Buttoned Up (Button Box Mystery) Page 6

  “Somebody glued buttons to his eyes and mouth and put him in with that statue.” I did my best to keep from sounding cynical, but it wasn’t easy. “Do you really think—”

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Norquist?” Nev interrupted me, and maybe that was a good thing. No doubt the irony of my words was lost on Richard Norquist. “After Forbis Parmenter left the show?”

  “I . . . I . . .” Richard thought back. “I stayed around for a while. You know that.” He looked at me, then Nev. “And you do, too, Detective. You were both here. Forbis ran off—”

  “And where do you suppose he ran to?” Nev asked.

  Richard’s doughy features accordioned in on themselves. “I figured it was a stunt. I thought Forbis was looking for attention. I just thought he ran out of the nearest door and hit the closest bar. You don’t think—”

  “You haven’t told us where you were,” Nev reminded him.

  Richard took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Like I said, I stayed around. I did a little networking. You saw me, certainly. Detective, I talked to you and that very pretty woman you were with.”

  Since I was outside looking for Forbis, the very pretty woman was obviously not me. I gritted my teeth.

  “I reminded folks that even though Forbis wasn’t around, they were still welcome to look at his work,” Richard continued. “I told them they could certainly still make purchases. That woman you were with, Detective, you remember, she asked for prices on a couple of the pieces.”

  Investigation, I reminded myself, and repeated the word like a mantra.

  The investigation was what was important.

  “Did anyone buy anything?” I asked him in the name of the investigation.

  Richard shook his head. “It really fried me, I’ll tell you that. Forbis pulls these crazy publicity stunts, and he doesn’t even stop to consider that they don’t build interest in his work, they just turn people off. Like that time in Asheville when he had those models dressed as old-fashioned housewives—you know, wearing aprons and housedresses and high heels—show up at the exhibit that featured buttons on household goods. Everyone was so taken with these five gorgeous models, much more than they were with blenders and mixers and vacuum cleaners covered with buttons. Forbis just doesn’t get it. If he’s going to get anywhere in the art world—” He thought better of the comment.

  “If Forbis was . . . If he ever was going to get anywhere in the art world, he knew the drill. The way to become popular is to get some of the movers and shakers to buy your pieces. That’s how this business works. People with big bucks. You know, investment bankers. Actors. Actors are great for business. Once a movie star buys a piece, everybody else thinks it must be real art. If we could get that to happen, I knew the world would beat a path to our door.”

  “And last night . . .” Nev gently nudged him back on the path where we’d been headed before Richard took a major detour.

  “Well, after all that drama from Forbis, no one made an offer on any of the pieces. I could have wrung his neck!”

  Richard realized the error of his word choice just a second after both Nev and I had. His already pale face went a little paler.

  “I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I mean, I did, but only as a figure of speech. You understand?” He didn’t care if I did; he looked at Nev, his eyes pleading.

  “So you were angry.” It went without saying, but Nev, was a good interrogator. He knew it was important to let Richard know that he understand how Richard felt. “But not angry enough to try and find Forbis and figure out what he was up to. Unless you did find him.”

  It took a moment for what Nev wasn’t saying to sink in. “Me?” Richard squeaked out the word. “I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t.”

  “But you didn’t go after him,” I said. “And that seems odd since you’re his agent. I barely knew the man, and even I tried to find Forbis.”

  Was that a roll of the eyes from Richard?

  I pretended not to notice.

  “You tried to find Forbis because you’d just met the man and you were taken in by that good ol’ country boy act of his.” Richard shook his head, but whether he was disgusted with me for admitting what I’d done or with himself because he’d once been taken in, too, I didn’t know. “Believe me, if you’d known him as long as I have, you would have been glad to see him disappear for a while. Only . . .” Richard’s wide-eyed gaze traveled back to Nev. “Not like this.”

  “And how long have you known Mr. Parmenter?” Nev asked.

  Richard thought about it. “We met years ago. Ten. Twelve maybe. I was representing another artist down in Georgia and her work was being presented at one of the local galleries. Forbis had a couple pieces there, too, and he tried to interest me in representing him.”

