by Kylie Logan
It was taken on the set of Charlie a couple days before Kate’s murder, and it showed her looking like a dream in a costume that included elbow-length kid gloves and a white off-the-shoulder gown with puffed sleeves. But it wasn’t the star who caught my eye in the photograph; it was the little slice of behind-the-camera activity that showed in the background.
There was Hugh, watching the filming and looking miserable, his gaze on Kate. There was the director, signaling to a cameraman who was giving him the high-sign back.
And behind them all, there was . . .
I sat up like a shot and since I was sitting at my desk toward the back of the shop, I got up and carried the clipping to the front near the display window so I could take a better look.
It wasn’t as crisp as I would have liked, but then, it was a black-and-white newspaper photo. Still, it was just possible to make out the man who stood far back in the shadows.
The one in the sunglasses who was wearing a White Sox cap and a Cubs shirt.
Yeah, that’s the one.
The prince who swore he wasn’t even in the country until after Kate’s murder.
I WAS IN luck. Roland was still in Chicago. In spite of the fact that he was in “deep mourning” (or so his quote in the morning paper said), he was hosting a fund-raiser at the Field Museum that evening.
No, I hadn’t been invited.
But I’d just gotten a big, fat royalty check, remember. I could afford to be a five-thousand-dollar donor.
And according to the website of the charity benefiting from the event, five-thousand-dollar donors had the honor of being presented to the prince.
My closet wasn’t exactly a fashionista’s dream, so I made a quick trip to Saks and spent as little as I could for a dress I thought was appropriate. It was basic black (hey, if I was spending that kind of money for a dress, I wanted to wear it time and again), strapless, with a nipped-in waist and a slightly flared skirt.
“Cute.”
I knew Stan meant it as a compliment, but “cute�� wasn’t exactly what I was going for. I wasn’t used to running around with bare shoulders, and I tugged at the top of the dress to make sure it was right where it was supposed to be. At the same time, I glanced out the car window to the imposing facade of the museum, with its gigantic columns and the colorful banners that announced the royal fund-raiser. “You sure I’m going to fit in?”
“Hey, you’ve got a chauffeur like these other highfalutin types, don’t you?” Stan laughed. He’d insisted on driving me to the event, saying that nobody who was dressed the way I was should be riding the El. “There you go, kiddo.” He stopped in front of the building and a valet moved to open my door. “Call me when you’re done. I’ll pick you up right here.”
I was inside in a matter of minutes, and after showing the appropriate identification, having my evening bag looked through, and being wanded, I was in the royal reception line.
Not the ideal way to interrogate a suspect, I told myself for about the hundredth time. But at least it gave me access to Roland. I knew I might only have a moment to speak to him, so I pulled out the folded newspaper clipping that had been tucked in my sparkly black evening bag. When I was three from the front of the line, I got waylaid by a woman with a sharp expression and an eagle eye who looked me up and down. “You will curtsey when you are introduced to His Royal Highness,” she said in an accent that matched Roland’s. “You will not speak unless you are spoken to. You will not, by any means, solicit His Royal Highness on behalf of any charity or cause. You will not be too familiar or too forthcoming, nor will you call him by his first name. You will extend your right hand and touch it to his, but you will not close your fingers over his. He is a prince, not a rock star. You will smile. You will not gush or carry on. You are being given exactly thirty seconds of His Royal Highness’s valuable time, and you will certainly appreciate his generosity and thank him. You understand all this?” Her smile was as fleeting as her instructions were terse. “That is all very good. Have a nice day.”
And I moved up another place in line.
There was a couple in front of me, and I watched them follow the woman’s direction to a tee. She curtsied. He bowed. They spoke to Roland in hushed tones for exactly thirty seconds, after which it was my turn.
