by Kylie Logan
“Yeah, so I saw in this morning’s paper. Murder, huh? Who woulda thought a button conference could be that interesting.” Stan tapped one finger against the newspaper open on my rosewood desk. “You need help investigating?”
This might have seemed like a funny question coming from anyone else, but Stan is a retired Chicago Police Department detective, so it was only natural he’d ask. He’s also a bit—how should I say this?—not comfortable with his life of leisure. Stan might be in his seventies, but his mind is as sharp as a tack. No doubt, when it came to Thad Wyant’s murder, he’d have all sorts of advice to offer. Just as certain, I’d take every bit of what he had to say to heart.
I set my purse down on the chair behind my desk, took a folded tote bag from it, and went into the back room, where I kept not only that coffeepot Stan had used to fill his mug, but a worktable, packing supplies for the buttons I sold and shipped, and a library’s worth of reference materials. “I don’t think Nev actually needs help with the investigating part,” I told Stan, and I’d bet anything he agreed; in spite of the fact that Nev had taken over what was once Stan’s job on the force, Stan respected Nev, both as a person and as a police officer.
“What he can use some help with is research.” Along one wall of the back room, there were bookcases filled with button reference books, button magazines, and various and sundry publications that came from button clubs around the country, and I stood in front of it, scanning titles and doing my best to remember what information I’d seen where.
“It’s all about the Geronimo button,” I told Stan, skimming my finger over the books until I found the one I was looking for, Nineteenth-Century Buttons of the Old West, by Thad Wyant. I flipped open the chapter on the Geronimo button and saw that my memory served me well. Just like I’d told Nev, the button was a MOP. Along with Thad’s narrative of how he’d come to own it, there was a full-page color picture of the button.
“Doesn’t look like much,” Stan commented from over my shoulder. “You don’t think that guy really got killed for that little button, do you?”
“I’m afraid so. At least that’s what I think.”
“Riley doesn’t.” Stan didn’t sound disappointed at this news. In fact, a smile lit his face. “The kid’s got a good head on his shoulders. He knows not to make a decision about motive until he’s got more of the facts.”
“Maybe. But why else would someone kill Thad Wyant?” I flipped to the back of the book. There was no picture of Thad there, and I wasn’t surprised. Up until this conference, he’d always kept a low profile. His bio was there, though, and I glanced over it and grumbled.
“Something interesting?” Stan asked, leaning closer.
“It says he’s a devoted vegan.” I remembered the Italian beef sandwich Thad had requested, and the scene he’d made on the cruise when the roast beef didn’t meet his red and mooing standards. “Guess he wasn’t all that devoted.”
“But nobody killed him because he started eating meat.”
“You think?” I glanced at Stan. OK, I wasn’t expecting him to say it actually might be a motive, but I was hoping he would. Somehow, a crazy vegan getting revenge on the fallen sat better with me than a greedy button collector.
I tucked the book into the tote bag, then grabbed a few of the magazines that I knew contained articles Thad had written over the years. “At least Nev can see what the button looks like,” I told Stan. I headed back to the door, grabbing my purse on the way by. “You can close up early if it’s not busy.”
He waved away my offer. “Getting ready for that cocktail reception you’ve got scheduled here Friday night. You know, dusting and polishing and all. It’s keeping me out of trouble.”
As I got to the door, I turned to find Stan leaning against one of the display cases, his arms crossed over his chest, his legs crossed at the ankles, and a spark in those rheumy blue eyes of his.
“It ought to be way more interesting now that Wyant’s dead, don’t you think? Not that I don’t think those button friends of yours will be fascinated with this place,” he added when he thought I might be offended. “But it seems to me, talk of murder always adds a little zing to any festivity.”
Chapter Nine
TOTE BAG IN HAND, I MADE IT BACK TO THE HOTEL IN record time.
Good thing, too.
Otherwise, when I stepped into the lobby, I wouldn’t have seen Gloria Winston race into the nearby ladies’ room. If I didn’t know better, I could have sworn she was sobbing.
Of course, that wasn’t possible. I knew this deep down inside because deep down inside, I knew Gloria was the most well-adjusted and composed person in the world. That didn’t stop me from automatically following her.
Which meant I was doubly surprised when I found Gloria standing in front of the mirror, both her hands clutching the faux-granite countertop and her shoulders heaving.
“Oh my gosh. Gloria, what’s wrong?” I set my tote bag on the floor so that I could put an arm around her. No easy thing considering that Gloria towers over me and is just as wide as she is tall. “Something terrible happened. Don’t tell me. Not another murder?”
“N… n… no.” The word was barely audible, what with her sniffing and sobbing. “Oh, Josie, no one was supposed to see me like this. I’m so… so embarrassed.”
“Well, don’t be.” Warm and fuzzy Gloria is not. That didn’t mean she didn’t deserve a little consolation. I pulled her into a hug.
Gloria’s whole body shook like a grass skirt on a hula dancer, and I kept my arms around her until I felt her breathing slow and her sobs quiet. “Now…” I plucked a couple tissues from the box on the nearby counter and handed them to her. “Tell me what happened.”
