Buttoned Up (Button Box Mystery) Read online

  “Forbis.” How I managed to say the name when my mouth was filled with sand, I don’t know. I’m also not sure how I pulled off a smile. Apparently, it wasn’t as anemic as I feared because Forbis beamed back like a lighthouse.

  We stood eye to eye, me and Forbis, and he was stick-thin and seventy-five if he was a day. The publicity photo that appeared on his website and on the back of the exhibition brochure had been taken by a pro, that was for sure. It somehow managed to downplay his prominent nose, the large ears that didn’t lay anywhere near flat against his head, and his flapping jowls.

  “You got my button, don’t you, darlin’?”

  “Button?” Even to me, my voice sounded as if it came from the depths of some deep, dark cave. Not acceptable. Not in public. Not when the Button Box’s reputation—and mine—were on the line. I shook myself out of my daze. “Of course I have the button,” I told Forbis.

  “Perfect red button,” Forbis said, with a look toward Nev and Evangeline as well as the rest of the crowd that had gathered around now that the guest of honor had finally made his appearance. “This lady here . . .” He patted my shoulder. “If y’all ever need buttons, she’s your go-to girl!”

  I appreciated the publicity and smiled at the crowd. Notice I said the crowd. I wasn’t sure what was going to happen when my eyes finally met Nev’s so I made sure I didn’t look his way.

  “Root beer barrel?”

  When Forbis stuck something in front of my nose, I flinched and hoped I didn’t look as weird cross-eyed as I was sure I did with my mouth hanging open. When my eyes finally focused, I realized it was one of those old-fashioned hard candies that looks like a brown barrel and is flavored like root beer.

  I declined. With the knot of emotion in my throat, I was pretty sure the combination of root beer flavoring and sugar would not yield pretty results.

  Forbis unwrapped the candy and popped it in his mouth. “Can’t get enough of these things,” he told me. “Morning, noon, and night. I’m pretty sure it’s what keeps me so sweet.” He winked.

  Corny, yes, but truth be told, I was glad. If I thought about corny, I didn’t have to think about getting bushwhacked, and if I didn’t have to think about getting bushwhacked, I could pretend—almost—that everything was fine and my world hadn’t just turned upside down. Some of the tension melted from my shoulders. This time when I smiled at Forbis, it didn’t feel as if my face would crack. “Would you like to see the button?” I asked him.

  He nodded, and looked at the crowd. “Gonna have to skedaddle!” he told them. “A surprise is a surprise, and I ain’t ruinin’ this one. Go on. Shoo!” Coming from anyone else and aimed at a gallery crowd—which, let’s face it, can sometimes live up to its snooty reputation—this might not have gone over well. But Forbis was so darned cute with that Southern drawl—I’d bet a dime to a donut it wasn’t so much fake as it was exaggerated—and wearing a gray suit that was a little too baggy, he was the picture of the eccentric and lovable artist, and nobody had the heart to argue.

  The crowd that surrounded us drifted away, including Evangeline and Nev. Last I saw of them, Nev took a second to glance over his shoulder at me. Was that regret I saw in his eyes? Or was I being as imaginative in my own pathetic way as Forbis was when it came to buttons?

  “So . . .”

  I snapped back to reality to find him tapping one foot against the stone floor. He was wearing sneakers. The big, ugly expensive kind. Royal blue high-tops with neon orange laces.

  Forbis sucked on the root beer barrel in his mouth. “Let’s see that there button!”

  I reached into my purse and took out the box I’d brought along with me from the shop and he lifted the little red button from the bed of cotton where it had been swaddled and held it up to the light. “It’s a beauty! Perfect for finishing my work.”

  I looked over his shoulder toward the exhibit. “And it’s going . . . ?”

  Forbis chuckled. “You’ll see, sweetie. You’ll see!”

  “You ready, Forbis?”

  A man joined us and Forbis handed the button back to me. “Told you I’d take care of this myself,” he grumbled without a glance at the man.

