Hot Button (17 page)

“Is that it? The Geronimo button?” One woman dared to dart forward, but a well-placed look from Nev drove her back.

He instructed Ralph to wait there until a tech arrived to collect the garbage can, and the evidence bag and its precious contents safely in one hand, he walked right past the gawkers without a word.

“I need to get this back to the station,” he said, once we were past them and their buzzing had risen to a din. “You want to come along?”

I glanced down at the legendary button inside the bag and my blood raced. He didn’t need to ask me twice.

“S
O WHY WOULD
somebody go to all the trouble of killing Thad so they could steal the Geronimo button and then throw the button away?” I wasn’t going to get an answer from the button, but I was staring at it through the plastic evidence bag, anyway, so enthralled to be this close to it, and so confused by all that had happened back at the hotel, I couldn’t help myself.

“You think it’s real?” Across his desk, Nev was staring, too. In fact, if I shifted my gaze just a smidgen, I could see his face, distorted by the plastic so that it looked as if I was glimpsing him through an aquarium full of water. His nose
looked smooshed; his blue eyes seemed even more pensive than usual. Thanks to the way the plastic made him look as if he’d been cut apart, then glued back together with overlapping pieces, his hair looked messier than ever.

I looked up from the bag and the button inside and saw that when it came to Nev’s hair, it really wasn’t an optical illusion. He must have been tugging at his sandy, shaggy hair; it
was
messier than ever. I resisted the urge to smooth down the lock of it that stood straight up at the top of his head. It was too personal a gesture, and personal was the last thing I wanted to be in the bullpen-like office, where dozens of gray metal desks were lined up like soldiers in formation and plainclothes detectives and uniformed cops worked side by side, answering phones, talking to witnesses, and writing reports. I kept my hands in my lap, curling my fingers into my palms to remind myself to stay on task—and off anything that even smacked of intimacy—and dared to speak the words that had been eating away at me in the hour we’d been at the police station. “If we could take the button out of the bag so I could have a closer look at it…”

It says a lot about Nev that he humored me. He opened a desk drawer, got out a pair of latex gloves, and handed them to me. He put a pair on, too. “Ready?” he asked, and honestly, he shouldn’t have had to. Now that the big moment had arrived, I was vibrating like a car with the idle set too high. I guess maybe he noticed, because he finally took pity on me and opened the bag.

“The techs tell me there are no fingerprints,” he said, slipping the poster board and button out of the bag and setting it on his desk. “So we don’t have to worry about messing anything up.”

Awed, I didn’t dare grab the poster board. Instead, I ran my tongue over my lips, pulled in a breath, and looked to
Nev for the go-ahead, and when he gave it with a nod and a smile, I lifted the board.

“Geronimo.” I whispered the name and stared at the button. “It’s the right size for a shirt button of the late nineteenth century.” I confirmed this by glancing from the buttons on Nev’s shirt to the one on the card. “Men’s shirt buttons haven’t changed much. And it’s a sew-through, see?” With my finger poised just above the center of the button, I pointed.

“Because you can sew through the holes to keep the button on the shirt.” Three cheers for Nev—he was falling into discussing buttons like he’d been born to it. “That makes sense in terms of that story you told me, that when Geronimo sold one button from his shirt, he sewed another one on, then he sold that one, and so on and so on.”

“And the button feels…” Since Nev told me I didn’t have to worry about messing up any fingerprints, I touched the button to my cheek. “Mother of pearl is cool against the skin,” I said, and to prove it, I held the button to Nev’s cheek, and yes, I guess it looked a little weird, the two of us sitting there and me holding this eight-by-ten piece of poster board to his face. That would explain why another detective walked by and chuckled and why Nev mumbled, “Working here, Lewis, if you don’t mind.”

I pulled my hand back, but Nev pointed to his cheek, and I put the button against it again. He nodded, feeling the coolness, too.

“You wouldn’t get that feel with a plastic button,” I told him. “Plastic buttons are great for a whole lot of things, but they are not a product of Mother Nature. They feel manufactured. Dead. And if we look at the back of this button…” Again, I waited for permission, and when Nev gave it, I turned over the card, unwound the piece of coated wire that
Thad had used to fasten the button to it, and took the button off the poster board.

That’s when I had to stop to catch my breath.

“I’m holding a piece of history,” I said. Hearing my voice waver, I realized I must have sounded like an idiot, and I glanced up at Nev. “You must think I’m crazy.”

“I think it’s…” He paused for a heartbeat before he added, “Nice. I think it’s nice that a woman as sophisticated as you can be impressed with such a little piece of history.”

Sophisticated? I liked the sound of that, and before I could decide I liked it a little too much and forget where we were and what we were supposed to be doing, I turned back to the button.

I flipped it over and looked on its underside. “See here.” I pointed so Nev wouldn’t miss what I was talking about. “These little ridges and lines are what we call striations. That’s a sure sign that it’s a MOP. And if you turn the button toward the light…” I did. “You can see the coloring of the mussel shell. The mussels…” I set down the button and cupped one hand to demonstrate. “Say my left hand is a mussel shell… The buttons were punched out of them.” With my right hand, I made a stamping motion. “They came out as little blank circles; then the sew-through holes were drilled in them.” I let go a reverent breath. “This button looks to be the right age. And it’s made of the right material. The papers. . ?” The provenance papers were in a nearby evidence bag.

“The techs will be taking them for testing in a couple minutes, but I looked them over quickly.” Nev lifted the bag that contained the papers we’d found in the trash under the button, then set it down again. “Everything looks to be in order. This is the Geronimo button, all right.”

“The Geronimo button.” I put it in my palm and stared
in awe. “Imagine Thad being killed for a little thing like this.”

“Except we don’t know that was why he was killed.”

“But we can assume it.”

