Buttoned Up (Button Box Mystery) Read online

Eleven fifteen.

  I checked the clock on the cherry sideboard that had once belonged to my grandmother. I couldn’t have been asleep more than twenty minutes, yet it felt like I’d been out of it for days.

  “Eleven fifteen.” I checked the clock again, just to be sure and mumbled to myself, “Who in the world comes calling at eleven fifteen on a Saturday night?”

  Stan.

  The idea hit like a wave of ice water, and worried that something had happened to my neighbor, I made for the door as quickly as I could.

  Rap, rap, rap.

  “I’m coming!” I called, my voice dull and muffled. I shook my head to clear it and when that didn’t work, I stumbled to the door and yanked it open.

  “Stan? Is it Stan? Is something—?”

  The words froze on my lips.

  But then, finding gorgeous Gabriel Marsh standing in the hallway was something of a surprise.

  “You were in bed.” He looked me up and down, not as penitent as he was simply curious. Since I was dressed in capris and a T-shirt the exact color of his inky hair, I guess he thought better of his initial assessment. “Or not. Have I interrupted something?”

  “Would you care?”

  He grinned and looked past me and into the apartment. From where he stood, I knew he couldn’t see much. When it comes to living space, I’m a pretty basic person, but then, this is Chicago, and even with the royalty check I get every month from the crazy movie I once did costumes for that has since become a cult hit, fancy is a out of my price range. “Vintage charm.” I guess that’s what my apartment could be said to have, what with the oak crown molding, the fireplace, and the leaded windows. But in reality, the place is not that different from the thousands of other apartments in the area: living room, dining room, two bedrooms, one bath. Thanks to a recent renovation, the kitchen is no longer Eisenhower-era, but no way Gabriel could see the granite countertops or new appliances.

  And why would I want him to, anyway?

  I ran a hand through my hair and forced myself to focus. “What are you doing here?”

  “Bothering you, apparently.” This may have been true, but it didn’t stop him from stepping into the entryway before I could even think about closing the door in his face. “I need to talk to you.”

  “You could have stopped by the shop.”

  “At this time of the night? My dear lady, I hear you love your buttons, but no one’s that dedicated.”

  “Of course I wouldn’t be at the Button Box.” I was still swimming to the surface to escape the remnants of the disturbing dream. Otherwise, I was sure I would sound more coherent. Or at least a little more intelligent. “The shop is closed tomorrow. You could come on Monday.”

  His smile was brighter than anyone’s had the right to be at that time of the night. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m not very good at waiting. For anything.”

  It was my turn to eye him. Like he had been at the art show opening, Gabriel was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His denim jacket had seen better days, but his sneakers were new. I remembered what Nev had said about the footprints up in the choir loft. Mine, Forbis’s, and one more set that looked to have been made by a man’s business shoes.

  “How did you know where I lived?” I asked Gabriel.

  Honestly, I thought he was going to say, “pish-tosh,” and when he didn’t—when he just gave me a sort of lopsided smile—I wasn’t sure if it made me feel better, or worse. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know things.”

  “You write for some snooty art magazine. It’s your job to know the difference between ultramarine and cobalt.”

  The heat radiating off his smile reminded me of the fire I felt against my neck in the dream. I shivered. The way his smile inched up a notch, I think it was safe to assume it was a reaction he often got from women. “You certainly know your shades of blue.”

  “And you know . . .” I paused long enough for him to fill in the blank and when he didn’t, I threw my hands in the air. “You’re looking for information. About Forbis.”

  He held up his left hand and the bag he was carrying in it. “I brought Chinese. Shrimp lo mein, fried rice, spring rolls.”

  Shrimp lo mein is my favorite.

  But don’t think I’m so easily distracted. Just because a gorgeous hunk comes knocking on my door late at night bearing the gift of Chinese food does not mean I completely lose my senses.

