Button Holed

by Kylie Logan

  “About everything but who made that button and how it ended up here and what it has to do with . . .” The woman with the camera was still nearby. I lowered my voice. “Kate’s murder.”

  “Not to worry.” He frowned. “The part about what it has to do with Kate’s murder isn’t your responsibility. That’s my puzzle to figure out, and I haven’t been any more successful than you.”

  Inside the Button Box, my phone rang again, and I screeched with frustration. “That could be someone calling right now with the information we need.”

  “And if they are, they’ll leave a message or call back.”

  “But—”

  “The crime-scene techs, they said they’re looking into a robbery a couple blocks away. But they’re going to be at least an hour.”

  An hour with my ringing phone teasing me from inside the shop. And me locked outside.

  I grumbled some more.

  “You want to . . .” Nevin took a couple steps in the direction of the trendy bistro across the street and a couple shops down. “You know, get something to eat or something?”

  Déjà vu all over again, and I was too exhausted from my moment in the spotlight.

  “I don’t think so,” I told him.

  “I haven’t had anything since a bagel at seven this morning.” He pressed a hand to his flat-as-a-pancake stomach. “I’m starving.”

  I made a little shooing motion. “You go. I’ll wait here.”

  “I promise not to take any phone calls from the office while we’re there.”

  I bit my lower lip so he wouldn’t see my smile.

  “Honest.” He fished his phone out of his pocket and held it out to me. “If it rings, you’ve got strict orders not to give it to me.”

  As concessions went, it was fairly generous, but there is that whole once burned, twice shy thing. Staring at his phone, I considered my options.

  “I suppose we could do coffee,” I suggested.

  He plopped the phone into my hand. “Coffee, it is.”

  AS IT TURNED out, me holding on to his phone wasn’t much of a test of Nevin’s resolve. It never rang, at least not until we were almost back at the Button Box. By then I figured it didn’t matter, and when it rang, I handed the phone right over to him.

  “Team’s there,” he said, listening to the person on the other end of the phone at the same time he told me what was going on. “That burglar never popped the lock and got the door open.”

  “Thank goodness.” I didn’t even realize how nervous I’d been until I heard the news and felt the tension drain out of me. “I can get in and retrieve those phone messages?”

  “Only if I come with you.”

  The hour we spent together had been less awkward than our first date but not exactly scintillating. Nevin talked police work because, apparently, it was the only thing he was comfortable talking about. I didn’t want to come across as a boring nerd, so I refused to talk about buttons, and that was the only subject I was comfortable talking about. Long silences are us. I doubted Nevin’s offer of accompanying me back to the shop was a come-on.

  He didn’t want me to think it was, either. That’s why he piped up with, “That wasn’t supposed to sound like what it sounded like. What I meant is that I don’t feel comfortable with you walking into the store alone. Not with everything that’s been happening.”

  “Of course that’s what you meant. I knew that.” I did. I guess that’s why I was disappointed.

  We arrived back at the shop just as the crime-scene techs were leaving. My phone was ringing again.

  I already had my keys out, and I bounced from foot to foot, anxious to get the door open. The last of the technicians did not share my sense of urgency. She was on her knees smack-dab in front of the door, and she took her time packing her fingerprint powder and her brushes. Maybe it had been a long day for her, too. She looked over her shoulder at Nevin. “No harm, no foul on this one, Riley. No breaking and entering, so obviously, nothing taken. And by the way, no fingerprints, either. I can’t imagine why you called us for something this trivial.”

  Nevin’s shrug was noncommittal. “Let’s just say it’s something I’m doing for a friend.”

  She responded with one of those whatever looks, and as soon as she moved away from the door, I had it unlocked and opened. I looked around my perfect, orderly, wonderful shop and breathed a sigh of relief.

  “You were right,” I told Nevin. “They never got in. Nothing’s been touched.”

  “I’m glad.” He did a quick turn around the shop, anyway, and when he was satisfied that nothing had been touched—and that no one was hiding out in the back room—he flopped into one of my guest chairs and pointed to the phone. “Why don’t you—”

  I was way ahead of him. I’d already dialed into voice mail, put in my password, and set the phone on speaker.