“We can’t assume anything. Not in a murder investigation. Take Beth Howell, for instance. You said she was upset after talking to Thad on Sunday night. To me, upset and buttons don’t go together. Don’t get me wrong.” Like he expected me to jump all over him for insulting button collectors everywhere, he sat back, and when I didn’t go on the attack, some of the starch went out of his shoulders. “I know you and other button collectors take your buttons very seriously, and like I said, I think that’s pretty cool. But from what you said, Beth Howell’s reaction to the way Thad treated her on the boat, that was personal.”

“But Thad said he didn’t know her.”

“That’s why they call it a mystery.” Nev shrugged. “And we won’t get answers until we question Beth Howell. That’s why—”

This time, it was my phone that interrupted us. I was tempted not to answer until I saw that it was Helen’s number that popped up. I groaned. “What is it?” I asked her before I even said hello. “There isn’t something wrong, is there?”

“Oh no, dear. Everything’s just fine. In fact, we’re just setting up for the evening function.”

“The sock hop.” I said this to prove to Helen that I had not completely forgotten about my duties as conference chair, even if I wasn’t at the hotel to carry them out. “I’ll be there,” I promised, looking at Nev as a way of sending the message that I had to go. “I’m sure there’s a lot to do and—”

“Not to worry.” Helen’s voice was breezy. “I’ve got everything under control, and people are really excited and looking forward to it. I just saw a woman out in the lobby
wearing one of those old-fashioned poodle skirts. Only hers was decorated all over with buttons. How cute is that! No, no… Don’t hurry back, Josie. People won’t mind. About the milkshakes, I mean.”

Sure, my head was filled with thoughts of murder, buttons, and clues that were leading us nowhere. But through it all, I managed to dredge up the details for the night’s sock hop. “We’re showing episodes of old TV series on the screen in the big conference room. We’re serving popcorn and cookies and milkshakes and—”

“Afraid not.” I could picture Helen shaking her head in sympathy. “You see, dear, you forgot.” Like there were people nearby and she didn’t want them to hear, she whispered. “There were supposed to be two spots set up in the conference room where folks could go up and order milkshakes, right? Well, I was just in there a couple minutes ago, and when I didn’t see any sign of anything that looked like it could be used for making milkshakes, I checked with catering. Josie, honey, you completely forgot about the milkshake stations. Catering didn’t know a thing about it.”

“Forgot?” I held out my phone and gave it a look Helen obviously couldn’t see, my mind racing back to the day the past spring when I’d gone over to the hotel to make final arrangements with the catering manager. “But I’m sure I did. We even mentioned it in the conference booklet.”

“Oh yes. We surely did. I’ve already had people tell me they can’t wait for a good old-fashioned chocolate shake. I hated to tell them, but sooner is better than later when it comes to something like this. A few of them were mighty disappointed.”

I pictured button collectors, thirsty from a day of judging and buying, anxious to slurp a nice, frosty shake and—

And cursing me for dropping the ball.

My shoulders flagged when Helen said, “I told them it wasn’t your fault, dear. I didn’t come right out and tell them what you’re up to, but I did explain how the mind can play little tricks like that on us when we’re preoccupied. They’ll get over it.”

I swallowed my disappointment. It wasn’t so easy to get rid of my embarrassment. “And everything else?”

“Like I said, not to worry.” Helen’s voice was breezy. “I’ve got everything under control.”

I hung up and groaned, only since Nev was giving the button to an evidence tech, he didn’t hear me.

“What?” Finished, he took one look at my face and knew something was up. “Something happened at the conference?”

“Something
didn’t
happen at the conference.” I collected my purse and stood. “I need to get back there as soon as I can. People are expecting milkshakes, and I completely forgot and—”

“Hey, don’t be so hard on yourself.” Nev stood, too, and he’d already put a hand on my arm when he remembered where we were. He backed off instantly, glancing around to make sure none of the other cops noticed. I could tell by the way they looked away that of course they had.

“You’re doing a great job,” Nev said.

“Maybe with murder, but not with buttons. I’ve got to go see what I can do to make it up to everyone.”

Chapter Eleven

W
HAT
I
DID TO MAKE IT UP TO EVERYONE WAS ORDER ICE-CREAM
sundaes for the crowd (since there was no special equipment involved, it was more doable than milkshakes at late notice), and honestly, everyone was having such a good time watching the old TV shows and dancing to the music of Elvis and Ricky Nelson, I don’t think they minded. Thank goodness! I’d seen the way a couple attendees looked at me when I walked into the hotel late that afternoon—like I had a lot of nerve showing up at my own conference—and I didn’t like it at all. I vowed right then and there to pay more attention to the details and make sure the rest of the week went as smoothly as possible.

With that in mind, I had just finished a sweep of the ice-cream stations to make sure there was plenty of hot fudge, whipped cream, and sprinkles and was heading back across the room to check on the sale of raffle tickets when a voice
from behind me brought me spinning around. “You want to dance?”

I turned to find Daryl Tucker in skinny jeans, a white T-shirt, and black-and-white sneakers. He looked like he belonged in one of those old TV shows, like the stereotypical class nerd—well, a nerd with a bushy beard—and I almost complimented him on his costume. Until I realized it was probably what he would have worn no matter what the party theme happened to be.

He looked over my black-and-red-checked skirt, my crisp white blouse, and the lightweight red cardigan, which matched the chiffon scarf that tied back my ponytail.

“You look nice, Josie,” Daryl said. “That’s why I thought you might want to—”

“Would love to. Really. But…” I poked a thumb over my shoulder toward the doors, where Helen was selling raffle tickets, and it was a good thing I acted fast; the music switched from something with an upbeat, rocking rhythm to a slow song. My heart jumped into my throat, and I poked faster. “I can’t leave Helen high and dry.”