  Since my front door was still open, it was easy enough to waltz across the hallway to Stan’s. He had a couple of TV shows he liked to watch on Saturday nights so I knew I wouldn’t be disturbing him. When he answered the door, I didn’t even bother to say hello, I just took his arm, walked him across the hall to my apartment, and waved a hand in Gabriel’s direction.

  “This guy stopped in to see me,” I told Stan. “You getting a good look at him?”

  Stan nodded. “Six one, one seventy-five. Mid-thirties. Scar above his left eyebrow.” I hadn’t noticed the scar. “What’s he doing here?”

  “He says he wants to talk.”

  Stan folded his arms over his chest. “Do you want to listen?”

  “I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But he’s got lo mein.”

  “Lo mein, huh?” Stan pulled in a breath. By now, the air in the apartment was fragranced with the aromas of the food inside the bag. “You want me to sit in the living room until you polish off dinner?”

  “That’s probably not necessary. Give us forty minutes.” Both Stan and I checked the clock. “Then come back.”

  “And if anything’s wrong . . .” Stan’s gaze moved over Gabriel with laser precision. “I never forget a face. Just so you know. I could find you in a heartbeat, fella.”

  With that, he turned around and walked out of the apartment. He didn’t close the door behind him. In fact, he went into his apartment, brought a chair and a book out into the hallway, and sat facing my door.

  Gabriel let go of a shaky breath. “I didn’t expect reinforcements.”

  It was my turn to cross my arms over my chest, the better to step back and give him another thorough once-over. “I hope you didn’t expect me to be stupid, either. And just so you know, Stan’s an ex-cop. See that blanket he brought to cover up his knees while he sits out there?”

  Gabriel looked over his shoulder at Stan who simply stared back.

  “I don’t have one doubt that he’s got his service weapon with him,” I told Gabriel. “After all, there’s a murderer on the lose.”

  “You can’t possibly think it’s me.” Like he had every right to be there, he strolled into the dining room and plunked the bag of food on the table that matched Grandma’s sideboard. “Dishes?”

  It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that if he expected that kind of service, he’d come to the wrong place, but the food smelled divine and I hadn’t had a bite to eat since I shared the chips and salsa with Nev. I went into the kitchen.

  “I wasn’t sure you’d be home. I thought maybe you’d be out with that cop boyfriend of yours.”

  I was just reaching into the cupboard for plates when I realized Gabriel had followed me, and I froze. But only for a second. I wasn’t sure what kind of game we were playing, but I did know I didn’t want to lose. I got down plates and took linen napkins out of a drawer. “You seem to know an awful lot about me.”

  “You’ve got a reputation.” Another smile. “In the button community, that is. I will admit, when I heard you owned a button shop—”

  My chin came up and I clutched plates and silverware to my chest. “What?”

  “Well, it is a tad out of the ordinary.”

  “Which doesn’t mean it’s weird.”

  “No one said it was.”

  “And they better not ever.”

  I pushed past him and into the dining room, and set out the plates while he pulled white cartons of food out of the bag. He’d also brought along a bottle of wine. Before I could offer an opener, he pulled a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and did t
he honors. There were wineglasses on the sideboard and I reached for three, and once he’d poured, I took one of the glasses to Stan.

  Gabriel staked out the chair at the head of the table and I chose the one to his left. “You must have been pretty sure I’d be willing to talk,” I said, looking over the feast. “Or is the lo mein supposed to take care of that?”

  “When it is appropriate, I’m not above offering a bribe.” He sipped his wine. My head was still pounding and I thought better of joining him, but one taste and I changed my mind. It was a pinot noir and pricey, if I knew my labels. A couple more sips helped clear my head. “As for the lo mein, it was a lucky guess. You look like a lo mein sort of girl.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “It was meant as one.” He heaped his plate with fried rice and chomped into a spring roll. “So . . .” He chewed. “That bit with Forbis at the art show, the dramatic dropping of the champagne glass and the race from the church, was it staged?”

  “If it was, nobody told me.”

  “Then what did they tell you?”