  “Message number one,” the computer voice informed me.

  “Josie? Adele here. Adele Cruikshank. Don’t worry, I’m not calling to harass you about firing that no-good granddaughter of mine. She’s already got another job at some tattoo place down on West Lawrence. Honey, I just called to tell you I heard from Frank. You remember Frank. He’s my nephew. He saw you on the TV this afternoon, and he says you looked so much better than you did in those pictures of you I showed him a couple months ago, and—”

  I would have hit the delete button if I wasn’t trying to move so fast. The way it was, I hit the wrong button and saved the message. I’d give it a more permanent end later.

  “Message number two.”

  “Josie, it’s Stan. You looked good, kiddo. We’ll celebrate when you get home. Ice cream sundaes at my place.”

  “Message number three.”

  “Ms. Giancola, Bernie Hoffman here. Literary agent with Hoffman, Brightly, and Briggs. I saw you with Estelle Marvin, and it occurred to me that you have quite an interesting story to tell. Oh, not about those silly buttons. But Estelle, she mentioned that you know Hugh Weaver, and of course, I know about your connection with Kate Franciscus, and I was just thinking, a book about Hollywood stars and their buttons, that just might be quirky enough to catch an editor’s attention. Give me a call. I’m in New York, and the number here is—”

  This time, I did manage to find the delete button.

  “Message number four.”

  “It’s Mrs. Newman, Josie. From the third floor. You know, Adele’s friend from the beauty shop. My grandson was with me when I watched you on TV today. He’s just about your age. Well, he will be in a few years, and he’ll be out of school by then and—”

  “Oh good gracious!” I groaned, and hit delete again. “One more offer from an old lady trying to fix me up, and I’m going to scream.”

  Not to worry. Message number five, as it turned out, was from Kaz.

  He got as far as “Hello” before I deleted him.

  “Message number six.”

  By this time, I was grumbling. “I might as well give up,” I moaned. “It’s not going to be anyone interesting or helpful, or—”

  “Ms. Giancola?” The voice wasn’t one I recognized. A man’s, the accent somewhere between English public school and that little German car in the commercials. “We must talk,” he said, only when he did, it sounded like “Vee must talk.”

  “This is Roland. Prince Roland of Ruritania.”

  Nevin sat up fast, and together, we bent over the phone, neither one of us wanting to miss one high-class syllable.

  “You will understand, my schedule, it is quite constrained,” Roland said. “I arrived from my country just in time for my darling Kate’s memorial service in Los Angeles yesterday, and I must leave again soon. I will speak to the police, of course. But you, Ms. Giancola, you were the one who found my dear Kate, and I must . . . I must speak to you about this. I will meet you this evening at seven o’clock. The Ferris wheel at Navy Pier.”

  He didn’t ask if I was available. Or willing. Or if it was convenient.

  I guess when you�
�re a prince, you don’t worry about things like that.

  “What do you think?” I slid Nevin a look.

  “I think you’re getting way too involved.” He tapped a finger against the arm of the wingback chair. “I think you’re not a professional, and you have no business getting dragged into this investigation. You’re a button expert, and buttons are the only things you should be worried about.”

  He was right. So I shouldn’t have felt like arguing. Except that whether it made any sense or not (and I was smart enough to know it didn’t), this case was feeling more and more like mine. I was already involved. Whether I wanted to be or not. And now, I had a chance nobody else was likely to get, an up-close-and-personal with Kate’s fiancé, and not one encumbered by some formal setting or diplomatic hubbub. I wasn’t sure what Roland wanted from me or what I was likely to find out from him. I only knew I had to try.

  I wasn’t sure how I was going to support my position. I only knew I had to try that, too. I turned to Nevin, crossed my arms over my chest, lifted my chin, and started in. “But—”

  “But nothing. I know what you’re going to say. You’re going to say this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity and that this prince might open up more with you than he’s going to when I finally talk to him. And me? I’m going to say that you don’t know what you’re doing and you shouldn’t be involved and . . .” His sigh said it all. Nevin checked his watch. “You’d better get a move on,” he said, getting to his feet. “You’ve got a date with a prince.”

