Hot Button

by Kylie Logan

  We’d left Kaz and Stan back at the Button Box to give my excuses, host the tail end of the reception, and close up, and I had strict orders to stay out of the way, so I stood back against a wall in the hallway while all this was going on. Fine by me. Though I wouldn’t have admitted it to Nev for a million dollars, my legs were rubbery, and if I moved too fast, the world bounced and blurred in front of my eyes. I might be nosy enough to insist on being in on the interview with Daryl, but I am not dumb, and I’m certainly not a risk taker. I was all for taking it slow and easy.

  It wasn’t until I heard the cops give the all clear and Nev tell me it was OK that I entered Daryl’s room.

  I was just in time to see Nev slapping handcuffs on a guy I’d never seen before. He was Daryl’s height, Daryl’s weight, and in fact, he was wearing the same dorky orange-and-brown-plaid sport coat Daryl had worn to the cocktail party at the Button Box earlier in the evening. But believe me when I say that this guy was no Daryl.

  He was clean-shaven, blond, and oh, have I mentioned, incredibly gorgeous? His face was all planes and angles. His eyes were green like oak leaves in summer. He had a dimple in his chin that made him look delicious—and dangerous—all at the same time.

  My heart skipped a beat at the same time my brain wondered if that whack on the head had shaken lose my ability to think straight.

  And not just because I was immediately smitten.

  It was Nev, and the handcuffs, and the stranger that had me confused.

  “Where… ?” Apparently, the man was someone who needed subduing, and now that the cuffs were on him, I dared to take a step closer. “What happened to Daryl?”

  “Really?” When he looked my way, Nev raised his eyebrows. “A woman as perceptive as you doesn’t get it?”

  “A woman as perceptive as me…”

  Maybe it was because of what happened back at the Button Box. Maybe that’s why I couldn’t make any sense of what he said.

  That is, until the hunk’s left eye twitched.

  Inside my battered brain, the pieces clicked, and my breath caught in my throat. “Daryl?”

  One of the uniformed cops had been digging through a suitcase on the dresser opposite the bed. He came out holding a dark wig, and I bet anything there was a pair of Coke-bottle glasses and colored contact lenses in there, too. He tossed a wallet to Nev, who flipped it open and looked at the driver’s license inside.

  “You mean Donovan,” Nev said.

  Chalk one up for post-traumatic stress. My knees gave way, and my breath whooshed out of my lungs. I sank down onto the bed. It was that, or end up nose to floor.

  I stared at the handsome hunk in the dorky clothes. “Donovan Tucker the documentary filmmaker?”

  I guess now that his cover was blown, Daryl… er, Donovan… was free to be his real self, and that real self was suave and as cocky as a college athlete. “Boy, do I have one hot film on my hands this time,” he crowed. “Crazy button collectors and a murder. I’m going to Cannes with this one! Detective…” He looked at Nev. “Look this way, OK? And talk really loud. I’d hate to miss one word of this.”

  I guess he’d have to find another way to immortalize us. But then, that was because Nev reached over and snatched away the tiny video-recording device that had been attached to Donovan’s lapel.

  The recorder I’d never even noticed all those times he leaned in close and asked me questions about buttons and collectors and… gulp… told me how much he liked me.

  My stomach swooped.

  “You lied to us? About being a button collector?” Let’s face it, certain things are way more important than Cannes. This was one of them. The button community is close-knit, and there’s not a more dependable, honest, and knowledgeable bunch anywhere. We help each other out. We trust each other. And to think that this snake in the grass…

  I swallowed the lump in my throat. “You came to the conference to make fun of us?”

  “To get the truth.” Gorgeous or not, there was something about the smile on Donovan’s face that made me want to smack it off. “If the people who appreciate my films find the truth about button collecting—and button collectors—funny, that’s beyond my control.” He tried for a nonchalant shrug, but since his hands were cuffed behind his back, he flinched, then made it look as if it was no big deal. “My art is all about honesty,” he crooned.

