Button Holed

by Kylie Logan

  She’d confirmed the Granny Maude theory, and for that, I owed her at least part of the truth. “I might be. What can you tell me about her and her buttons?”

  “I’ve got a set.” Hetty grabbed my arm and piloted me to the crazy quilt. “See here. They was apples the year I graduated.”

  Close inspection showed a quilted tree cobbled together from scraps of different green fabrics and topped off with six fabulous apple buttons.

  “You’re not from around here,” Hetty said, while I was still staring, openmouthed, at the detail—including a tiny stem and leaf—on each apple button. “If you was, I’d know you. Everyone in these parts knows everyone else. So I’m guessing you think we’re a little funny turned, gettin’ all excited about buttons as graduation gifts.”

  “Not at all. I think buttons . . .” I already had a hand out, ready to run my fingers over a quilt square dotted with dozens of earthenware buttons shaped like turtles and fish and seashells, and I caught myself just in time. I pulled my hand to my side. If quilters were anything like button collectors, they loved it when someone admired their work, but they also appreciated a little courtesy. It’s always best to ask permission before touching.

  “Buttons are the best,” I said, and when a grouping of tiny calicos caught my eye, I bent closer for a better look. “Anybody who gives buttons as a graduation gift must be a real genius.”

  Hetty laughed. “I s’pect that’s not the way folks looked at it that first year Maude made her buttons and showed up with ’em at graduation. She was a little touched in the head, see. At least that’s what folks always said about her. Me, I do believe buttons, they were her way of letting that artistic spirit of hers fly free.”

  “Her work is wonderful.”

  “That it is. And after the first couple years, when she insisted on giving the kids her buttons, the school board gave in just so’s Maude wouldn’t put up a stink. Well, that’s when folks in these parts realized how valuable them buttons were. Not because they were fixin’ to sell them, mind you.” I knew she’d added this caveat for my benefit. “But Maude, she started with her buttons way back during World War II. She figured if she gave them at graduation and it became somethin’ of an honor to receive ’em, then the kids, they’d stay in school.”

  “Did they?”

  Hetty shrugged. “Some did; some didn’t. Sometimes, the boys went off and joined the army even before they finished their schoolin’. You know, lied about their ages and all. Sometimes, makin’ sure there’s food on the table is more important than anything, even special buttons.”

  I wasn’t so sure about that, but it hardly mattered.

  “So, Granny Maude . . . She’s been making these buttons for a long time.”

  “Died years ago, bless her heart.” Hetty’s smile was bittersweet. “Probably just as well. Can you imagine kids these days carin’ about a thing like buttons? It’s best that Maude was givin’ the buttons away years ago, back when people still appreciated things made by hand.”

  It was more than I knew when I’d begun my Kaz-complicated trip to West Virginia, and I was grateful. But still not satisfied. “These buttons that look like hawks . . .” I held up the photo. “You don’t happen to know what year they were made, do you?”

  Hetty cocked her head, considering. “Not back when I was a kid, I can tell you that much. Me and my brothers and sisters—there was thirteen of us—we all got them buttons from Maude. My goodness, how proud my mother was to know all her little ’uns had gone through eighth grade. If any of us had gotten them bird buttons, I’d surely remember. Must have come later.”

  “And Maude, she’s been dead since . . .”

  Thinking, she pursed her lips. “Seems to me it was that same summer the river up near Carrysburg flooded over its banks. Bunch o’ folks was killed. That would have been . . . oh my, a good ten years ago at least.”

  “And that’s when the button tradition ended?”

  “I suspect so. I’m pretty sure my grandson . . . that would be Bo, Bo Clarence Johnson . . . I’m pretty sure he got a set of them buttons. And he’s nearly forty.”

  It wasn’t much, but it was a lead, and I tried not to look too enthusiastic. There was no use letting Hetty think that I, too, was funny turned. “Maybe if I could talk to Bo . . .”

  She shook her head. “Livin’ up in Wheeling. Has been for years. Workin’ at some fancy school teachin’ fancy kids such as they don’t appreciate homemade things any more.”

