by Logan, Kylie
He was about to step into the hall when I stopped him. “You still haven’t told me where you were, who you were following the night of the murder.”
“Why, Richard Norquist, of course.”
I remembered what Richard had told us back at the church. “Richard and Laverne. They went for coffee near his hotel.”
“Is that what he told you?” Gabriel’s gray eyes glinted in the hallway light. “You might consider asking him again. You see, he wasn’t with the lovely Laverne. He was with Victor Cherneko.”
I suppose I shouldn’t have been stunned. People had lied to me before, especially in connection with murder. Still, the thought that Richard could have told such a story, both to me and to Nev, left me at a loss for words.
Unless Gabriel was the one with the penchant for storytelling.
Before I could ask, he was down the stairs and gone, and honestly, I just wasn’t in the mood to chase after him. For one thing, it would have looked pathetic and for another . . . I pressed my hands to my head. The rumba was starting up inside my brain again, and all I wanted to do was put on my jammies and crawl into bed.
First, I helped Stan get his chair back inside his apartment, thanked him, and wished him good night. Then I realized I had a mess to clean up in my dining room.
I tucked away the leftovers, filled the dishwasher, and grabbed the bag and cartons to throw everything away.
It was the first I saw that Gabriel had left the fortune from his cookie still lying on the table.
I picked it up and read it.
“A clear conscience,” it told him, “is the sign of a bad memory.”
Mine?
I cracked open my cookie and popped half of it in my mouth, then was sorry I did. I needed a gulp of wine to force the cookie past the sudden lump that blocked my throat when I read my fortune. Too bad the wine did nothing to erase the memory of that dream that had knocked me so off-kilter, or the thought of Forbis propped in the arms of the vicious Congo Savanne.
“You will be forced to face fear, but if you do not run, fear will be afraid of you.”
Chapter Seven
When Nev is knee-deep in a case, it’s not unusual for him not to call. After all, as so many TV shows say so many times, the first forty-eight hours of a murder investigation are the most important.
According to the medical examiner, Forbis had been killed in the wee hours of Friday morning. Which meant by Sunday, forty-eight hours had come and gone. I knew this. Just like I knew that because there had been no break in the case, Nev was harried, busy, and being pressured by his superiors, not to mention the media.
He didn’t call.
And this shouldn’t have bothered me.
But it did.
I spent Sunday doing laundry, cleaning the apartment, and trying not to think about it. As a thank you for his above-and-beyond-the-call-of-duty good deed the night before, I made dinner for Stan—pot roast, his favorite—and he declared my roasted parsnips the best he’d ever eaten. Coming from Stan, that is high praise, indeed.
After I cleaned up, I did some reading and since the remnants of that pounding headache still lurked in my brain and threatened to erupt at any moment, I made a cup of herbal tea with honey and went to bed early.
And still, Nev didn’t call.
And I was worried.
Oh, it’s not like I was concerned that he was in some kind of danger. Though he keeps it hidden beneath the rumpled clothes and the little boy smile, Nev is as tough as nails. He can take care of himself.
And it’s not like I’m some kind of crazy, jealous girlfriend, either. At least I never had been. I knew Nev cared about me, just like I did about him. We had a special relationship and thanks to him, the places in my heart that had been left cold and empty by Kaz’s lying ways had been filled with warmth.
But as much as I tried (and honest, I tried!), I couldn’t stop thinking about Nev. Nev and Evangeline.
Believe me when I say I knew this was disturbed. Not to mention disturbing. It was so not like me that I knew I had to do something to shake loose from the thoughts.
By Monday morning, I’d had enough, and I vowed to keep myself busy in spite of the fact that the headache was back full force and no amount of pain relievers would touch it. I put a message on the Button Box website and another one on the shop voice mail that said I’d be opening a little later that day and with that taken care of, I headed on over to the Mango Tango Gallery.
As soon as I stepped off the Blue Line El, I remembered how much I love the Wicker Park neighborhood and wondered why I didn’t make it a point to visit there more often. Then it hit me: Wicker Park is adjacent to Bucktown where Kaz lives. And adjacent is too close for comfort.
Still, I will admit that in spite of its proximity to my ex, Wicker Park is funky and fun. It’s got about a million little independent shops and, of course, that’s the kind of thing that gives this small business owner hope for the future. It’s also home to a ton of gorgeous old churches and more—many more—neighborhood dive bars. I must have passed at least a dozen on my way over to the gallery.
Mango Tango was located upstairs from a tapas restaurant that, this early in the morning, wasn’t open for business. Too bad. I looked over the menu posted in the window and promised myself a return visit. Goat cheese with honey and sweet onion? Be still, my heart! Oh yeah, I’d be back.
Unfortunately, it looked like I’d have to come back to talk to Bart McCromb at Mango Tango, too.
My hand was already on the door that led up to the second-floor gallery, when I caught sight of the note stuck on the window nearby:
Off to sunny St. Croix. See you next week.
It was signed simply, Bart.
So much for that line of investigation. I checked the open and close times on the tapas restaurant so I could hit both the gallery and goat cheese/honey heaven the next week, and headed over to the Button Box.