  “You weren’t impressed with buttons?” I tried to keep the acid from my voice, but let’s face it, when people start dissing buttons, it’s bound to get me riled up.

  “Oh, he wasn’t doing the button thing then,” Richard said. “Back then, Forbis was what I like to call a serious artist. He worked in oils.”

  “Painting?” It didn’t exactly fit with the notion of the weird outsider artist I knew.

  “Oh yes, landscapes mostly,” Richard said. “He did beach scenes, ocean scenes, scenes around that old plantation home of his back on the island. You both met Forbis. You won’t be surprised to hear that he thought he was brilliant. The Barrier Islands’ answer to Michelangelo.”

  We were talking art, and art is a little outside Nev’s area of expertise. I felt perfectly comfortable taking over, at least for a bit. That’s why I prodded Richard, just a little. “And you thought . . . ?”

  Richard shrugged. “His work was OK. Just OK. It wasn’t especially inspired, and it certainly wasn’t brilliant. He had average technique. A so-so understanding of color. None of it was very exciting.”

  “And so you weren’t interested in representing him.”

  “I didn’t see there would be any money in it,” Richard said matter-of-factly. “So why would I waste my time? About five years later . . . well, I guess that was about when Forbis realized he was wasting his time, too. He tossed his easel and his oil paints and started in on this whole crazy button thing. When he contacted me again and I saw what he was up to—”

  “So you do think it’s art?” Nev asked.

  “And you did finally realize Forbis was brilliant?” I said.

  Richard apparently wasn’t sure which question to answer. That would explain why he sidestepped both of them. “Hey, I’ve got bills to pay and a credit card balance just like everyone else,” he said. “It doesn’t matter if I thought what Forbis was producing was art. Or if he was brilliant. Truth be told, I thought the guy was a certified nutcase. But that didn’t mean people wouldn’t buy his stuff. It’s different. It’s weird. And a lot of collectors, they like weird.”

  “Are any of them weird?” Nev asked. Then because it looked as if Richard wasn’t sure what he meant, he added, “Was Forbis having trouble with anyone? Did anyone have a beef with what he was doing?”

  “With the buttons?” Richard barked out a laugh, then looked at me to see if I was offended. I was, but I didn’t let on. “I can’t see anybody getting worked up about buttons.”

  “How about someone getting worked up about vudon?” I asked.

  Richard shook his head. “This was a brand new show. No one had ever seen it before. Forbis’s last show was classic cars covered with buttons. The one before that, that was the one with the household items. Who would care so much about a couch covered with buttons that they’d want to kill someone over it?”

  “Just so I have this straight . . .” Nev pulled a small, spiral-bound notebook out of his pocket and flipped it open. “What exactly did you do for Mr. Parmenter?”

  “What an agent does.” Richard nodded. “I handled sales. I arranged shipment when a piece was sold. I put out feelers to the art community so that I could book shows for him.”

&nbs
p; “Speaking of shows . . .” I sat down next to Richard. “Laverne told us that this show was originally scheduled at another gallery. What happened?”

  Richard pulled at his left earlobe. “The guy was a real flake,” he said. “That Bart McCromb over at Mango Tango. Promised us the moon for the show and backed out of every one of those promises. And the gallery?” He clicked his tongue. “In the famous words of Bette Davis, what a dump! When I got to Chicago and went over there, I just about had a cow. I was so excited. Finally, a big show in a big city. We were bound to attract plenty of attention. Then when I realized Mango Tango was just a hole in the wall, well, I’ll admit it, I didn’t know what to do.”

  Richard shifted uncomfortably in his seat and I pictured the dust in the pew getting smudged. “I like to come across as a mover and a shaker,” he said. “I mean, that’s part of my job, right? Art critics and buyers, they want to think they’re dealing with the cream of the crop, so I’ve got to put on a show, just like Forbis does. Did.” He cleared his throat. “Truth is, I’ve always worked with small, regional galleries. Never with a show on this scale and never in an art mecca like Chicago. When I realized what I’d gotten us into with crazy Bart and that refuse heap of a gallery, I was sick to my stomach. I didn’t know what to do. Then I remembered Laverne.”