  My heart sank, and I guess Hetty knew it, because she patted my arm.

  “Not to worry. Plenty of Bo’s friends still live here in town.” She checked the Timex on her wrist. “You come back when I’m done with my dinner break, say, five o’clock, and I’ll get some of the boys Bo went to school with over here to meet you. Sound good?”

  It sounded better than good. I promised Hetty I’d see her in a couple hours and went back out into the street.

  I wasn’t exactly looking for Kaz.

  But then, it was pretty hard to miss the commotion coming from the tent with the sign above it that said beer could be purchased there. A loud bump. A crash. Voices raised in anger.

  A second later, my ex came flying onto the street.

  Chapter Fourteen

  KAZ WAS AIRBORNE FOR A COUPLE SECONDS. THAT IS, RIGHT before he crash-landed next to a garbage can.

  I didn’t exactly race over to see what was going on. I more like strolled, partly because I could see he wasn’t really hurt (well, except for his pride, but that was Kaz’s problem) and mostly because I wondered if whatever had happened inside would be continued outside. If it did and if—as I suspected—Kaz was in the center of things, the last place I wanted to be was at his side.

  People streamed out of the beer tent and gathered around to see what was going to happen next, but thank goodness, nobody threw any punches.

  That was my go-ahead signal. I excused myself through the knot of people gathered around Kaz and offered him a hand up, but not until I got in the dig I was sure he deserved.

  “What, you were hitting on somebody’s wife?��

  “That’s not a fair question and you know it.” Kaz dusted off the seat of his jeans. The left sleeve of his shirt was ripped, and he gave it a disgusted look before he turned the same expression on me. “Come on, Jo, whatever I did to you, you know I was never unfaithful.”

  It was true, but that hardly excused a brawl in a strange town. Especially a town where we were supposed to be cozying up to the locals to get information.

  Just to see how bad things really were, I leaned back, peeked into the tent, and saw that one table was overturned and a couple plastic cups of beer were spilled and scattered on the floor. The commotion was definitely over, and there didn’t look to be any major damage and nothing happening except for the man wearing an apron, cleaning things up and grumbling.

  “So . . .” I waited for an explanation, and when Kaz didn’t offer one, I went right back to filling in the blanks. “You drank a couple beers, right? Then you informed them that you couldn’t pay.”

  “What kind of guy do you think I am?” Ignoring the curious onlookers, Kaz limped across the street, putting some distance between himself and the ego (and butt) bruising. Once he was gone and the excitement was over, the crowd broke up, some of them going back in for beer and others continuing on their way through the fair. “I was chatting it up with the bartender,” Kaz said. “And not for any other reason than that I was trying to help you out, asking about that Maude lady and her buttons. You know, minding my own business.” He stretched and winced. “And this big guy walks right behind my seat and jostles me.”

  The picture was starting to come into focus. I crossed my arms over my chest and stepped back, my weight against one foot. “So you challenged him to a throw down.”

  “Hey, you know me better than that, Jo. I’m a lover, not a fighter!” His smile reminded me of exactly that.

  Which is why I turned around and walked away. For
all his faults (and lord, there were many!), Kaz had never been a brawler. I knew that, and I shouldn’t have jumped to conclusions. Then again, I doubt anyone could blame me. It was hard to think the best of a man who’d put me through the special hell on earth that is life with Kaz. And harder still to apologize, even when I knew I owed him.

  Hard, but not impossible.

  “Sorry,” I mumbled when he’d caught up and was walking at my side. “I shouldn’t have assumed—”

  “No. Really. That’s OK. I guess I can’t blame you.” We were standing near a booth that sold kettle corn, and Kaz loves kettle corn almost as much as I do. He ordered an extra-large bag, then patted his pockets and looked to me for assistance.

  I rolled my eyes and pulled out my money, and once we had our popcorn, we stepped to the side.

  “So . . .” I didn’t realize how hungry I was until I smelled the delicious combined scents of fresh-popped corn and sugary coating. I got down to business, finishing a couple handfuls before I continued. “What did you find out from the bartender?”