  “And you’re all about being sneaky and underhanded.” I bounded to my feet, then decided sitting was a better option. I dropped back down on the bed. “How could you lie to so many people?”

  Apparently, Nev was not as concerned about the button community as I was. “And why did you attack Ms. Giancola?” he asked Donovan.

  “Did I?” Another of those sizzling smiles, and this time, I could tell Nev had had enough; his fists clenched, he backed away.

  “She saw you outside the Button Box,” Nev pointed out.

  “But did she see me in the courtyard? Did she see me hit her?” When neither of us answered, Donovan smiled. “No, I didn’t think so. In fact—”

  One of the cops eyed a big closed suitcase, which was lying near the foot of the bed, and Donovan darted a look his way, then forced his gaze back to Nev. “What was I saying? Oh yes, I was reminding you that anyone could have been in that courtyard.”

  It was my turn. “How do you even know it happened in the courtyard if you weren’t involved? And what do you mean by anyone?” I asked him. “You mean anyone like Beth Howell?”

  Anther shrug. Another wince. Another twitch, and a fleeting look toward that same cop, who had now lifted the suitcase and plunked it on the bed.

  Donovan forced his gaze away from the cop and back to me. “Who?”

  “You’re a lousy liar,” I told him.

  “And it’s a good thing you just film movies rather than try to star in them. You’re a terrible actor, too.” Nev strolled closer to the bed. “What’s in the suitcase?” he asked Donovan.

  He ran his tongue over his lips. “Just the usual stuff. Clothes and toiletries and nothing.”

  “You mean something.” Nev stepped that way. “Or you wouldn’t look so nervous every time you glance that way.”

  “It’s buttons. Go figure.” The cop who’d lifted the suitcase had also opened it, and he pulled out two button trays. Each had only one button on it.

  Buttons that looked awfully familiar.

  This time, I threw caution to the wind, and not caring how much the floor tipped and the walls closed in on me, I got to my feet.

  Nev and I got to the suitcase at the same time.

  I looked at the white pearl buttons attached to the mat boards, and my breath caught in my throat. “It’s—” I pointed. “They’re—”

  Nev nodded. “They sure are,” he said. He had slipped on a pair of latex gloves, so he could take the trays from the cop’s hand, and turned to Donovan with them. “You want to explain?”

  Donovan blinked, and I swear, the color in that gorgeous face of his didn’t fade bit by bit; it washed out in a flash. More blinking, and he trembled. “My goodness!” His smile wasn’t any more steady than his shoulders. “How did those get in there?”

  “That’s a very good question.” Nev’s voice was steel. So was the look he tossed Donovan’s way. “Maybe you can think about your answer when we take you down to the station and book you for attempted murder.”

  “Murder?” I didn’t think he could get any paler, but in a heartbeat, Donovan went waxy. “I didn’t—”

  “You assaulted Ms. Giancola. And she could have been killed. In my book—”

  “But I didn’t mean—”

  “I don’t know that, do I?” Nev narrowed his eyes and stared at Donovan with a look that went right through him. “Now, if you would like to explain yourself…”

  “There’s nothing… nothing to tell.” Donovan’s knees were shaking, and he dropped into the chair next to the desk by the window.

  “There obviously is.” This was me talking, and not even a look fro
m Nev that told me I was probably better off keeping my mouth shut could have stopped me. Then again, I had already found the Geronimo button in the hotel trash. And now I was looking at two more. That kind of confusion tends to throw a button collector a little off-kilter.

  “One and only,” I said, talking out loud. “There’s only one one and only Geronimo button. And you have two. And if you got them from Brad…” My mouth fell open, but then, like I’d told Nev earlier, I never really thought of Daryl/Donovan as a murderer. Yet he had the buttons that should have been the button, and if he got them from Brad, who we’d thought was Thad…

  Yeah, I know; it confused even me.

  “No doubt we’ll find Brad Wyant’s fingerprints on these cardboard mats,” Nev said.

  Donovan did a little more blinking. “Who’s Brad?”

  Leave it to Nev to be cool, calm, and collected. He leaned back against the TV armoire. “Brad Wyant was the man you thought was Thad Wyant. You know, the man you killed down in the laundry room,” he said.