The tip of Gloria’s nose was an unattractive shade of red. “It’s s… stupid.”
“Not if it’s got you this upset.”
She sniffled, wiped her nose, and reached for another tissue. “It’s the judging, I’m afraid.”
I groaned. “What went wrong? No, don’t tell me. Not yet. Just know that whatever it was, I’ll take full responsibility. The committee shouldn’t take the rap. This is my conference, and I have to step up and face the music, especially when things go wrong. Please, please don’t think any of it is your fault.”
Gloria sniffed a little more, and when two ladies came into the room, laughing and chatting, she turned her back so they wouldn’t see her swollen eyes. It was obvious she didn’t want to talk when she knew they might hear, so I grabbed my tote and led the way out of the ladies’ room and into the coffee shop on the other side of the lobby. It was late afternoon, and the place was nearly empty. I slipped into a seat at the table farthest from the door and facing that way so Gloria would have her back to whoever might come into the coffee shop, and when the waiter arrived, I told him we needed two glasses of water and two pots of tea. Settled, I patted the table as a signal to Gloria to sit down.
She did. Even as she mumbled, “I’m so embarrassed.”
“Yeah, you said that.” I tried to keep things light, figuring it would help her regain her composure. “But you haven’t told me why.”
Our water came, and Gloria finished off her glass in three long guzzles. Chin down, she glanced up at me through the coating of mascara on her sparse eyelashes. “Measles,” she said, and the tears started all over again. “And now you know what a fool I am.”
The light dawned.
Measles, see, are what we button collectors call the little red circle stickers that are put on the plastic sleeves that hold competition trays when one of the buttons on the tray is not appropriate to the category. One measle disqualifies the entire tray from competition.
“You mean you—” I wasn’t sure how to say it without insulting Gloria, but really, it was hard to fathom. Gloria was an expert and meticulous about her competition trays. “One of your trays was disqualified?”
Tears streaming over her cheeks, Gloria nodded. She slipped the paper napkin off the table and touched it to he
r eyes. “Can you believe it? The category was ivory buttons, and I could have sworn every single button on that tray of mine met the criteria.” Her glass was empty so she reached for my water and took a gulp. “Well, I guess that’s what I get for being so sure of myself and entering a category I’ve never attempted before. You know me, Josie, when it comes to moonglows and realistics—”
“There’s nobody who knows more.”
“Well.” Gloria hung her head. “Maybe there’s nobody who used to know more. These days… Well, maybe I’m losing it.”
I sat back and laughed. “Not a chance. You’re the sharpest—”
“What?” Gloria’s head came up, and her eyes narrowed. “Old lady? Is that what you were going to say?”
I had seen her be cold, and even rude, but I’d never seen Gloria angry, and I chalked it up to how upset she was. “I was going to say you’re one of the sharpest button collectors I’ve ever met,” I said. “Gloria, no one thinks you’re old.”
“Not now. Not yet. But once word of this gets out…” With one hand, she mashed the paper napkin into a ball. “I’ll be the laughingstock of the conference. Of every conference.”
I doubted it. Though button collectors can be precise, exacting, and focused on details, I had never known them to be cruel. Except, of course, if it was a button collector who had killed Thad. Murder, it seemed to me, went even beyond cruel.
“Why don’t you just tell me what happened. Something tells me once you put it into words—”
“It will make me feel better?” There was no amusement at all in Gloria’s rough laugh. “OK. Yes. You’re right. Of course you’re right.” She grumbled. “I’m acting like a prima donna, and you know that’s not like me. I suppose I was just caught a little off guard by that measle. Damn!” She pressed her lips together. “I was so sure I’d win first place; I swear when I looked through the judged trays and saw that little red mark on mine, you could have knocked me over with a feather. I suppose that’s the price of pride, right? Or maybe it’s just what I get for falling in love with a button. You see, the button that disqualified me…” She traced an invisible pattern over the table with one finger.
“It was a button I saw at a show in Philadelphia a couple months ago, and I was so taken with it, I did what I’ve told every button collector north, south, east, and west never to do. I scooped it right up. The dealer assured me it was ivory, and I never questioned him. I should have. I should have double- and triple-checked it before I put it on that tray. But I was busy with other things, and the time just sort of got away from me. The judges’ remarks—you know, the ones they write on the slip of paper attached to my tray—the remarks said the tray was disqualified because that button was bone. Bone!” An unbecoming flush raced up her neck and into her cheeks. “Even a first-time button collector should be able to tell bone from ivory. And I missed it completely. There’s a lesson to be learned. I’m so embarrassed; I could just die!”
With all that had already happened at the conference, I didn’t like to hear her talk like that. “Not to worry,” I said. I resisted the urge to pat Gloria’s hand because I didn’t want to seem condescending. “Your name isn’t on the tray. No one knows that measle belongs to you.”
“You’re right.” She gave me a begrudging smile. “But if someone asks how my tray did—”
“You can tell them the truth. Not every tray can be a winner.”
“Yours always are.”
Was that jealousy I heard edging Gloria’s voice? I decided instantly that my ears were playing tricks on me. Gloria was too matter-of-fact to be the jealous type.