  “You did, and I said that wasn’t acceptable and promised I’d help, remember?” The man stuck out his hand for me to shake. He was middle-aged, with a round pleasant face, doughy features, and thinning hair. “Richard, Richard Norquist,” he said by way of introduction. “I’m Forbis’s agent. We . . .” He glanced toward Forbis who was looking down at his sneakers and grinding his root beer barrel between his teeth. “Forbis and I appreciate your help.”

  “That’s what I’m here for,” I told him, but when I glanced at Forbis to see if he appreciated the comment, he was still looking down at his shoes. No doubt, the atmosphere had changed since Richard joined us. I wondered why, and then I wondered about that argument we’d overheard earlier.

  Right before I came to my senses and realized it was none of my business.

  “Buttons are my business,” I told them and reminded myself. “And Forbis, your use of buttons . . .” Once again, I allowed my gaze to drift over the exhibit. I didn’t pause—well, at least not too long—when I saw Nev and Evangeline with their heads together near the vudon ceremonial drums. “It’s all amazing,” I said, and even I wasn’t sure if I was talking about the news Evangeline had just dumped on me or Forbis’s work.

  “He’s a genius.” This cheery commentary was provided by Laverne who scampered over to join us. She put a hand on Richard’s arm. “Need proof? Over there.” She looked over her left shoulder toward a man who’d just walked in and was looking over the brochure.

  He was tall and though I am not inclined to exaggeration, I will admit that my first impression was this—gorgeous. I mean, really. Hair the color of the night sky. A face that was all planes and angles. A sense of style that told me that while he might attend art shows, he wasn’t one to go along with the crowd; he was the only one who’d come to the black-tie-and-suit affair in faded jeans that hugged every muscle of his body and a black T-shirt with the name of a rock group called Silverlights emblazoned across the front.

  “Gabriel Marsh.” Laverne whispered the name. Or maybe it was a sigh because like me, she had an appreciation for true perfection when she saw it.

  “The journalist?” Richard’s shoulders shot back and he turned to look at the man. “We have attracted attention,” he purred. “Marsh only writes about the crème de la crème, and he usually doesn’t bother with regional shows.” He tugged his suit jacket into place. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll go introduce myself. That is, Forbis . . .” When he turned toward the artist, Richard’s smile was tight. “If you don’t mind.”

  “Knock yourself out,” Forbis told him, and once Richard walked away, he added, “Please.”

  No doubt Laverne felt the tension, too. That would explain the smile that froze on her face in the moment before she shook away her bewilderment. “Are you ready to get started?”

  Forbis looked at me.

  “Say the word.” I slung my purse over my shoulder, the better to hold on to the box with the button in it. “I’m ready whenever you are.”

  Forbis was ready, too. Or at least he was once he grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing server. He took a gulp and Laverne climbed the one step that separated the body of the church from the main altar area.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” she made a graceful motion in our direction. Not at me, of course, but to focus attention on Forbis. “This is Forbis Parmenter.” The crowd applauded and Forbis grinned like a schoolkid who’d been kissed for the first time. “And he’s going to do something that I understand is a little unusual in the art world. You see, the exhibit in front of you . . .” Again she motioned, this time toward the strange collection of vudon artifacts. “You may not have realized it as you looked around, but the exhibit in front of you isn’t quite finished. It’s going to be in just a moment. And the artist himself is going to finish it while you wat
ch.”

  I guess that was our signal because Forbis poked me and started toward the exhibit. I followed one step behind, not exactly sure where we were headed. When he finally stopped in front of the big box with Congo Savanne inside, I whispered a silent prayer. I hoped the one button he wanted to place wasn’t on the statue. No way I wanted to get that close to the terrifying thing.

  Lucky for me, the one blank spot in that whole sea of buttons was on the front of the box and now that I had an idea where to look, I found it pretty easily. A bit of bare wood showed through the sea of buttons, and it was exactly the right size and just the right shape to fit the button I carried. The red plastic button would be at the center of a flower, and the surrounding petals were shades of orange and gold. I couldn’t help myself. From back behind the velvet rope that kept the gallery-goers from getting too up close and personal with the artwork, the buttons had been fascinating. But this close . . .