The first thing I saw as I approached the brownstone was Nev standing outside.
OK, I’ll admit it, I’m not sappy and I’m nobody’s definition (I hope) of a woman whose ego depends on the man in her life.
That didn’t mean I didn’t give Nev a mile-wide smile.
“You’re late today.” After a quick peck on the cheek, he stepped back so I could unlock the robin’s egg blue front door. “I wondered what was going on.”
I told him about Mango Tango. “Weird to think the owner went to St. Croix when he was supposed to be hosting Forbis’s exhibit.”
While I turned on lights and put out the sign that said the Button Box was officially open for business, Nev went into the back room and made a pot of coffee. “Maybe not,” he said when he came back with a mug in each hand and we slipped right back into the conversation with all the comfort of a couple who knows each other’s minds. “If Richard and Forbis moved the exhibit to the church, maybe this McCromb guy was left high and dry.”
“You think McCromb might have been angry enough about it to kill Forbis?”
“I think . . .” Nev took a drink from his mug. He can drink coffee hotter and faster than anyone I know. I think it has something to do with cops and how they’re always so busy and always on their way somewhere. He was halfway done with his coffee and I was still blowing on mine and taking tiny sips to test the temperature. “If McCromb was left high and dry without the exhibit he was planning, I think the guy was pretty smart to head on down to St. Croix for a week.”
He was right, and I was seeing motives and menace where it probably didn’t exist.
I told myself not to forget it.
“So, what have you been up to?” I asked the question because I honestly cared. I wasn’t fishing, and I sure wasn’t prying.
That didn’t keep an image of Evangeline and Nev from flashing through my head.
I pushed it aside. “I mean about the case, of course. Is there anything you can tell me?”
“No progress.” He drained the last of his coffee. “I wish I could say there
was. The crime-scene techs tell me they haven’t found anything very useful at the church. Have you had a chance to get back there and check out the buttons?”
I told him I hadn’t, but promised I would, and soon.
Then I remembered what Gabriel Marsh had told me. “You might want to talk to Richard again,” I suggested. “He told us he was out with Laverne after the show on Thursday.”
Nev raised his eyebrows just a tad. In Nev’s world, this is the equivalent of unbridled surprise. “And you know that’s not true?”
“I know there’s another version of the story. Richard might have been with Victor Cherneko. You remember him, the guy who was wearing a tux at the show. Laverne pointed him out, said he was some hotsy-totsy patron of the arts.”
“And a prominent businessman.” Nev nodded. “I was just reading something about him in the newspaper. His company built some new building downtown and there’s been a dispute with the general contractor or the architect or someone. He’s a mover and a shaker, all right. And you say Richard was with him after the show and not Laverne? How do you know?”
“Gabriel Marsh.” It was all the explanation I had a chance to give before a customer came through the front door. She was particular and, honestly, I didn’t hold that against her. When it comes to buttons, I am particular, too. Still, I didn’t anticipate spending nearly an hour with the woman and dragging out every Czech hand-pressed glass button in my inventory.
While I took care of my business, Nev handled his own. He went into the back room and I heard him on the phone, no doubt going over the details of Forbis’s death and following any lead that came his way.
No sooner had I bagged the woman’s button purchases than Nev came back out to the front of the shop.
“What about Gabriel Marsh?” he asked.
It took me a moment to figure out what he was talking about and pick up the threads of the conversation. I did that, and put away the hand-pressed glass buttons while I talked. “He stopped over Saturday night,” I said.
“The shop isn’t open on Saturday night.”
My hands stilled over the buttons. “Not here. He came to my apartment.”
Nev crossed his arms over his chest. I pretended not to notice because, let’s face it, the gesture was entirely too confrontational and, therefore, uncalled for. Then again, so was the slightly accusatory tone of Nev’s voice. “Gabriel Marsh was at your apartment. How did he know where you live?”
I shrugged. That pretty much said all I could say about Marsh finding me. While I was at it, I answered what I knew would be Nev’s next question even before he asked it. “He was looking for information. Seems he wants to write a book about Forbis’s murder.”
“And you told him . . . ?”
“That I didn’t know anything.” I replaced the first batch of buttons in the old library card catalogue file cabinet where they belonged and got to work on the rest of them, sorting first by manufacturer, then by when they were made, then by color. “I wouldn’t have even bothered telling him that much, but he brought lo mein and—”
“This Marsh character showed up at your apartment with dinner?”
It was a logical question, but blame it on my headache, I didn’t like Nev’s tone of voice when he asked it. I slammed the card catalogue drawer shut and spun around. “He was looking to butter me up. That’s what the lo mein was all about. But like I said, it didn’t work. He asked what I knew and I told him nothing.”
“But you ate dinner with him. Jo . . .” Nev’s exasperated sigh echoed through the Button Box. “There’s a murderer on the loose, you know.”
When I gritted my teeth, my head pounded just a little harder. “I’m well aware of that.”
“But you let the guy into your apartment, anyway?” Nev ran a hand through his hair. “I can’t believe you’d be so stupid.”
