdriver or a nail file. No big surprise.” He looked over his shoulder out to North Wells. “He wouldn’t have wanted anyone to see him try to pop the lock. He’d have to be standing close, see?” Nevin moved in and his hand hovered just about the door and the note I’d taped to it advising anyone who happened to stop by that I’d be on Estelle’s show that afternoon and that they should stop by later when I returned. “The door’s still locked?”
“I didn’t try it. I didn’t know if I should touch anything.”
My phone rang from inside the shop, and I reconsidered the wisdom of keeping my hands off the door. “If it’s somebody calling about the button . . .” I moaned, and didn’t elaborate. Nevin knew exactly what I was talking about.
He stepped out onto the sidewalk, pulled out his phone, and made a call of his own. “I’ll have a team come over and dust for prints,” he explained while he waited for someone to answer the phone. “But honestly, I don’t think they’ll find anything. It’s weird.” By this time of the afternoon, it was probably the end of Nevin’s shift, and it looked like he’d put in a hard day. He was wearing a lightweight khaki suit that had been rumpled by the heat, and his brown and beige plaid tie was cockeyed. I wondered if he realized there was a dry-cleaning tag on his jacket sleeve. It offended my sense of order but rather than mention it, I reached over, pulled off the tag, and tucked it in my pocket.
He didn’t bother to thank me. But then, I really didn’t expect him to.
He gave my shop address to the person on the other end of the phone. “That last burglary, that was done by pros,” he said when he was finished and tucking his phone back into his pocket. “No sign of forced entry. No fingerprints. No muss, no fuss.”
“Except the mess they left behind.” I peered in the window, but the way the sun was shining, it was hard to see much of anything aside from my own reflection. I prayed the thief hadn’t gotten in. As much as I love my buttons, I was getting sick and tired of picking them up off the floor.
“This is such a botched job,” he muttered. “It’s got to be someone different.”
“Two people who want to burglarize a button shop?” It sounded unlikely, even to me. “That’s what you meant when you said—”
“Weird.” He stared at the door awhile longer. I wasn’t sure what he was looking for, but I stared, too, just in case I was missing something.
Finally, he combed his fingers through his hair. It didn’t help; he still looked like a poorly gr
oomed puppy. “You did a great job,” he said, his gaze on the door. “You know, on that TV show this afternoon.”
Not what I was expecting to hear, so of course, I was caught off guard. I covered by mumbling the standard, “Thank you.”
“No really. I mean it.” He stepped back and leaned against a lamppost next to the park bench where I’d sat the night of the murder. “If I had to be on TV, I’d be terrified.”
“Join the crowd.” I had stepped onto the sidewalk, too, and I maneuvered my way around a woman with a camera who was pointing at the shop and saying something to the man with her about, “That’s where it happened.”
“I thought for sure I was going to pass out,” I told Nevin.
“Really? You didn’t look nervous.” When I glanced his way, I saw that he was looking at me. At least until he saw that I was looking at him. Then he looked away. “You were cool and calm. You talked about that button of ours, but you were careful not to say too much. Just that it was beautiful and you were anxious to find the artist. You sounded like you really knew what you were talking about.”
He didn’t come right out and add even though you obviously don’t so technically, I shouldn’t have bristled. He must have realized it because he added, “I didn’t mean—”
“It’s true.” I shrugged. It was hot, so I took off my black jacket, folded it, and tucked it into my tote. “If I was the expert I’m supposed to be—”
“You’ve already told us more about that button than we could have found out on our own.” He pushed away from the lamppost. “I mean, think about it; we wouldn’t have known what it was made of or that it’s handmade. And we sure wouldn’t have had the connections to go on Estelle Marvin’s show to show it off to the world. You’ve been really helpful.”