“Ms. Giancola!” Apparently, rules don’t apply to princes. He did, indeed, close his fingers over mine. Like we were old friends. Or like he was trying to schmooze me. I told myself not to forget it. Not so easy a thing, considering that the man I’d last seen in jeans and a T-shirt was decked out like the hero in an old swashbuckling movie. Oh yeah, Roland had it all: the pseudo-military uniform, a chest full of medals, even a cummerbund and a sword. Considering what I had to talk to him about, I hoped it was just ceremonial.
“How kind of you to come and support the cause.” Roland’s smile dazzled. He was a handsome man, and he had the whole rich and powerful thing going for him. I might have been caught in the spell—if I didn’t remember why I was there.
And if a movement from behind the nearest pillar didn’t catch my eye.
I glanced over just in time to see a man move back behind the column, where he’d been hidden. Dark suit. Grim expression. Shoulders as big as—
“Hey!” I darted forward. Not so good an idea when there are more big guys in black suits guarding a prince. They came running, and I had a feeling I would have been hogtied, gagged, and on my way to a Ruritanian prison if Roland hadn’t flashed them a signal that said all was A-OK. By this time, it was pretty pointless for the big guy behind the pillar to stay hidden, so I pointed right at him.
“He was in my shop,” I told Roland, though at this point, I figured this was no big surprise to him. “And he followed me to West Virginia.”
“Yes, yes. This is true.” Roland spoke quickly and quietly, the better to send the message that this was what he wanted me to do, too. “You must not hold it against him. Wolfgang was acting on my behalf.”
“Burglarizing a button shop?” I was pretty sure my thirty seconds was up, but then, I’d wasted a lot of mine getting almost apprehended by Roland’s security team. Behind one hand, the protocol maven coughed gently. Roland shot her a look that said this one time, he would be the one who set the limits.
I stepped back and gave him a searching look, and since he didn’t bother to answer me the first time, I said again, “Burglarizing a button shop?”
Roland’s smile was sleek. So was the way he slipped one arm through mine. “You will excuse us for just one moment,” he told the waiting crowd, and with that, he led me across the wide gallery and behind one of the massive pillars.
No doubt, I was about to make the tabloids again. As the prince and I walked away, a dozen cameras snapped. In the interest of keeping away as many of the sensational headlines as possible, I waited until we were far from the crowd before I batted his hands away.
“You’re ignoring my question,” I said. “You said Wolfgang and that hulky friend of his were working on your behalf. Why?”
Roland sniffed. In a very aristocratic way, of course. “They were protecting my best interests, of course.”
I folded my arms over my chest. “And killing Kate, was that in your best interest?”
Roland didn’t look surprised. Or outraged. In fact, a smile twinkled in his eyes. “Don’t be a silly woman,” he said. “I loved Kate. Everyone knows that.”
“But not everyone knows you were in town when she died.”
He froze. So did his thousand-watt smile. One heartbeat. Two.
“You cannot possibly know that,” he said.
I showed him the picture.
Roland’s top lip curled over his perfectly straight and impossibly white teeth. “That could be anyone.”
“But it isn’t. It’s you.”
“And so you think this proves something?”
“I think it proves you lied. To me, and to the police, I’ll bet. And if you had reason enough to lie—”
His lau
gh cut me short. “You Americans, you read these wonderful romantic books. And you watch fantastic, romantic movies. And you think the royal life, this is what it is really about. The lowly reporter meets the princess and falls in love with her. The commoner captures a king’s heart. An actress . . .” I knew who he was talking about now, even though he never said Kate’s name. “An actress meets a prince and they fall in love and live happily ever after.”
“Unless the prince kills the actress.”
“Yes, this could be a possibility. But it is not. You see, my dear . . .” Once again, Roland wound an arm through mine. As if we were entering a royal ball, he led me back to the reception line, where a gaggle of onlookers was oohing and aahing and wondering what we were up to. “I would never have killed Kate, you see,” he purred into my ear, depositing me back where we’d started and making it clear that I could find my own way to the door. “As I said, I loved her. But I love my jet-setting life even more. Don’t you see, you foolish woman, I would never do anything to jeopardize my royal title.”
“SO THAT’S WHAT true love is all about!”