  “Killed? Me? No!” Tears slipped down Donovan’s cheeks, and he gulped in long, shaky breaths. “I never killed anybody. I just… I just…” He sobbed. “You’ve got to believe me! I was just trying to protect my mother!”

  Chapter Seventeen

  NEV’S A SMART COP, AND HE WASN’T TAKING ANY CHANCES. Rather than let Donovan Tucker spill the beans right then and there, Nev knew it was wiser to get him to the station, where whatever Donovan was going to say—and however he was going to explain that comment about his mother—could be video recorded.

  That explains why, less than an hour after Donovan dropped the bombshell, I was standing on the outside of the one-way mirror that looked into the interrogation room, where Nev sat across a gray metal table from Donovan.

  “You’re sure you don’t want an attorney?” Like I said, Nev was smart. Dotted i’s. Crossed t’s.

  Donovan shook his head. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”

  “What about the assault on Ms. Giancola?”

  Donovan’s lower lip trembled. “It’s not like I’ve ever hit anybody over the head before. I didn’t realize…” He sniffed. “I’m sorry. Please, tell her that for me. Since she was at the hotel with you, I’m guessing she wasn’t seriously hurt. But I knocked her out.” He gulped so hard, I saw his Adam’s apple jump. “You see it in movies all the time, but I didn’t think I could actually do that. Not with just a bump on the head.”

  Oh yeah, he sounded plenty sincere. But I could tell Nev wasn’t buying it. His gaze never leaving Donovan’s face, he sat back and cocked his head.

  “Back at the hotel, you mentioned your mother. What’s her name?”

  Donovan wiped a tear off his cheek. “Jenny Tucker.”

  Who?

  I could see a dim reflection of myself in the glass, and the me looking back at me was clearly confused, nose wrinkled and mouth pulled up at one corner.

  Like anybody could blame me? I’d been expecting Donovan to name Beth Howell because… Well, because it wouldn’t explain everything, but it would at least explain why he’d been outside the Button Box with her and why she wasn’t around by the time Stan and Kaz found me in the courtyard.

  “Who’s Jenny Tucker?” I asked under my breath at the same time Nev voiced the same question to Donovan.

  He ran a hand through his golden hair. “You know her as Beth Howell.”

  “Aha!” This was me, of course, because Nev was way too professional for that kind of response.

  He made a note on the legal pad on the table in front of him. “And why is Jenny Tucker going under an assumed name?” he asked.

  Donovan shrugged. He was still wearing that goofy orange-and-brown-plaid sport coat, and on a guy as incredibly handsome as he was, it looked like somebody’s warped version of a Halloween costume. I suppose in a lot of ways, that’s exactly what it was. “Mom wasn’t sure if the list of registered attendees would be published before the start of the conference. When she signed up, she didn’t want to use her real name and take the chance that Thad Wyant might see it.”

  Nev tapped his pen against the pad in a sort of Morse code message that told Donovan that although it was a start, that wasn’t nearly enough of an explanation.

  The rapping got to Donovan in no time flat. He drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. Inside that oh-so-not-chic sport coat, his shoulders sagged. “You see,” he said, “Thad Wyant is… Well, I guess I should say was. Thad Wyant was my father.”

  Whoa!

  I actually jumped back, and though I was sure Nev was just as surprised by this news as I was, I was amazed that he managed to keep his poker face in place. He took a note before he glanced up at Donovan. “Explain.”

  Donovan’s mouth puckered. “There’s not much to explain, Detective. Unless you’re not familiar with the birds and the bees?”

  Something told me he was going for funny. It was the same something that told me he should have known better.

  A police interrogation room is the last place for trying out one-liners.

  Apparently, Nev felt the same way. As if he was moving in slow motion, he got to his feet, his hands braced against the table. He leaned down so that his nose was even with Donovan’s, and though the sound from the speaker in there was crystal clear, I had to strain to hear Nev.