  “She’d talked to you about having Forbis here as a guest,” I said.

  Richard nodded. “And I realized I’d just had my salvation dropped in my lap.” He cringed and looked around. “Pardon the pun. So I saved my bacon and at the same time, I realized I could do a little good. The church is definitely a worthy cause and with Forbis’s star rising, it wouldn’t hurt us to donate a portion of the profits to this place and get a tax write-off in return. Besides . . .” He glanced away. “Laverne is an old friend, an old girlfriend. We dated back in college and I thought, well, I thought it wouldn’t hurt to get together with her again. You know, just to see if any of the old spark was still there.”

  “Was it?” I knew Nev wasn’t going to get too personal, or show off his soft, romantic side, so I did him the favor of asking. “What did you do after the show was over last night, Mr. Norquist?”

  Richard’s smile was fleeting. “We went for coffee, me and Laverne.”

  “And you didn’t come back here to the church?”

  He shook his head. “Laverne locked up before we left. We got in a cab, had coffee over near my hotel, then I put her in another cab and sent her home. I didn’t hear from her again until this morning. You know, when she called about . . .” Again, he peeked around Nev. “About this.”

  “When Mr. Parmenter ran out of here last night . . .” Nev was holding a pen in one hand, and he used it to point down the aisle in the direction Forbis ran. “What did you think?”

  “That he was crazy. That he was ruining a good thing. That he should have known better.”

  “And before that, what did you see?”

  Richard looked across the church. “I was standing over there. You remember. You both saw me. Ms. Giancola, you walked up to the front with Forbis—”

  “And you came over and dabbed some cement on the back of the button I brought with me,” I added.

  “That’s right. Then I stepped back over to where I was to begin with. The next thing I knew . . .” Richard made a face. “I’ll admit it, when I saw Forbis wince, I didn’t think a thing of it. He was a twitchy old guy, or at least he liked to pretend he was. I think he thought he was being cute and folksy. But then he dropped his glass and yelled, ‘The button, the button’ and ran out of here, and I admit it, I was as stunned as everyone else.”

  “Until you decided it was all for show and you got angry,” Nev said.

  “Not angry, more like disgusted,” Richard said. “But not disgusted enough to kill Forbis.”

  We were right back where we started from. Nev told Richard that he was free to go, but that he shouldn’t leave town any time soon, just in case he could help with the inquiry.

  “What do you think?” he asked me once Richard was out of earshot.

  “I think we’ve got it all wrong,” I said, considering what Richard had just said. “Forbis jerked back. Just like Richard said. And we all know he dropped his champagne glass. But you know, Nev, Forbis didn’t say, ‘the button, the button’ like Richard said he did. I was standing right next to him so I know. What Forbis said was ‘le bouton, le bouton.’ It’s French and yeah, it means, ‘the button, the button,’ but you know what? To me, Forbis didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d just naturally start suddenly speaking French.”

  Chapter Five

  I actually do have a real job. And a real button shop to keep open, running—and in the black. As intriguing as Forbis’s murder was, I knew it was best to leave solving the crime to the professionals so I could concentrate on what I knew and loved best, buttons.

  Besides, I’d learned that murder takes its toll on me. Like I mentioned earlier, I’d been involved in three cases previously, and with each, I found it nearly impossible to shake the pall of tragedy that followed in the wake of death.

  So much potential lost. Not just when an artist like Forbis is killed, but with every life lost. So much sadness.

  That next day at the Button Box, I knew I could kill two proverbial birds with one stone. Which, now that I think about it, probably wasn’t the best metaphor to use in regards to the situation. It was, however, true. I could concentrate on the shop and on the customers who came and went that Saturday and at the same time, I would use the opportunity to calm my mind and find familiarity and comfort, as always, in the sanctuary of the restored brownstone with its soothing sage green walls, tin ceiling, hardwood floors, and old library card catalogue file cabinets along every wall, each drawer filled with buttons.