Nevin was not exactly the person I wanted to discuss the ins and outs of love and devotion with, and my guess was he wasn’t exactly thrilled to be on the receiving end of my moaning and complaining, either. Too bad for him. Since he was the only one with me in the shop the next morning, he had no choice but to listen—whether he wanted to or not.
I was holding a copy of that morning’s Tribune, and the picture on the front page showed me and Roland, arm in arm. I side-handed the paper, and it skittered across my desk. “How can anyone be so callous?”
Nevin had quick reflexes. With one hand, he kept the paper from landing on the floor. “You look great!” he said.
“I do?” Believe me, I don’t do coy well, so I wasn’t playing games here. But how I looked at the fund-raiser wasn’t what we were talking about. And I was surprised Nevin noticed.
I cocked my head and took another look at the picture. If I didn’t know better, I’d think that ol’ Roland and I were actually having a good time together. He was smiling graciously like . . . well, like the prince he is. I was looking up into his eyes. “I can’t believe he had the nerve to say that, about how he loved Kate but he loves his title more.”
Nevin set the paper down. “I can’t believe you spent five thousand dollars just to get to talk to him again!”
“It was for a good cause; plus, it’s tax deductible.”
“Always thinking.” Nevin said this like it was a good thing. He’d brought a cup of Starbucks coffee to my office with him (and one for me, too, by the way, but since he wasn’t clued in about my Caffè Misto obsession, it was Komodo Dragon Blend, the flavor of the day). “Unfortunately, you spending five thousand dollars and talking to Roland . . .” He didn’t blow on his coffee or even sip it, just popped the top off and took a big swig. “It doesn’t help. I heard at the office this morning that now that the fund-raiser is over, Roland’s headed back home sweet home. And by the way . . .” He took another drink. “There is no extradition treaty between this country and Ruritania.”
“Which means Hugh takes the fall for a crime he didn’t commit.” Disheartened, I dropped into my desk chair. “That’s just wrong.”
“It might not be the end of the world. Like I told you, there’s a circumstantial case against Weaver, but a jury won’t buy it.”
I was a coffee sipper. I took a careful taste, and since the coffee was as hot as blazes, I set the cup on my desk right next to the list of web orders I’d gotten in that morning and would be packing and shipping later in the day. “If you can’t prosecute Roland and you can’t convict Hugh, that means Kate’s murder goes unpunished. That’s just wrong.”
“That it is.” He took the seat across from mine. “But once you’re in this business as long as I’ve been in it, you learn that what’s right and what’s just and what’s fair . . . Well, it doesn’t always happen.”
“And we’re just supposed to accept that?” I, for one, wasn’t willing. Too upset to sit there and think about it, I got up and did a turn around the shop. The bowl of mints on the table near the door was almost empty (since I hadn’t had that many walk-in customers, I wondered how many were in Nevin’s pockets), and I went to the back room, got a new bag out of the supply cabinet, snipped it open with the scissors I kept in my top desk drawer, and refilled the bowl. “It’s wrong,” I said. No big surprise, taking care of the mints hadn’t done much for my mood. Or my anger.
Even though it didn’t need it, I straightened the guest book on the table with the mints. I tidied my desk. I glanced into the back room and realized there were still buttons I hadn’t gotten around to cataloging and rearranging since the break-in engineered by Roland and carried out by his two goons.
“So why would Roland send his bodyguards to mess with my buttons?” I’d given Nevin all the details as soon as he got to the Button Box that morning, so this wasn’t a surprising question. “What did they have to gain?”
“You got me there!” Nevin stretched out his long legs. “It might have delayed the wedding, I suppose. I mean, if Kate was as fussy as you say, and she couldn’t find the exact right buttons she wanted . . .”
“Crazy.” So was the jumpiness eating at my insides. Desperate for something else to do, I looked around and caught sight of the briefcase that contained the buttons Kate had taken to her designer. When I retrieved it from the set of Charlie, I’d checked to make sure all the buttons were present and accounted for, but I hadn’t had time to put them away.