  I pulled in a breath of pure wonderment.

  This close, and surrounded by so many thousands of buttons, I will admit it, I was in button-lover’s heaven!

  Forbis took another sip of his champagne and said a few words to the crowd about what he called his “artistic process” and the lightning flashes of inspiration that led him down the button path to begin with. While he was at it, I took the opportunity to revel in the riot of buttons. There was a yellow glass button just below where my red one would be placed, and I recognized it as a moonglow, one of those charming buttons manufactured in Europe in the middle of the twentieth century that’s made of light-gathering satin glass and topped with clear colorless glass. When moonglows are done right, the results are ethereal, and this one was no exception.

  But it was the button just to the right of where my little red plastic gem would spend the rest of its life that really caught my attention. Was it ceramic? As casually as I could so as not to draw attention to myself, I leaned nearer. Certainly ceramic, and handmade, too, from the looks of it. This ochre-colored button was marked with what looked like shaky alphabet letters and I itched to get closer to see what they said. I promised myself when the ceremony was over, I would ask Forbis for permission to study the button more closely.

  “Button?” Forbis held out one hand, and I had no choice but to pay attention. I removed the red button from the box and dropped it into his hand, and with another sip of champagne to mark the occasion, he held out the button, back side up.

  And waited.

  I wasn’t sure for what until I saw Richard scramble away from Gabriel Marsh’s side, a tube of contact cement in one hand. He dabbed cement on the underside of the button and backed away.

  Then we were ready.

  Forbis leaned closer to the box to put the button in place, and after that . . .

  Well, I’ve thought about it a lot since that night, and I still can’t say for certain what happened first. Maybe it doesn’t matter. Not as much as the fact that all the color drained out of Forbis’s face and he jerked back as if he’d been zapped by an electric line. That’s when the champagne glass slipped out of his hand and shattered on the marble floor.

  “Forbis?” Automatically, I stepped forward, my hand out to steady him, but by that time, it was already too late.

  His hands shaking and a sheen of sweat on his brow, Forbis pointed at the box. “Le bouton, le bouton,” he wailed. Then he turned and bolted off the altar.

  • • •

  “Well, I’ll be darned. I thought that art show was going to be a real snorer. If I knew there was going to be that much excitement, I would have gone with you!”

  It was the next morning and I was back in the Button Box, straightening the display case that was filled with horn and antler buttons. Not that the case needed straightening. But with all that had happened the night before, I’d decided early on that the best way to deal with the day was to keep busy.

  I straightened a little more.

  “So what did you do?” Stan showed up at the door of the shop even before I was officially open for business. He’d brought coffee and bagels, and he’d toasted the bagels in the mini-kitchen in my back workroom. Now, he brought one over to me—raisin, drizzled with butter and sprinkled with cinnamon. Just the way I like ’em! If I didn’t know better, I’d think Stan had used his retired-cop powers of deduction and knew I was nursing a broken . . .

  What was it, exactly?

  Heart?

  Ego?

  Or was it just my trust radar that was out of whack?

  Even I wasn’t sure, I only knew that wherever I’d been struck by Evangeline’s thunderbolt of an announcement, it still hurt like hell.

  “So . . .” When I didn’t take the paper plate with the bagel on it out of his hands, Stan poked it in my direction again. “After this Forbis character ran out, what did you do?”

  I took the bagel and went over to sit at my desk. “I went after him,” I explained, but not until I took a bite, chewed, and swallowed. It was the first thing I’d eaten since the art show and I was surprised how easily it went down. Whatever had been broken there in the Chicago Community Church, it apparently hadn’t affected my appetite. “Or at least I tried.”

  I thought back to the night before. Once the crowd shook off the shock of seeing Forbis scream and run out, a hum of questions filled the air. I didn’t wait to hear any of them. As quickly as I could, I headed down the main aisle and out the front doors of the church.

  Gabriel Marsh was already out on the steps that overlooked the main drag and the convenience store across the street.

