Button Box Mystery: Hot Button Part 1

Hot b.u.t.ton.

KYLIE LOGAN.

For collectors everywhere who understand the temptation of b.u.t.tons!.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS.

Readers often ask where story ideas come from. Honestly, it's hard to say. Each book is different and so is every author. Sometimes, a story idea might spring from something I see on the news. Or a sc.r.a.p of conversation I overhear in a restaurant. Other times, I'll play with some obscure historical fact and see where my imagination might take it.

The idea for Hot b.u.t.ton originated back when I was first thinking about writing a mystery series about b.u.t.tons. I was messing around online, doing research and indulging my interest in vintage b.u.t.tons, when I came across the story about Geronimo and his b.u.t.tons.

How could I resist!.

As for the b.u.t.ton enthusiasts portrayed within these pages...

When it comes to b.u.t.ton collecting, I am the rawest of beginners. I am grateful for the advice and guidance given to me by all the collectors and dealers I've met. Their knowledge of not only b.u.t.tons, but of their construction, their history, and their significance to fashion and society, is amazing. I am always impressed!.

Chapter One.

WITHIN TEN MINUTES OF MEETING THAD WYANT FOR THE first time, there were two things I knew about him:.

1. He was high maintenance.

2. He wasn't going to let me forget it.

On the five-minute walk from where I collected him at O'Hare over to the baggage carousel where we'd pick up the luggage he'd brought with him from Santa Fe, I added two more items to the list: 3. It was going to be a very long week; and 4. Thad liked scotch. A lot.

"That showed that varmint a thing or two!" Finished telling the story he'd been recounting loud enough for everyone in the airport bar to hear, Thad slapped his thigh, threw back his head, and laughed. No small feat, considering he managed to do it all while downing a gla.s.s of Johnny Walker Blue. Blue. That's the expensive stuff.

"One more for the road." He tapped the bar in front of my ice water. "And this young lady here, she'll be paying for it," he told the bartender. "Her and that cute little b.u.t.ton club of hers."

"That cute little b.u.t.ton club..." I didn't give the words the same sickeningly sweet twist Thad had. But then, that would have been tough since my teeth were clenched. It was no wonder why. The International Society of Antique and Vintage b.u.t.ton Collectors was a group near and dear to my heart. It better be. I was chairing this year's convention and-I glanced at the time on my cell phone-I still had a heck of a lot to do back at the hotel before this evening's opening festivities.

It was no easy thing to stifle my worries, but then, I reminded myself the delay was all for a good cause. The best of causes. Thad Wyant might be loud, pushy, and more worried about grabbing a drink than getting to the conference, but he was also reclusive-and legendary in the b.u.t.ton business. The fact that I'd convinced him to come to Chicago at all was something of a coup. Now all I had to do was not murder him before we got over to the convention.

"Our membership is honored that you agreed to give our keynote address this year, Mr. Wyant." Oh yeah, that was me, sounding as professional as it was possible for a woman to sound when she knew the Blue Line train to downtown was set to arrive in exactly four and one-half minutes, and there were a million little details that needed her attention, details that couldn't be handled from O'Hare.

"Who you talkin' to, girl? My dear ol' daddy? He's the only Mr. Wyant I know." Another of his laughs rattled the gla.s.ses on the bar. "I wouldn'a agreed to come to this here conference at all if it wasn't for you sweet-talkin' me with your letters. You won me over, darlin', heart and soul." To prove this, he pressed one hand to his heart. "That means you can call me Thad, just like all my friends do. We are friends, ain't we?"

It's a delicate line a conference chair walks.

An older-than-middle-aged man in ratty jeans, a worn flannel shirt, dusty cowboy boots, and a seen-better-days Stetson. Scotch on his breath. A leering smile and a slow, deliberate look that took in everything from my black skirt and jacket to my tasteful white tank, and yeah, it did kind of make my skin crawl.

Of course, all that was balanced by other attributes: keynote speaker at the most prestigious b.u.t.ton event of the year. Expert extraordinaire on Western-themed b.u.t.tons. Owner of the one-and-only-known-to-exist, coveted, and wonderfully historic Geronimo b.u.t.ton.

Automatically, I glanced at the carry-on Thad had tossed on the floor beside his bar stool. Was the Geronimo b.u.t.ton in there? Well, of course it was. I answered my own question because there really couldn't be any other answer. No collector in his right mind would dare put the b.u.t.ton into checked baggage. Not the Geronimo b.u.t.ton.