  I had an excuse for not answering—I had a mouthful of lo mein. I chewed, swallowed, and washed it all down with another sip of wine. “If you’re looking for answers, you came to the wrong place. You should talk to the police.”

  “You found the body.”

  There was no use denying it so I didn’t even try.

  There were two sets of chopsticks in the bag and Gabriel scooped up fried rice with his as if he’d been born using them. I am not so adventurous or willing to make a mess; I played it safe and used a fork.

  “Is it true?” he asked. “About the buttons glued to Parmenter’s eyes and mouth?”

  “Is that what the news reports said?”

  “You know they did, or I wouldn’t have the information. I’ve called your boyfriend any number of times to try and get a few quotes and a whole lot of information. He’s either busy, or he doesn’t want to talk to me.”

  “And you think I can put in a good word for you.”

  “I think you look like a woman who could use some fried rice on her plate.” He did the honors and for a couple minutes we sat in silence, eating. When I was feeling more generous and less like I’d been ambushed, I’d have to ask Gabriel where he got the food. It was too delicious to be from one of the carry-out places in the neighborhood.

  He finished off his fried rice and attacked a portion of lo mein. “You know buttons,” was all he said.

  “If you’re talking about the buttons on Forbis’s eyes and mouth . . .” Sitting in my dining room eating lo mein did not seem like the appropriate time to think of what I’d seen at the church. I tried to stay as objective as I could, as objective as I’d seen Nev at the scene of a crime. Turns out, I wasn’t very good at it, but it did give me a better appreciation of what it must cost him to retain his professionalism in the face of human tragedy.

  “What about the buttons?” I asked Gabriel.

  His right eyebrow lifted just enough to let me know he hadn’t expected me to be even this cooperative. But then, he didn’t know how firmly I believed that two could play the same game. He wanted information from me? Well, I wanted the same from him. Namely, why. Why was an arts writer so interested in murder? And why was he so convinced that buttons were involved that he thought a payoff in the form of lo mein to a button dealer was going to get him somewhere? If he knew something I didn’t know then I owed it to my investigation, not to mention to Forbis, to find out what Gabriel had up his sleeve.

  “The buttons the murderer glued onto Forbis, were they valuable?” Gabriel asked. “Unusual? Striking? Was there anything extraordinary about any of them?”

  I’d gotten a close-up look at the body once the techs took Forbis down from Congo Savanne’s arms, and I closed my eyes, pictured the scene, and gulped.

  “Sorry.”

  When he spoke, and I opened my eyes again, Gabriel was refilling my wineglass. “It’s not easy, is it, staring death in the face?”

  “You didn’t ask about death, you asked about buttons. One button on each eye,” I said, and this was not some deep, dark secret because I knew the media had already reported it. “One button on his mouth. They were generic. Generic plastic buttons. My guess is that they were cut off shirts and probably manufactured in the mid nineties.”

  “My guess is that isn’t a guess at all.” Gabriel acknowledged my expertise with a lift of his wineglass.

  I took the compliment in stride. Just as I’d told Nev when he asked for my opinion at the church, if I couldn’t say that much about the buttons the murderer had glued to Forbis’s body, I’d be a poor expert, indeed. Rather than risk getting caught in the snare of Gabriel’s admiring look, I stuck to the facts. “One of the buttons was red, one was yellow, and one was green. Vudon colors.”

  “And the other buttons?” he asked.

  I nibbled my spring roll. “You saw the exhibit. There were thousands of them. They were . . . buttons.”

  “None more valuable than the others?”

  “Oh, I’m sure some were.” I thought back to what Nev had mentioned about the buttons earlier in the evening. He wanted me to go back to the church and check them out. This was not exactly information I was willing to share. Not until I knew what Gabriel Marsh was up to. Lo mein can only get a guy so far. Even a guy like Gabriel, who was as delicious as the dinner he’d brought with him.