  “Bloody hell! He’s bolted.”

  A Brit. Didn’t it figure? The hunk who was Gabriel Marsh would have made a perfect Masterpiece hero.

  “Did you see which way he went?” I asked.

  “Didn’t see him at all.” Just to be sure, Marsh glanced up and down the street, his fists on his hips. “By the time I got out here, he’d already vanished.” Since I was looking up and down the street, too, I didn’t exactly see Marsh look my way, but I knew exactly when he did. That would be when my temperature shot up a degree or two.

  “Do you suppose Mr. Parmenter is simply a temperamental artist?” he asked.

  “I barely know the man.”

  “But you do have an opinion.”

  I dared a look at him. Fortunately, the streetlight in front of the church was out, and Marsh’s face was lost in shadow. I think if I reminded myself how completely delicious he was, I wouldn’t have had the nerve to speak. “My opinion doesn’t matter,” I told him. “Because that’s all it is, an opinion. I think it’s pretty obvious that Forbis was upset.”

  “And you were standing right next to him. What happened?”

  The scene in front of the Congo Savanne box had happened only a few minutes before and either I’d already gotten the facts jumbled, or I hadn’t had a time to process them so that they made any sense.

  I shrugged, and because I really didn’t have any more to offer, I stepped toward the church doors.

  Marsh sidestepped into my path. This close and with the help of the light of the flashing neon sign from across the street that declared the convenience store a purveyor of “Drinks, ATM, and No-Contract Phone Service,” I saw that his eyes were the same gray as the aged stone facade of the church.

  “He’s got a reputation. They say there’s nothing he loves more than drama and publicity,” he said, and I didn’t have to ask who we were talking about. “Do you suppose what happened in there was a bit of performance art designed to make us all speculate and dither?”

  “Like we’re speculating and dithering right now?”

  A smile tugged one corner of his mouth, but he hid it quickly enough beneath a cool so complete, I wished I had my winter coat in spite of the steamy summer temperatures. “I’m British. I never dither.”

  “And I never speculate.”

  “Because you’re afraid I’ll quote you.”

  “Because I don’t have anything to say.”

  “Maybe w
hen you’ve had some time to think about it—”

  “Maybe.” I dodged past him and went back inside the church.

  When I finished telling the story of what happened the night before, Stan laughed. “Oo-wee! I can’t imagine you being so hard on the poor guy, Josie. You’re usually so polite.”

  “Marsh is a journalist.” I finished up the first half of the bagel and took a sip of coffee. “I wasn’t trying to be tough, I just remembered what happened when that actress was killed here at the shop.” I made it a rule to try never to look at the spot where I’d found that body soon after I opened the Button Box, but this time, I couldn’t help myself. My gaze slipped over the short expanse of hardwood floor in front of my desk and to the Oriental rug in muted shades of red, green, and blue that covered a good portion of the front of the shop. “The press caused plenty of problems then,” I reminded Stan. “I don’t need a repeat when it comes to Forbis’s over-the-top behavior.”

  “Right you are.” He drained the last of his coffee from his cup. “So where did this Parmenter character disappear to?” he asked.

  My sour expression should have been all the answer he needed, but when that didn’t seem to be enough, I explained. “Richard Norquist, Forbis’s agent, said he was sure Forbis was just trying to squeeze all the fun he could out of the opening. He said Forbis loves to make people talk and he was sure that’s what the whole thing was about. Richard insisted that we all stick around and enjoy the exhibit and, of course, he said all the works were for sale and he’d be happy to talk to anyone who was interested. But after what had happened with Forbis . . .”

  Again, my mind drifted to the night before. Though Laverne had done her best to chat up the knots of people gathered around the exhibit, and Richard had gone around talking a little too loud and laughing a little too much, the mood had been ruined. Slowly, the crowd had broken up and drifted out the doors.

  “And Nev, what did he say?”

  Stan was bound to ask, and really, if I was on the ball, I would have been ready with an answer. The way it was, I tried to say enough to satisfy him without saying too much about everything that had gone on the night before.