"So what d'you think?"

Thad's question snapped me back to reality, and once there, I heard that clock tick-tick-ticking away inside my head again.

"You think we'll get a chance to get some of that Italian beef? I've been reading about it online, Josie. They say Chicago is downright famous for them sandwiches."

Who uses words like downright? And varmint, for that matter?

Who couldn't point out that Thad talked like a bit player in an old TV Western? Not without offending the man hundreds of b.u.t.ton collectors from all over the world had traveled to Chicago to finally meet.

"I'll make sure you get an Italian beef sandwich," I told him, deliberately leaving out the part about how there wouldn't be any money left in the conference budget for Italian beef-or anything else-if he didn't stop drinking the top-shelf stuff at the speed of light. "In fact..." I grabbed my purse. Subtle hint. "It's a forty-five-minute train ride back into town, but if we hurry, we'll still have plenty of time this afternoon. We can stop at one of the Italian beef places on our way over to the hotel. If there's time, that is."

OK, so that last bit was not quite as subtle. It might as well have been attached to a helium balloon and dangling up near the ceiling. That's how far over Thad's head it went.

He crooked one bushy gray eyebrow at me. "Shucks, little lady, I must have heard you wrong. I could have sworn you said train. Well, that for sure can't be true." Like a man who'd just been given a death sentence he didn't deserve, Thad shook his head sadly. "A man like me-"

I knew what he was going to say, and I didn't give him the chance. "You're used to being driven. Of course you are. It's just that my friend, Stan, he was supposed to come pick you up this afternoon, and he couldn't make it. Just as he was about to leave to come over here, he got a call that his granddaughter was having her baby. And obviously, a great-grandchild has to take precedence over doing me a favor."

With thumb and forefinger, Thad snapped his cowboy hat further back on his head. "It surely does," he said. "But I gotta say, I don't see as how that has anything to do with me. And it sure, by gum, has nothing to do with a train. But then, I guess my ears is playin' tricks on me. On account of the plane ride and all. There's no way you said train. 'Cause if you did, that would mean you'd expect me to git on down there to baggage claim and pick up my own luggage and haul it down to this big, fancy conference on a train. And there's no way in h.e.l.l a conference expects that of the guest of honor. Not a conference that's dragged a man all the way clear across the country from his home, where he's nice and comfortable and happy spending all these years just writin' about b.u.t.tons and studyin' b.u.t.tons and never comin' out to meet people because b.u.t.tons... Well, shucks, b.u.t.tons is enough. That man, he don't need people to make his life complete. And so he's doin' you and all these other b.u.t.ton folks a big ol' favor. And expectin' him to be treated like just an average sort of Joe..." With one thick-fingered hand, he waved away the very idea as preposterous. "It just don't make sense, does it?"

It did.

At least it had back at the hotel when I was going through the registration list one last time and I got that call from Stan. By that time, the other conference committee members were too busy to drop what they were doing and get out to O'Hare. And it would have taken me too long to go home, get my car, and get over to the airport. I would have been way late picking up Thad, and that, to me, was the height of rudeness.

Besides, it wasn't exactly like I was asking him to rough it. Thousands of people took the El every day. It was efficient and economical. The train made sense.

Yet there I was, with my tongue tied, unable to explain and afraid that whatever I said, I was about to offend the man I'd worked with for more than a year in order to make his appearance at the convention possible.

"You see, it's like this, Mr. Wyant-"

"Wyant? Thad Wyant? Well, isn't this lucky!"

The voice came from behind me, and I spun around on the bar stool and found myself face-to-face with a face I hadn't seen in six weeks.

Eyes the color of a shot of double espresso and hair to match. Shoulders that wouldn't quit.

That afternoon, they were encased in a black suit jacket that set off a blindingly white shirt, black pants, a killer silk tie in swirls of red and gray, and- A chauffeur's cap and a hand-lettered sign that read "Giancola and Wyant" in fat Sharpie letters?

Bewildered, I sat back, the better to take stock of Mitch.e.l.l Kazlowski. My ex acted like being there where he had no business was the most natural thing in the world. Which in Kaz's world, it usually is.

"You must be Ms. Giancola." His smile was wide and, yes, as seductive as a nibble of G.o.diva truffle. But then, Kaz knew that. In fact, I'd bet he was counting on it. He put two fingers to his hat. "I'm from the limo service, ma'am," he said. "Here to pick up you and Mr. Wyant."