  “About Maude? Nothing. I never had a chance.” He tossed a handful of corn into his mouth and chewed. “The first time that big guy walked by and bumped me, I figured it was just an accident, you know? It was crowded in there, and I figured he wasn’t paying any attention. But the second time . . . Well, you can’t blame me for saying something to the guy.”

  “Which was . . ?”

  He shrugged and chewed. “Nothing inflammatory, that’s for sure. I know better than to get on the wrong side of the locals in a place like this. I said something about how he should watch where he was going. That’s it. That’s when . . .” He grabbed another handful of corn and winced when he chewed. “The big guy didn’t say a word. He just threw a punch.”

  “And you punched back.”

  Kaz’s shoulders shot back. “I tried. But . . .” He touched a hand to the spot on his jaw that was already turning purple. “Did I mention he was big? He picked me up and threw me right out of the tent. How humiliating is that? If word ever gets back to the guys at the port about this . . .”

  I knew what he meant, but embarrassment might be the least of our worries. My adrenaline wasn’t on overdrive; I was thinking more clearly than Kaz. “Could that big guy have followed you from Chicago?”

  His hand in the bag of popcorn, Kaz froze. “You mean, was he sent by the guy I owe money to? No way! Nobody knew I was coming here. Nobody knew you were coming here, right?”

  “Well, you managed to figure it out.”

  “Yeah, but . . .” He glanced around; then, so it didn’t look like he was nervous or worried, he twitched his shoulders like it was no big deal. “There’s no way. Really. Think about it, Jo. I had my backpack packed, sure, so somebody who saw me with it could have assumed I was going somewhere, but it’s not like I dragged a suitcase out of my apartment or anything. I wasn’t even sure where I was headed, and I only stopped over at your place on the spur of the moment. You know, to ask for help. One more time. I figured if you caved and gave me a couple thousand, I was home free. If not, then I was going to . . . I dunno. I was going to hop a bus, I guess, and just make myself scarce for a little while. I took a couple days off from work, and I thought maybe I’d go to Toledo and spend some time with my cousin there. But just as I was walking up to your building, that’s when I saw you throw your suitcase in the car. It was just luck that you were leaving town, and nobody could have known I’d be with you. Believe me. I would have known if somebody was on my tail. No way.” He was convinced and took another handful of kettle corn. “No way anybody followed me from Chicago.”

  His logic was impeccable. Feeling better about a random bar fight than I would have if this was some calculated get-Kaz ambush, I grabbed some of the popcorn, too. “Then the guy was just a jerk. Or a drunk. Or both. We won’t worry about it. I’ve got to head back and see Hetty at five. Until then, we’ve got some time to look around. Let’s head . . .” I turned around, the better to size up the tents lining Main Street.

  And that’s when I saw him.

  He was a full three hundred feet away, but that didn’t matter, seeing as he was as big as Wrigley Field and impossible to miss. But then, so was the laser gaze the man aimed in our direction. My heart stopped—I swear it did—then started up again with such a clatter, I jumped.

  Kaz was at my side, and without taking my eyes off the big guy, I groped for his arm and gave it a pay-attention jab. “That guy who came after you in the beer tent? Was he wearing jeans and a black T-shirt?”

  “Yeah, but why . . . ?”

  By the time Kaz caught on, the big guy had moved behind a tent, where two guys in pioneer-style fringed leather coats were doing a blacksmithing demonstration.

  Kaz narrowed his eyes and looked where I was looking. “You think you saw him?”

  I wasn’t sure, and oh, how I wanted to be. I strained my eyes, waiting for the big guy to come out on the other side of the blacksmith tent, but he never did.

  Kaz craned his neck. “You think . . .” He gulped down his kettle corn. “You think he’s still watching me?”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s not.” I wasn’t so hungry anymore. I shoved the bag of kettle corn at Kaz, brushed off my hands, and kept an eye out for the big guy. Sure, he was wearing jeans and a T-shirt that day, but I swear, I’d know those supersize shoulders anywhere. If he was dressed in a black leather jacket and a ski mask . . .