  “Attempted murder isn’t funny,” he growled, and I learned a lesson. Even a guy in a Cubs T-shirt could be intimidating. If it was the right guy. “Neither is the real thing. And right now, Mr. Tucker, you’re looking good for both.”

  Donovan’s bravado melted like an iceberg in tropical waters. “M… m… my mother used to be a button collector,” he stammered. “She… she met Thad thirty-six years ago at a button conference, and they had a fling. When she told him she was pregnant, he said she must be mistaken, that there was no way the baby—me—that there was no way I could be his son. Like I said, that was thirty-six years ago, and after I was born, well, she says she tried contacting him, but he was such a hermit, she could never find him. Then she heard about this convention and how he was coming to be the guest of honor. She saw this as her opportunity to finally confront Thad, face-to-face.”

  “Which explains their showdown on the lake cruise,” I mumbled at the same time Donovan cried out, “That doesn’t mean she killed him.”

  “Nobody said it did.” Nev, the voice of reason. “But you’ve got to admit, she must have been pretty darned angry.”

  Donovan shrugged. “Who wouldn’t be? The scumbag ran out on her when she needed him the most. He refused to acknowledge me as his kid. All she wanted was what he owed her, what he owed me. You know, back child support. It’s not like she wanted that stupid Geronimo button or anything. She just wanted… you know…”

  Nev leaned forward. “I don’t.”

  Another shrug, and by this time, I almost felt sorry for Donovan Tucker. Sure, he was a slimy filmmaker who’d infiltrated our conference for the sole purpose of finding people to poke fun at. And yes, he’d taken a cheap shot (literally) at me that had left me with stars in my eyes and my head feeling as if there were elephants in there doing a Zumba workout. But it was obvious the poor guy was scared to death, and worried about his mom, to boot.

  I know … I know … That didn’t mean he wasn’t our murderer.

  I told myself not to forget it and waited to see what would happen next.

  “It was her pride,” Donovan said. “Mom just wanted him to admit he was my father so that she could walk away with her pride intact. She wanted what was legally hers. All those payments he’d dodged all these years. On that cruise the first night we were in town, he told her he didn’t even remember her. Imagine how that must have hurt her.”

  Still waters really do run deep, and it turns out Nev had a bit of showman in him. He timed his next comment down to the second. “You know,” he said, dropping back into his chair. “You killed the wrong man.”

  Donovan’s mouth dropped open. “What are you talking abou
t? Thad Wyant—”

  “Wasn’t lying that night on the cruise when he said he didn’t know your mother. That’s because Thad Wyant—the real Thad Wyant—has been dead for weeks. That was his brother, Brad. He was here in Chicago pretending to be Thad.”

  “But… why?”

  “Doesn’t much matter, does it?” Nev scribbled another note on his legal pad. Donovan hadn’t said anything especially interesting, so I suspected it was a stall tactic.

  It worked.

  As if the gray plastic padding were on fire, Donovan shifted in his seat. “Whoever he was, I certainly didn’t kill him. And my mother didn’t, either!”

  “She had the perfect motive. Thirty-six years, did you say? Thirty-six years of resentment. And anger. Then we start asking questions, and she lures Ms. Giancola into that courtyard and—”

  “No! That was my idea. See…” As if weighing the wisdom of saying anything else, Donovan drew in a long breath and let it out slowly. “I suppose you’re going to find out anyway, so I might as well tell you. The night of the banquet, when I went out to the lobby to take that phone call… I saw my mom out there.”

  “Which is why you made up the story about Thad Wyant arguing with a man in a raincoat.”

  “It is,” Donovan admitted. “But that’s just because I figured if you were looking for the guy in the raincoat, you’d be too busy to find out about my mom. Just because I lied about that doesn’t mean she killed Wyant, though. Just because she was in the lobby the same time he was… There were other people in the lobby, too.”

  His voice was so sincere that even I couldn’t fail to catch the drift of what Donovan refused to say. I may not have had the nerve to voice my suspicions. For Nev, it was part of his job description.

  “You were trying to divert suspicion because you thought she really had killed Wyant.”