"Well, that's more like it." At the same time Thad clapped Kaz on the back, he slipped off his bar stool. "I'll just head to the outhouse..." He tipped his head toward the back of the bar and the sign that indicated the restrooms were that way. "I'll be back in a jiffy. I knew it. I just knew it." When he looked my way, his grin revealed uneven teeth. "One look at you, little lady, and I knew you'd know how to treat your guest of honor right."

Lucky for Kaz, he waited until Thad walked away before he had the nerve to chuckle and say, "Little lady."

I swung his way. "What are you doing here?"

Kaz rolled back on his heels. "Looks like I'm saving your pretty little b.u.t.t."

I ignored the "pretty little" comment. But only because I had more important things to worry about. "How did you-"

"Saw Stan." I guess he was taking his role as chauffeur seriously, because Kaz reached down and retrieved Thad's carry-on. I was tempted to tell him about the precious b.u.t.ton inside and how-considering that Kaz doesn't care about b.u.t.tons and I am one of the country's most respected experts on the subject-he really should let me handle the bag. Kaz didn't give me the chance.

"I was actually heading over to see you, and your apartment door was open, and I poked my head in and saw-"

"Chaos, right?" I am organized and tidy. I couldn't stand the thought. "Since I'll be at the conference for the next seven days, I'm having the kitchen remodeled. And as long as they've got the place torn apart, I figured I'd have the rooms painted, too." I squeezed my eyes shut and shuddered. "How bad is it?"

"It actually looks like they're making good progress. You did want the living room painted purple and orange, right?" When my eyes flew open, Kaz laughed. "Just kidding," he said.

It was another one of his not-so-funny jokes-I hoped-and I ignored it and got back to the matter at hand. "And Stan..."

"Oh yeah, Stan. When I realized you weren't around, I left, and I met Stan at the elevator, and he told me about the new baby and how he was supposed to be here and how you were going to pick up Wyant and take him back to the hotel on the train. Jo, Jo, Jo." Kaz shook his head like Thad just had, only there was a spark in Kaz's eyes when he did it. "You've got to stop being so practical. This Wyant guy is some kind of b.u.t.ton rock star, right? Then that's how you have to treat him. It's what he's expecting and what he deserves."

"I guess you're right." In the three years we'd been married, I don't think I'd ever spoken those words to Kaz. Right wasn't something Kaz usually was. With Kaz, it was more like in over his head. In trouble. Owing somebody money and showing up to see me because- I narrowed my eyes and gave him the once-over. "What do you want?" I asked.

Kaz is delicious, and he knows it. That would explain why he thought he could get away with flashing a smokin'-hot smile and resting one hand on my arm in a very un-chauffeur-like way. "Just trying to help," he crooned.

"Yeah, like you were just trying to help when I was investigating that murder a while ago, and you practically scared me to death, hiding out in my car and hitching a ride to West Virginia with me."

He backed away a step, his hands up in a gesture I would have taken as surrender from anybody else. From Kaz, it was more like Hey, not my fault. "I helped you catch the bad guy, didn't I?" He knew I couldn't deny it, and-big points for him-he didn't make me embarra.s.s myself and admit it. "How's that policeman boyfriend of yours?"

"I don't have a policeman boyfriend." This was mostly the truth. Though Nevin Riley and I had reconnected during the above-mentioned investigation (we'd had a disastrous blind date a few months before that, thanks to Stan, who is a retired cop), we hadn't exactly gone skipping off together down some primrose path. Nevin was committed to his work as a homicide detective. He was professional, busy. I was just getting the b.u.t.ton Box, my newly opened b.u.t.ton shop, off the ground, and in my own way, just as committed and professional as Nevin was. Not to mention busy.

"He's been working nights," I said, only because I knew that Kaz would never leave the subject alone if I didn't give him some kind of answer.

"That means you haven't been seeing much of each other." He sounded way too pleased by this turn of events.

Exactly why I ignored Kaz.

I saw Thad step out of the men's room, so it was the perfect opportunity for me to climb off the bar stool. And change the subject, too. "You didn't really rent a limo, did you?"

Kaz didn't answer. Instead, he grinned and pointed. "Like the hat?"

"You rented a hat?"

"Nah. One of the other drivers parked outside took his off so he could comb his hair. He set it on the hood of his car, and-"

"You're wearing a stolen chauffeur's cap."