  I’VE HEARD PEOPLE say that Navy Pier is the most popular tourist spot in Chicago. No wonder. When it comes to things to do, the pier is a lollapalooza. There’s miniature golf, a carousel, shops, restaurants. All built onto a gigantic pier that sticks out about three thousand feet into Lake Michigan. In summer, even a Monday evening means swarms of people on the pier.

  It would be easy for anyone to get lost in the crowd of jostling, noisy tourists, but I wasn’t worried. For one thing, I was looking for a prince, and believe me, I—along with a couple billion other people—knew exactly what Roland looked like. All anyone had to do was see the news, or a tabloid, or an issue of People or Time or Newsweek. A few times a week (more since Kate’s death), there was the prince—all six-foot-two gorgeousness of him—making an appearance at some swanky gala, or off to play polo, or heading up one deserving charity fund-raiser or another. Roland had a lock on the whole tall, dark, and incredibly handsome thing. Just for good measure, throw in a little richer than just about anybody on the planet, more stylish than the cover of GQ, and sex appeal galore.

  Oh yeah, it would be easy to find him, even in a crowd. In fact, he was so recognizable, I wondered why he wanted to meet in a place so public, but then, I wasn’t used to the workings of the rich-and-famous world. Look at how Kate had let the paparazzi follow her like dogs after a meat wagon.

  I know, I know. An icky metaphor, but true is true.

  “What do you think?” I scanned the crowd around the pier’s famous Ferris wheel, looking for limos, crowds of adoring onlookers, or the flash of a jewel-encrusted crown. When I didn’t see anything even vaguely like it, I glanced at Nevin.

  Yes, he had insisted on coming along. Didn’t it figure, the one and only time in my life I was likely to have a date with a prince, and I had a chaperon. With a gun.

  “He’s not here,” I grumbled. It had taken us longer than we’d anticipated to make our way through the crowd, and it was a couple minutes past seven. “He’s on a tight schedule. He’s come and gone. I’m not going to be able to talk to him.”

  “Relax.” Nevin looked relaxed enough for the both of us. I guess he’d been to this sort of clandestine meeting before, because he insisted on stopping for cotton candy. So he could fit in, he said. “My guess is princes work on a different time clock than the rest of us.” He ripped off a chunk of the sticky pink confection and popped it in his mouth. “I’ve got an appointment with the guy at ten tomorrow morning over at the Ruritanian consulate. You want to bet he keeps me waiting?”

  “Yeah, but they’ll serve you tea and crumpets while you do.”

  He poked the cotton candy toward me.

  I made a face. “Too sugary.”

  “I’m a firm believer in sugar.” It was the most personal thing he’d ever said, and I wrote it off to the casual atmosphere and the summer breeze off the lake. “Sugar’s good for you, and besides—” Nevin swallowed whatever he was going to say along with the last of the cotton candy, brushed his hands together, and tossed the paper cone that was all that was left of his treat into the nearest trash can. “There’s a guy over there watching you,” he said. Trying not to look too obvious, he tipped his head to his left.

  I glanced to my right. The guy in question was obviously watching us. He was wearing sunglasses and standing just this side of the line of people queuing up to ride the Ferris wheel. He was tall and probably dark-haired, though it was kind of hard to tell since he was wearing a White Sox baseball cap. He was also wearing jeans and a gray T-shirt that said “Cubs Baseball” on it.

  Talk about mixed metaphors.

  Only a complete moron—or a prince from another country who didn’t know the first thing about Chicago sports—would commit that fashion faux pas.

  Nevin stepped back and waited at the nearest hot-dog cart. I crossed the pier to meet the prince.

  It wasn’t until I was five feet from Roland that I wondered if I should bow. Or curtsey. Or something.

  He saved me the trouble by sticking out a hand. “It was kind of you to come at such short notice.”

