Panic Button (4 page)

Cursed?

I didn’t think so.

I was, however, willing to admit to being disappointed. The display case would have
been perfect, and I’d already picked out a spot for it near the front window so that
when I filled it with glass buttons, they’d catch the light—and customers’—eyes. But
have no fear, I eased my dashed hopes by concentrating on the charm
string. In fact, I didn’t even realize a couple hours had passed until I heard the
chink of the small brass bell that hung just inside the front door.

My first thought was “customer,” and grateful as I always am for people who appreciate
buttons as much as I do, I turned off the high-intensity lamp and scooted to the other
side of the worktable.

That is, until a second thought hit.

“Kaz.” I grumbled the name at the same time I stopped long enough to look over at
the pile of mail and that royalty check that was right on top of it.

When it came to money—namely, money I had and he wanted—Kaz had radar.

“Well, not this time,” I told myself, and lifting my chin and squaring my shoulders,
I quickly rehearsed all the things I would tell him—about how he couldn’t depend on
me to get him out of whatever financial mess he found himself in—before I told him
to get lost.

The words died on my lips and the tight little knot of aggravation in my gut loosened
when I stepped out of the back room.

“Stan!”

Stan Marzcak and I lived across the hall from each other, but he was more than just
a neighbor. Stan was a friend, he was family, and he smiled and waved a hello from
the door, shaking raindrops off the shoulders of his navy blue Windbreaker. “You look
like you were expecting someone else,” he said.

There was no use lying. Not to Stan. He’d figure out the truth sooner or later, anyway,
and besides, he knew the routine. “Royalty day,” I said. “I figured Kaz had the
date circled in red on his calendar and was here to tell me that some friend or relative
or acquaintance of an old friend’s brother’s cousin’s mother-in-law was in some kind
of terrible trouble and only an infusion of cash from me could help. Come to think
of it…” I guess I hadn’t thought of it. Not until that moment. That would explain
why a chill like icy fingers traced a pattern up my spine. “You know, I haven’t heard
from Kaz in a while. That’s kind of strange.”

“I figured you were going to say something more like
refreshing
.”

Stan was right. I jiggled my shoulders to get rid of the odd feeling that had settled
there, and laughed. “Maybe Kaz is finally growing up,” I suggested.

“And learning to be self-sufficient,” Stan countered.

“And taking responsibility for his own life.” It was such an odd thought, it left
me speechless for a moment. “Now that,” I pointed out when I recovered, “would be
refreshing.”

Stan laughed and took a couple more steps into the store. He was carrying a white
deli bag and he held it up for me to see. “Brought lunch,” he said. “Figured you’d
be so busy with those buttons you’ve been telling me about, you wouldn’t have time
to get anything for yourself.”

Nice of him, and I told him so. It was also a little out of character. Not that Stan
isn’t considerate. And generous. And helpful. But he doesn’t usually show up without
calling first, and Stan doesn’t usually call unless something is up.

If instincts can bristle, mine were suddenly at full
attention. Especially when I realized that now that the small talk was over, Stan
was shifting uncomfortably from foot to foot, and he refused to meet my eyes. “So
you just happened to stop by, huh?”

“Sure.” It would have been easier to believe him if Stan didn’t ignore me completely
and march through the Button Box with more energy than any seventy-something-year-old
guy should have. He plunked down the lunch bag on my desk. “I didn’t have anything
else to do today.”

I’d like to think I could take a friend’s word at face value. Call me suspicious.
When Stan and I last talked, I clearly remembered him saying he was heading up to
Evanston to see his new great-grandson that day.

I cocked my head and gave him the kind of look I imagined he’d once used on the bad
guys who’d had the misfortune to cross his path back when he was a Chicago homicide
detective. Just so he knew he wasn’t pulling the wool over my eyes, I crossed my arms
over my chest, too, and stepped back, my weight against one foot.

“Uh-huh,” was all I said.

So much for trying to make an impression; Stan barely spared me a look. Instead, he
made a big show out of opening the deli bag, reaching inside, and pulling out a sandwich.
“You want this in the back room?” he asked. “I know you don’t like to eat out here
and take the chance that your buttons will get something spilled on them.”

“I don’t like people who are shady, either,” I reminded him, though I shouldn’t have
had to.

Like the
shady
comment couldn’t possibly have been meant for him, he dropped the sandwich back where
it came from, lifted the bag, and held it close to his chest,
the picture of innocence. “What are you talking about, Josie?” he asked.

Rather than screech my frustration, I led the way into the workroom and coiled up
the charm string so that I could tuck it onto a nearby shelf. At the same time I pulled
a second stool over to the table, I tossed a look over my shoulder at Stan. “I’m talking
about you,” I said, patting the table to show him where to put the bag. “You didn’t
just stop in, and don’t pretend you did. You talked to Nev, didn’t you? I mean, since
I saw him last night.”

His lips pursed, Stan looked up at the ceiling. It’s a nice ceiling. Original to the
brownstone, which means late Victorian. It’s tin and is embossed with a beautiful
small floral pattern and painted a bright white to make the most of the light in the
windowless workroom.

But to a man who’d seen it dozens of times, I was pretty certain it wasn’t interesting
enough to warrant such a close inspection.

“If you say ‘Nev who?’ I’m going to bonk you with this sandwich bag,” I growled.