It was something. And something might help soothe my nerves.
One side of the briefcase was smashed from where I’d fallen on top of it, and I struggled with the latch. Nevin got up, popped it open, and handed the case back to me, and I removed the cards that contained the buttons.
That’s when I realized there was something at the bottom of the case.
“Look. A photograph.” I took out the five-by-seven picture of a girl with red hair and bad teeth and tipped it so Nevin could see it. “It’s Wynona. Why on earth would her picture be in with my buttons?”
“Humph.” It was as much of a comment as Nevin was willing to make. He took the picture from me and looked it over. “It looks like a school picture. Like maybe she’s, what, twelve or thirteen? Why would Wynona want Kate to see a picture of her at that age?”
“Unless she was trying to prove a point . . .” I took the picture out of Nevin’s hands and walked to the window with it, the better to check out Wynona’s please-don’t-take-my-picture expression, her orange braided hair, and her neat white blouse.
“Wynona always said she didn’t steal those pearls, that Kate fired her unjustly. Maybe she wanted Kate to feel sympathetic. You know, to see that she was a real person with a real past and that—”
I took another look at the picture and my words dissolved.
“What is it?” Nevin hurried the length of the shop to stand next to me.
I bet when I looked up at him, my eyes were shining. But then, I was feeling pretty proud of myself when I said, “Nevin, look at the buttons on her blouse! I know who did it.”
Chapter Eighteen
ESTELLE MARVIN ARRIVED FIRST, A VISION IN A SHORT-sleeved print dress in fresh pinks and greens. She had a beaded shawl draped artfully around her shoulders, and she slipped it off and tossed it to Kaz just inside the door of the shop.
“I can’t imagine what’s so important,” she said, breezing past Kaz (but not, it should be noted, until she gave him an appreciative once-over). “Unless you called so we can schedule your next appearance on my show.”
“Yes, of course. I promised I’d do the show, and I will. But that’s not why we’re here tonight.” Kaz and I had arranged my desk chair, my guest chairs, and some chairs I’d borrowed from Doctor Levine in a circle as wide as my narrow little shop could accommodate, and I motioned Estelle to sit. She just so happened to take a seat facing the one Kaz dropped into. She
was busy sparkling at him when I told her, “We’ll get started in just a couple minutes. As soon as—”
Margot and Sloan walked in. Clearly, they were just as confused by my invitation as Estelle was. Lucky for me, they were also curious and had decided to show.
In fact, within a couple minutes, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. In addition to Estelle, Margot, and Sloan, I’d also managed to get Mike Homolka into the Button Box. He had strict orders not to bring a camera, but I had no doubt he was taking copious mental notes. Unlike Margot and Sloan, and even Estelle, Homolka didn’t have a personal stake in this case. But he did have a professional one. If what he did could be called a profession. He was there for one reason and one reason only: he smelled a story. With any luck, I’d be able to give it to him.
“We’ll get started in just a couple minutes,” I told them, and behind my back, I crossed my fingers. If things went exactly as planned . . .
They did. The next time my door opened, Hugh Weaver was standing outside.
“What’s he doing here?” Estelle had taken out a cigarette, but at a death look from me, she’d refrained from lighting it. “Aren’t you . . .” she pointed at Hugh with the cigarette, “supposed to be in jail?”
“I’m not supposed to be. But I was.” Hugh kissed me on the cheek, and it wasn’t until after he took a seat that I realized that Wynona had walked in right behind him. Then again, Hugh had always been a little larger than life, and Wynona was . . . Well, in jeans and a Hello Kitty T-shirt, she looked younger and more vulnerable than ever. Just inside the door, she did a little nervous dance step on the hardwood and wrung her hands.
“Come on in.” I waved her closer. “We’ve got a lot to talk about.”
“I don’t know what.” Wynona’s voice was breathless, and her eyes were as big as saucers. She back-stepped toward the door. “I don’t think I belong here. Not with all these important people.”