"I don't know if the guy stole it."

"But you sure did."

His expression brightened. "All for a good cause."

In Kaz's universe, good cause always means Kaz's best interests. It was one of the reasons I'd divorced him. That, and the fact that he couldn't pa.s.s up a card game, a bet on a horse race, or a Mega Millions lottery-ticket sales machine. Then again, with Kaz, I knew that what I saw was what I got. The trick was remembering that. And forgetting that for a few years of my life, I'd actually been naive enough to think he was my happily-ever-after.

"You might want to explain what that good cause is," I said, glancing toward where Thad was closing in on us. "Before I tell my guest of honor that you're really a phony."

"What, and make yourself look bad when he was just realizing how cla.s.sy you and the rest of the b.u.t.ton crowd are?" Kaz's grin said it all. He had me, and he knew it.

I watched as Thad stopped and chatted with a man seated down at the end of the bar. "He's sure not what I expected," I mumbled. "He's so-"

"Noisy and obnoxious?"

I slid my ex a look. "I was going to say outgoing. Thad Wyant's the world's leading expert on Western-themed b.u.t.tons. But he never goes to conferences or b.u.t.ton shows. He's a recluse. He sits at home and writes articles for the collectors' magazines. He's even written a book on Western collecting. I thought..." Thad roared a laugh and slapped the back of the man he was talking to. "I guess I pictured someone a little more studious. You know, kind of quiet."

"Maybe he's loud because he doesn't get out enough." Kaz had an eye on Thad, too. "You know, like he's making up for lost time."

"Maybe." I glanced at the carry-on Kaz was holding. "I just wish we could get back to the hotel so I could take a look at that b.u.t.ton."

I pretended not to notice when Kaz rolled his eyes.

"You can't deny the historical significance," I said.

"Sure I can. I saw your conference brochure, and it says something about some famous Geronimo b.u.t.ton, and this guy's all into Western stuff, so I'm guessing he's the owner of the b.u.t.ton. But I dunno, Jo; I just don't get it. What's so special about one little b.u.t.ton?"

"Geronimo? The famous Native American warrior?" I figured he knew this much, so I didn't elaborate. "In the last years of his life, Geronimo was a prisoner of the American government. But talk about being a rock star!" Remembering all the stories I'd read, I couldn't help but smile. "Geronimo rode in President Theodore Roosevelt's inaugural parade. And he appeared in Wild West shows. And even though he was technically a prisoner and the government wouldn't let him return to his people in Arizona, he received dozens and dozens of visitors and admirers. When people came to see him, he sold them the b.u.t.tons off his shirt."

I didn't need Kaz to open his mouth; his look said it all.

"Of course it sounds dumb to you," I said. "You don't care about b.u.t.tons. Chances are, most of the people who bought Geronimo's b.u.t.tons didn't, either. But the b.u.t.tons gave them something to remember him by, some connection to history. And for Geronimo... Well, the story is that at the time of his death, he had more than ten thousand dollars in the bank. That was a lot of money for 1909. So he did pretty well for himself, selling his autograph and those b.u.t.tons. And when he cut one b.u.t.ton off his shirt and sold it, he just sewed another one on. The actual value of that little b.u.t.ton might be minuscule, but the fact that it came from the shirt of the most famous Native American warrior in history..."

I guess Kaz actually got it, because he nodded. "And this Wyant guy is the one who owns one of those b.u.t.tons."

"I'm pretty sure it's in that bag you're holding." My fingers itched to grab the carry-on and root through it. "Thad is going to talk about the b.u.t.ton at dinner tomorrow night. He's going to display it throughout the conference. In the world of b.u.t.ton collecting, Wyant might be a rock star, but the fact that I got him to agree to come to the convention and do all this for us, well..." I pulled back my shoulders and stood tall. No easy thing for a woman as short as I am. "In the b.u.t.ton world, I'm a superhero."

"Wonder Woman. I always said so."

Thad was closing in on us, so I was forced to grumble under my breath, "I never heard you say that."

"I thought it."

"Not the same."

"So what are you two lollygagging around for?" Laughing at his own cleverness, Thad grabbed my arm and dragged me out to the concourse. "We've got a convention to get to. Let's get a move on."

Get a move on, we did. Kaz retrieved Thad's two suitcases from the luggage carousel, and we headed out to where the car was parked.