“Oh, come on.” Again, I went for upbeat and hoped I succeeded. Our pots of tea had arrived, and I toyed with the string on my teabag. “Everybody makes mistakes on their competition trays now and again.”
“Not you.”
I scrambled through my memory banks, back to all the competitions I’d entered over the years, and found comfort telling her, “There was that time in Kansas City—”
“Kansas City. Hah!” Gloria’s jaw was tight. “That was years ago, Josie. You were just a kid. These days, you’d never make the kind of mistake I made on that tray of ivory buttons.”
“Maybe not, but—”
“But you have royally screwed up this conference.” Apparently cheered by the thought, Gloria sat up and her shoulders shot back. She softened the blow of her remark with a smile so genuine, I couldn’t take it personally. At least not too personally.
“See?” I harnessed my irritation behind a smile of my own. “We all make mistakes. I messed up on the scrimshaw buttons—”
“And the salads at lunch, remember,” she reminded me. “And some of the nametags for the cruise, and—”
“The point is…” There’s only so much self-reflection any woman can take, and I’d had enough. “We all make mistakes, Gloria. It’s not the end of the world.”
“But if anyone found out… about that bone button, I mean… my reputation…” She paled and lowered her voice to a whisper. “I’m a judge at competitions all over the country. And I’m asked to speak at club meetings and conferences. If word gets out that I’m careless, that I don’t know my stuff… Promise me, Josie. Promise me you won’t tell anyone about the…” Langston Whitman walked into the coffee shop and called out a hello, and Gloria mouthed the last word. “Measle.”
I crossed a finger over my heart. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Secret?” Langston stopped at our table and put one hand on Gloria’s shoulder and one on mine. “What are you two talking about behind my back?”
“Oh, just girl talk.” Gloria was back to her old self. Which pretty much sent the message that Langston should back off and mind his own business. She pushed back from the table and stood, making sure she kept her head down and her tearstained face turned away from Langston. “It’s getting late,” she said, “and I’m having dinner with the Colorado club this evening. I think I’ll just head back to my room for a little catnap before it’s time to go.”
And before either one of us could stop her, Gloria marched away.
“Well, that’s not like her.” Langston took the seat Gloria had just vacated. “She’s usually eager to talk buttons, any time of the day or night.”
I hoped my shrug said it all. “You heard her. She’s got a busy evening ahead. Now…” I could tell by the way Langston sat with his hands clutched together on the table that this wasn’t a social call. “What can I do for you?”
He drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “I know I shouldn’t ask,” Langston said.
“But you’re going to, anyway.” I made sure I punctuated my statement with a laugh. Langston’s shoulders were rigid; his back was ramrod straight. He was telegraphing his tension and stressing me out in the process, and I had to do what I could to lighten the atmosphere. “Get it over with, Langston. We’ve been friends forever; whatever you’re going to say, it’s not going to surprise me.”
His jaw was rigid. His lips were set. “I think I might be a suspect in Thad Wyant’s murder,” he said.
I was right; this didn’t surprise me. Then again, as far as I knew, Nev hadn’t narrowed down the field. Everyone at the conference, and that mysterious man Daryl had seen arguing with Thad outside the hotel’s front entrance—we were all suspects.
I poured my tea, added milk, and took a sip. “Do the police have reason to suspect you?” I asked.
Langston rolled his eyes. In an elegant way, of course. “I couldn’t stand the man.”
“From what I saw, not many people could.”
“Then maybe they should be suspects.”
“Maybe they are.”
Thinking this over, he cocked his head. “That detective came and talked to me. I know you know who I’m talking about because he’s cute, and I’m sure you noticed him. He showed me some things that were found in Wyant’s room: plastic sleeves, card stock, and such. He asked me if I could identify any of it, and of course, I could
. It was exactly what Wyant had looked at Sunday evening. Exactly what was missing after he visited the booth on Monday.”
“So it’s official. Wyant did steal from you. That doesn’t automatically make you a suspect.”
“I should hope not.”
“But you’re worried, anyway.”
Langston tugged on his left earlobe. “I just felt… I don’t know… uneasy, I guess. I didn’t like the questions that detective was asking.”
“That’s his job.”
“Yes, of course. But I thought if you knew anything…”
“About the case?” First Daryl and now Langston. I wondered what kind of reputation I was getting in the button community. “If they know anything—”
“They wouldn’t tell you. That’s what you were going to say, right? But they must have questioned you, too. After all, I heard you were the one who called the police. Did you see anything, Josie? Did the police tell you they found anything?”
“You mean like clues?”
Langston leaned over our table for two. “Like the Geronimo button.”
“What makes you think it’s missing?”
He sat back. “I didn’t say it was. I just thought if they were going to come poking around asking questions, I should get an idea of what they’re after. So they didn’t say anything?”
“About clues? And the Geronimo button? Not a thing. Not to me.”
“That’s good. Maybe.” Again, he leaned closer. “Maybe it’s bad.”
“It isn’t good or bad. It isn’t anything. It’s just the police doing their jobs and not telling me anything because whatever they find, it’s none of my business.”
“But you are helping them.”