  He was wearing a gold ring that looked like it weighed five pounds. There was a seal with a lion on it, and I wondered if I was supposed to kiss it, but I opted to shake his hand instead.

  His voice was icy when he said, “But I did not tell you to bring along a friend.”

  I knew he was talking about Nevin so I didn’t even bother to look his way. “He insisted.” I left out the part about how Nevin was a cop. “You know how guys can be.”

  “Yes, this I do know.” For a moment, a smile relieved his serious expression. At the risk of sounding like one of those tabloid reports about Roland, yes, it was brighter than the lights that twinkled from the Ferris wheel. “In my country, it is considered chivalrous for a man to do things such as accompany a woman to assure her safety. Here . . .” His shrug said it all. “You American women, you would do well to be a little less self-sufficient. The real secret of having a man fall madly in love with you is letting him think you need him.”

  Oh, I wasn’t so sure about that. One smile and a couple sentences in those rounded, aristocratic tones and I was already falling madly in love.

  I shook away the thought. There was no use making a fool of myself. He was probably sick of women falling all over him, and besides, it wasn’t my style. “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “Yes, but what I have to say, it is private.” He stepped back and waved an arm toward the Ferris wheel. It was the first I realized there were two hulking guys in pin-striped suits standing with the operator. The people in line behind them didn’t look the least bit happy when we were ushered to the front of the line. The wheel was full. The operator waited until all the passengers were off and we got the next car. As we entered it, the two burly guys stepped in front of the ride. Obviously, nobody else was getting a turn. Not until we were done, anyway.

  Once we started our ascent, Roland took off his sunglasses. “You have been canny, Ms. Giancola. You say little to the press about your experience with my dear Kate. I hope when you publish your book about the experience, you will be kind enough to leave this meeting out of it.”

  “I’m not going to publish a book.”

  His eyes were the color of emeralds. Big, expensive, glittering emeralds.

  “You are not looking to make a profit from this unfortunate experience?”

  “I’m not looking to do anything but find out where this button came from.” There wasn’t exactly a whol
e lot of room in the Ferris-wheel car, but I managed to pull the pictures of the boxwood button out of my purse. “Was it Kate’s?”

  He had years of good breeding behind him, so rather than tell me buttons were far too plebeian a thing for Kate to be interested in, he simply raised his eyebrows.

  “I didn’t think so.” I put the photos back where I’d gotten them. “The button was in my shop,” I told him.” Under Kate’s body.”

  He looked away but not fast enough to hide the spasm of pain that crossed his face. “My poor darling. I begged her to let me accompany her on this trip to Chicago for the filming of her movie. She said no, that I needed to attend to the wedding details back in my country. Perhaps if I had been there . . .”

  It might have been of the royal variety, but it wasn’t all that different from the guilt I’d been feeling at not being at the Button Box when Kate arrived. I comforted him with the same words people had been using to try and make me feel better. “If he didn’t kill her that night, it only would have been some other time. I don’t think there was anything anyone could have done to protect Kate.”

  “But why?” We were high in the air now with the city spread out around us, glistening and gorgeous, but Roland was lost in memory, his gaze fastened to the vast expanse of Lake Michigan beyond the Plexiglas window that enclosed the Ferris-wheel car. “Why would anyone—”

  “I was hoping you could tell me that.”

  He snapped his gaze to me. “You are not with the police.”

  “No. Of course not. But I found Kate. In my shop. And—”

  “Yes, of course.” He nodded. “You are vested in this mystery. You have every right to be. But you are also a friend of Hugh Weaver’s, are you not?”

  Either the prince read the tabloids and remembered every little tidbit mentioned there or he had a crackerjack intelligence team. Guess which one I was betting on.

  “You know my Kate and Mr. Weaver, they were having an affair?”

  Another fact there seemed no point denying. “I didn’t know you knew.”

  “Yes, of course.” He brushed aside the thought as if it were as insignificant as one of the gnats that flew outside the window. “A woman as beautiful as Kate, she is bound to have a past, yes? I knew this from the moment I met her. I knew she and Mr. Weaver were involved, and yes, I knew she continued the affair, even after we were engaged.”