  My heart bumped out a funky rhythm, and my brain toed the edges of don’t-go-there.

  I was pretty sure I was right when I told Kaz he had nothing to worry about and no one had followed him from Chicago.

  But that didn’t mean someone hadn’t followed me.

  IT WAS WEIRD. Not to mention disturbing. My brain flashed back to the early morning burglary at the Button Box. Right before it turned to mush.

  Truth be told, I probably would have hopped in my car right then and there and gotten out of Bent Grove if not for Hetty.

  And Granny Maude’s buttons.

  Oh yeah, the siren call of those glorious buttons had me in its grip. So much so that I was willing to indulge in some serious denial.

  I was imagining the whole thing. That’s what I told myself. Sure, the guy who took out Kaz was big, but the world is a big place, and there are plenty of big guys in it.

  No way this particular big guy was one of the goons who’d ambushed me at the shop.

  No way he could have followed me to West Virginia.

  No reason.

  No how.

  Thus encouraged—even if I was a little delusional—I never said a word to Kaz about my concerns. Number one, they were completely irrational and I knew it, and when it all turned out to be a big old nothing, I didn’t want to look silly. Number two, in spite of all his shortcomings, I knew that if he thought I was afraid—of anything—Kaz would go all superhero on me.

  I had enough problems trying to find out about Granny Maude and the buttons. I didn’t need to throw a macho man into the mix.

  I kept my fears to myself, and at five o’clock, Kaz and I went to Hetty’s tent. She was back from dinner, just as she’d promised she’d be. But she was alone.

  “I’m just as sorry as can be.” Hetty was wringing her hands, so I believed her. “I called my grandson, Bo. I told him how you wasn’t from around here and you needed to learn more about Maude and those buttons of hers, and so you had to talk to him and his friends, but . . .” Her feeble shrug said it all. “Bo, he called and talked to his buddies on your behalf, but this just isn’t the kind of place where folks are likely to open up to strangers. I hope you understand.”

  “I do.” True. Sort of. I hid my disappointment well. Or at least I thought I did.

  “It’s not the end of the world.” Hetty patted my arm. “I didn’t just sit and do nothin’ but chew on pot roast after I talked to Bo.” She’d tucked her straw purse under the table, where she kept her sales-ticket pad and cash box, and Hetty went and got it and pul
led out a piece of paper. “I made a few calls of my own,” she said. “About that there button of yours.”

  Hetty bustled across the tent to where a two-seater wicker couch had been set up and covered with quilts. She carefully removed each one, set them on a nearby table, and touched a hand to the seat beside hers.

  “1987,” she said after I sat down. “That’s the year that button of yours was made. Hawks was given in 1987.”

  I was so grateful for the information that I would have hugged Hetty if she didn’t stop me with a smile that told me there was more to come. “There was eight in the graduatin’ class that year. Don’t look at me like I’m livin’ in some Land Before Time, young fella,” she added for Kaz’s benefit when he opened his mouth to say something I’m sure would have amounted to, “You’ve got to be kidding me!”

  “This ain’t the Big Apple,” Hetty said, as if we needed the reminder. “Our elementary school classes was small back then. The high school, that’s where all the elementary classes from all around the county were combined. These days, the kids is bussed from miles and miles around and all mixed in together early. The school board claims it saves money, but I’m not convinced. Back when that button you’re askin’ about was made, our schools was small. Those kids, they got plenty of attention.”

  “So eight students each got a set of six hawk buttons.” I did a quick calculation. It meant that aside from the button now in the possession of the Chicago police, there were forty-seven more hawk buttons out there. “Do you have any idea who—”

  “I surely do.” Hetty smiled. “Like I said, I made a couple calls while I was waitin’ on you. Once I learned about the class of 1987, it was easy to get the names of every one of them students.” Hetty cleared her throat and read from the paper in her hands. “Homer Ketch. Tiffany Chatham. Mike Crowell. Tommy Hames. Lois Buck. Gil Johnson. Mary Katherine Rosman. Sharon and Ron Porter.”