  Ah, buttons!

  There is nothing like buttons to soothe this collector’s soul.

  By the time I helped a woman who was looking for just the right button to use as a closure for a purse she’d knit and felted, rearranged a couple shelves that didn’t need it, and re-catalogued all the buttons in the drawers where I stored my Wemyss (that’s pronounced weemz) Ware—those delightful earthenware buttons produced in Scotland at the end of the nineteenth century and distinctively decorated with wonderful things like cabbage roses and dogs—I was breathing easier.

  That is, until Nev showed up just as I was about to close and ruined everything.

  Oh my, that came out sounding all wrong!

  I didn’t mean Nev ruined everything because he came into the Button Box.

  I mean he ruined everything because as soon as he walked in, I saw that he had papers in his hand and that look in his eyes that said he was thinking about his case and needed to bounce ideas around.

  My vacation to tranquility came to an abrupt halt and my heart began a cha-cha in my chest.

  “The list of people invited to the opening Thursday night.” He held up the papers briefly before he tossed them down on the antique rosewood desk where my computer sat. “I thought you could look through it and tell me if there are names of any button collectors you recognize.”

  “Hello, Nev.”

  It took him a moment, but when he caught on, his shoulders drooped and he made a face. “Sorry. Hello.” Nev hurried over and gave me a quick kiss. “My lieutenant’s riding me about this case and you’ve seen the newspapers, right? Between the vudon connection and those buttons glued to Forbis’s eyes and mouth . . . well, the media is making a circus out of this. The brass isn’t happy about it.”

  “That means you’ve been working like mad and you didn’t even take the time for lunch today. Or breakfast, I bet.” It’s not like I was guessing. One quick look and I knew Nev hadn’t even changed his clothes since I saw him at the church the day before. That meant he hadn’t been home, that he’d been running since he’d first responded to the call at the Chicago Community Church. He was even more rumpled than usual, and the belt of his raincoat was still dragging. When he slipped off the
coat, I tugged the belt through the loops to even it up all the way around, thus restoring order, at least in this little corner of the world.

  Before I said another word, I went into the back workroom and pulled out a jar of corn and black bean salsa, a bag of corn chips, and a couple of paper plates. I’d run out earlier in the day for the express purpose of buying comfort food so I could eat it in front of the TV once I got home, but hey, keeping Nev going was more important and I’d still get my comfort-food fix. I filled our plates and because I didn’t like the thought of salsa mingling with my buttons, I called Nev into the back room.

  He brought the guest list along with him and while he polished off his plate of chips and salsa in record time, I looked it over.

  “There are a few collectors from the area,” I told him, and pointed out the names. “I spoke to all of them briefly when we first got to the art show. Remember? In fact, they’d heard about Forbis’s exhibit from me and I’m the one who called Laverne and had them added to the list. They’re all nice people. As far as I know, there isn’t one who would have a gripe against Forbis. In fact, none of them had ever even met Forbis.”

  “Except he got his buttons from somewhere, right?” Nev talked with his mouth full, swallowed, and took a glug from the can of ginger ale I’d put out for him. “If some of those buttons belonged to one of them and—”

  “I did some research last night,” I told Nev, and pointed to my own pile of papers that I’d left on the counter near the mini-fridge. “According to what I found online, Forbis got his buttons from garage sales and estate sales near where he lived in Georgia. And when he couldn’t find enough–because let’s face, there couldn’t possibly have been enough, what with all the buttons he used in his work—he ordered them directly from button manufacturers, most of them in China. He bought so many, they were more than happy to give him wholesale prices.”

  “Which means none of the buttons at the exhibit were very valuable.”

  “I can’t say.” It was true, and thinking it over, I crunched into my own chips while Nev refilled his plate. “I’d have to take a closer look,” I said before I realized I was insinuating myself back into the case. What about maintaining distance? Not to mention tranquility? As tempting as it was, I knew it was more important to find justice for Forbis. Even so, I gave Nev an out. “That is, I’ll take a closer look at the buttons at the exhibit if you’d like me to.”