I already had another handful of buttons and, truth be told, had they been anything else—jewelry, coins, bits and pieces of ancient Egyptian artifacts—I would have flung them across the shop at Nev. But they were buttons, after all, and I treasure my buttons. My fingers closed tight around them. “What did you say?” I asked. Oh yes, it was a rhetorical question, so technically I shouldn’t have needed an answer. But I wanted one. Along with an explanation of what on earth had possessed Nev to talk to me that way.
He rubbed his hands over his eyes. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean you were stupid. I just meant—”
“That what I did was stupid.” I deposited the buttons in the proper drawer and slid it shut with a little more of a bang than I intended. It was my turn to cross my arms over my chest. “I know what I’m doing,” I reminded Nev. I shouldn’t have had to. “I’ve investigated murders before. And successfully, too. I’m not some dumb kid who—”
“I know, I know.” He hurried over and looped his arms around my waist. “I’m sorry. Really.” I guess the quick kiss he gave me was supposed to prove it. “I’m tired and I haven’t had breakfast and you know how crabby I get when I haven’t had my Cheerios. Besides, I’m worried about you, Jo. I know you want to help, but we don’t know who this Marsh guy is.”
When I was looking for information about Forbis in art magazines, I’d read a few articles by Gabriel so that wasn’t exactly accurate. “He’s a journalist,” I told Nev. “That means he’s naturally nosy. He was fishing for information. He didn’t get any. But I got some from him.” Usually, I like nothing better than standing in the circle of Nev’s arms and resting my head on his chest. This time when I tried, my headache only beat harder, and I pushed away.
“Richard told us he went out for coffee with Laverne after the show,” I reminded Nev. “But Gabriel says that’s not true. He says he followed Richard, and Richard was with Victor Cherneko.”
Nev considered this. “Did he say why?”
I would have shaken my head but when I tried, it hurt too much and I guess that’s why my questions came out filled with just a little too much sarcasm. “Why Richard lied to us? Or why Gabriel was following Richard? Or why Richard was with Victor?”
Nev winced. Then again, my words were as sharp as stones.
I pressed my fingers to my temples and tried to make up for it by saying, “It’s looking like Richard’s alibi might be a little shaky.”
“Unless Marsh is lying.”
So much for being conciliatory.
“Why would he?” I asked. “What could he possibly gain from lying to us about Richard and Victor?”
“You mean what could he possibly gain from lying to you about Richard and Victor,” Nev jabbed back. The next second, like me, he realized he’d come across as too harsh. “That’s what we don’t know,” he said, his voice a little softer, his words less stinging. “Don’t you see? That’s why I’m suspicious. OK, so we know Marsh is a journalist. That’s all well and good. But other than that, we don’t know anything about him. Who knows what his motive might be! It’s not like we can suddenly trust him just because he shows up at your door with lo mein. It’s not like he’s some old friend or anything.”
I don’t think I was imagining it. Nev recognized his slip of the tongue at the exact moment I did. That would explain why we both got quiet.
When the phone rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin.
“Button Box.” My voice was too breathy when I answered and took care of the customer on the other end who had a question about old military buttons. By the time I was done, I realized my knees were shaking. I plunked down at my desk, firmly refusing to look at Nev who stood over near the display case where my wooden buttons were kept, drumming his fingers against the glass.
Even then, we couldn’t think of anything to say to each other.
One minute of silence stretched into two, and two dragged out to three. I hadn’t had a chance to turn on my computer for the day so I did that and pretended that it took longer than it really did so that I didn’t have to think of anything to say. That taken care of, I straightened a small (and very neat to begin with) pile
of papers on my desk, deleted the message I’d put on my website earlier about how I’d open a little later that day, and checked my e-mails to see if there were any customer orders or inquiries waiting. There weren’t.
And I still didn’t know what to say to Nev.
I grumbled my frustration and blurted out, “This is ridiculous,” at the same moment he said, “Josie, we really need to talk.”
And once again, we found ourselves at an impasse.
I restraightened those papers near my computer.
Nev stalked over and dropped into the guest chair across from my desk.
“You’re wrong about Evangeline,” he said.
“Wrong about her being an old friend?”
“No, you’re right about that. I told you that from the beginning. She is an old friend.”
“She was more than that.”
“Yes.”
“And you never bothered to tell me about her.”
For the record, Nev is not a sigher. He sighed. “I told you, there’s nothing to tell.”
“Except that you were going to marry her.”
“I was.”
“It’s not like I’m upset or anything. Believe me, Nev, I understand. Neither one of us is a kid, and we didn’t just fall off the turnip truck. We both have pasts.”
“You have Kaz.”
“Yes.” Was it the mention of my ex that started the headache pounding with renewed energy? I squeezed my eyes closed. It didn’t help. “Like I said, I understand that part. Honest, I do.”
Nev pushed out of the chair and paced the width of the shop. The place is only twelve hundred square feet, all told, so there really wasn’t a lot of room for him to walk between the library catalogue files to my left and the glass display cases on my right. “Then what are you so steamed about?”
How could I explain that I wasn’t? My words bumped along to the rhythm of the pounding inside my brain. “All I’m trying to do is understand. To put your relationship with her in some kind of context. Right now that’s hard because I don’t know anything. For instance, how long have you known Evangeline?”