  I told myself to get a grip. I hadn’t spoken more than a couple dozen sentences to the man and I already knew one thing about him—he was a lot like Kaz, my ex. In fact, he was way too much like Kaz. Handsome and snake-oil-salesman charming. I knew better than to get fooled. I’d been fooled once and once was enough for a lifetime.

  “When you found the body . . .” Gabriel pushed his chopsticks through the fried rice on his plate. “You didn’t happen to notice if any of those buttons were missing?”

  “Any of the thousands and thousands of buttons on Forbis’s artwork?” It should have been enough of an answer, but when all he did was sit there as if he was waiting for more, I sat back. “You’re serious. You think Forbis’s murder has something to do with buttons he used in his artwork.”

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  “You’re used to being the one who asks the questions.”

  “And I’ve got plenty.” I took another sip of wine and realized my headache was still pounding, but not quite as much. For this, I was grateful. “Why do you care so much?”

  He considered the question while he dished up more lo mein. His perfect body (there I was getting off track again!) didn’t seem to go along with his super-sized appetite. “It would make a hell of a story, don’t you think?” .

  “And you’re that hard up for something to write about in an arts magazine?”

  “Unless I’m not thinking of writing this particular story for an arts magazine.”

  Some of the fog cleared, and I would have slapped my forehead if I wasn’t afraid that would make my head start pounding all over again. I should have seen it sooner. I would have if I was thinking more clearly. “You have delusions of grandeur! Is it a book or a movie deal you’re hoping for?”

  “With any luck, both. You can’t deny it, a story like this has bestseller list written all over it. The eccentric artist, the mysterious death. Voodoo.”

  “Vudon,” I corrected him. “And something tells me that’s nothing more than a coincidence. Forbis’s death can’t possibly be connected to some long-dead religion.”

  “You mean you think Parmenter might just as well have been killed at any of his other showings. The one that featured home appliances, for instance.” Gabriel’s eyes gleamed. “It would have been bloody brilliant if the killer could have left him in a button-covered cooler.”

  It took me a second to realize he was referring to the fridge. I wondered if that scenario would have been any less disturbing than finding Forbis in the arms of the people-eating lo
a and decided it wouldn’t have made any difference.

  “I don’t know what to think,” I said, and I wasn’t just talking about the case. It applied to Gabriel, too. “I only know that the poor man is dead and the cops are working as hard as they can to figure out what happened to him. I’m sure they’ll be interviewing everyone who was at the opening. They’ll want to know where you were after Forbis ran out.”

  He finished the last of the food on his plate and pushed it away. “With you on the steps of the church. Don’t tell me you’ve already forgotten. I like to think I make a little better impression than that.”

  Yeah, like I was going to admit that! “What about after?” I asked him instead.

  “After . . .” Gabriel finished the wine in his glass and didn’t pour another. He reached back in the takeout bag, pulled out two fortune cookies, and tossed one to me.

  He broke his cookie in half and ate it without bothering to look at the fortune. “After that, I was . . . occupied,” he admitted, and I wondered if I was about to hear something I’d rather not and then realized what I was comfortable hearing didn’t matter. Wine, women, and song? Whatever Gabriel had been up to, it wasn’t as important as the truth.

  “So you do have an alibi for the time of the murder.”

  He laughed. It was a deep, throaty sound and it shivered along my skin like those wisps of fog in my dream. Only hotter. “Even if I didn’t, you know I’d say I did. As it happens, mine is legitimate, but impossible to substantiate. Not unless the person I was following knew I was following him. And really, I highly doubt that. I may be . . .” He searched for the right word. “I may be conspicuous at times, but I wouldn’t be very good at my job if I couldn’t follow people without being noticed.”

  “Your job as a writer for an arts magazine.”

  Smiling, he ate the other half of his cookie, then pushed back from the table and stood. “You’re smart. No doubt that’s why the police have let you consult on other cases. You know people.”

  “I know buttons.”

  “Buttons . . . yes.” He ambled to the door and when he saw Stan was still sitting where we’d left him, Gabriel pointed back to the dining room. “There’s plenty left,” he said. “Enjoy.”