Stan grimaced and gave up on the ceiling, peeling out of his jacket. “Well, what do
you expect the guy to do?” he asked. “First of all, he’s a cop so of course he’s going
to be concerned. Second of all, the guy’s crazy about you. He cares what happens to
you, and he worries about you, too. So you meet him for a drink last night and you
tell him somebody tried to steal your purse and—”

“And so he sent you over to babysit me?” I may have been annoyed, but I was also famished.
I peeked in the bag, made the important decision between pastrami and corned beef,
extracted the sandwich I wanted, and pushed
the bag toward Stan. “I’ll tell you exactly what I told Nev. It was random. And it
was my fault. As soon as I set my purse down, that creep saw his opportunity. And
when he realized he was up against the mighty LaSalle, he disappeared. What do they
call that, Stan? A crime of opportunity? Well, that’s exactly what it would have been
if not for the dog. Which means it’s not like the scumbag is going to waltz in here
and stick up the place.” My laugh was anything but funny. “He’d be plenty surprised
if he did. I’ve got thirty dollars in the cash drawer and another seventeen in my
purse. That’s all he would have gotten last night if he’d made off with it. Seventeen
dollars. Hardly seems worth it.”

“Our perp didn’t know that.” While I was busy lecturing him (yeah, like that was going
to get me anywhere), Stan had retrieved the corned beef sandwich. He added mustard
and a dollop of horseradish. “And I don’t want to worry you, Josie, but you don’t
know it was random. He might have been staking out the place.”

“A button shop?” I asked, only since my mouth was full, it came out sounding more
like, “Abhtnshp?” I chewed and swallowed. “You and Nev must have been comparing notes.
That’s exactly what he said.”

“We didn’t need to compare notes. We attended the same police academy.” Stan made
sure he paused here, just to be sure I got the message. “You can’t be too careful,
kiddo. You should know that what with that actress getting killed here, then everything
that happened at that button convention of yours.”

He didn’t need to remind me. The fact that Josie Giancola, button purveyor, would
ever find herself mixed
up with murder was as far-fetched as thinking that LaSalle would turn detective.

I opened one of those little plastic packs of mustard with my teeth and coated my
sandwich. “Maybe you and Nev would rest easier if you knew the whole story. Then you’d
know that guy wasn’t staking out the store. He just appeared—poof! You know, because
of the curse.”

I was going for funny, but Stan wasn’t laughing. He narrowed his eyes and gave me
a look designed to get the whole truth and nothing but.

I gave it to him. At least as much as I could remember. The bit about Angela and how
superstitious she was, and how she actually thought that the wonderful buttons on
the wonderful charm string had some crazy power to bring bad luck.

“See?” I asked when I was finished with the details. “Your theory about someone watching
me and just waiting for me to set down my purse in a public place is as silly as Angela’s
theory that bad luck follows the charm string. There’s no such thing as bad luck,
I know you believe that, Stan. You’re too logical not to. And there’s no such thing
as curses, either. Absolutely, positively not.”

Brave words.

They would have been far more effective if, at that very moment, every light in the
shop didn’t go out.

“D
ON’T MOVE AN INCH.”

Honestly, I didn’t need Stan to tell me. Any other day, the lack of light wouldn’t
have mattered nearly as much, but that particular afternoon, with thunder rumbling
overhead and Chicago blanketed in a thick layer of black clouds, the shop was plunged
into darkness.

“I’ll go into the basement and…ow!” I heard the bang before Stan’s grunt, and I knew
he’d run into the corner shelves near the back door. “I’ll check the fuse box in the
basement,” he said once he’d grumbled a couple unrepeatable words, and I pictured
his teeth clenched and his upper lip stiff. “If you have a flashlight.”

“Of course I have a flashlight.” I felt my way along the worktable, took the three
steps I knew separated the
table from the shelves where Stan was standing, and stuck out a hand toward the shelf
at nose level. My fingers closed around the cool cylinder of a small metal flashlight.
“Here.” I poked it through the dark toward where I knew Stan was, and when he reached
for it and I assumed he had a hold of it, it plunked to the floor.

“Don’t move an inch,” he said again when I was just about to, but then, I guess he
didn’t want to get stepped on while he scrambled around on his hands and knees. When
he stood up again, he was huffing and puffing.

I heard the click of the flashlight’s
on
button. Nothing happened. Another click. A third. “What’s that you said about a curse?”
he grumbled. “Maybe that lady with those old buttons was right. These batteries are
dead.”

“You’re kidding me, right?” It wasn’t like I didn’t trust him, but I groped through
the darkness to pry the flashlight out of Stan’s hands. I tried to turn it on, and
when nothing happened, I shook the flashlight, tried the button again, and groaned.
“I replaced the batteries in this thing not two weeks ago. I know I did.”

“Not to worry.” Stan’s face suddenly glowed an eerie blue in the light of his cell
phone screen. “I can find my way using this.”

He did, and less than a couple minutes later, the lights were back on.

When Stan came back upstairs and into the workroom, his snowy brows were low over
his eyes. “Breaker wasn’t tripped,” he said. “Not like there was an overload or anything.”

“The power must have been out to the whole neighborhood,” I said.

He shook his head. Once. When Stan does that, it’s a sure sign he’s convinced he’s
right. “I don’t think so, Josie.” His polite way of saying he knew so. “Looked more
like someone turned off the breaker.”

“Emilie, I bet.” I glanced toward the tin ceiling Stan had been eying such a short
time before. The travel agent who worked upstairs from me had a tendency to try and
fix things she should never touch. “I bet there’s something wrong with her computer.
She’s convinced that every time it hiccups, it’s because something’s wrong with the
electricity in the building.”

Stan pursed his lips. “Maybe. But if that was the case, when all the lights went kerflooey,
you’d think I would have seen her down in the basement. And when I came in a while
ago, her car wasn’t out on the street where she usually parks.”

I did not dispute this last bit of information. Retired or not, cops have a gift for
remembering such things.

“Then how…” I bit off the question because I knew what Stan was going to say, and
I didn’t need to get teased about Angela’s curse. “Well, it’s fixed now,” I said instead.
“And I can get back to work.”