Button Box Mystery: Hot Button Part 11

This time, it was my phone that interrupted us. I was tempted not to answer until I saw that it was Helen's number that popped up. I groaned. "What is it?" I asked her before I even said h.e.l.lo. "There isn't something wrong, is there?"

"Oh no, dear. Everything's just fine. In fact, we're just setting up for the evening function."

"The sock hop." I said this to prove to Helen that I had not completely forgotten about my duties as conference chair, even if I wasn't at the hotel to carry them out. "I'll be there," I promised, looking at Nev as a way of sending the message that I had to go. "I'm sure there's a lot to do and-"

"Not to worry." Helen's voice was breezy. "I've got everything under control, and people are really excited and looking forward to it. I just saw a woman out in the lobby wearing one of those old-fashioned poodle skirts. Only hers was decorated all over with b.u.t.tons. How cute is that! No, no... Don't hurry back, Josie. People won't mind. About the milkshakes, I mean."

Sure, my head was filled with thoughts of murder, b.u.t.tons, and clues that were leading us nowhere. But through it all, I managed to dredge up the details for the night's sock hop. "We're showing episodes of old TV series on the screen in the big conference room. We're serving popcorn and cookies and milkshakes and-"

"Afraid not." I could picture Helen shaking her head in sympathy. "You see, dear, you forgot." Like there were people nearby and she didn't want them to hear, she whispered. "There were supposed to be two spots set up in the conference room where folks could go up and order milkshakes, right? Well, I was just in there a couple minutes ago, and when I didn't see any sign of anything that looked like it could be used for making milkshakes, I checked with catering. Josie, honey, you completely forgot about the milkshake stations. Catering didn't know a thing about it."

"Forgot?" I held out my phone and gave it a look Helen obviously couldn't see, my mind racing back to the day the past spring when I'd gone over to the hotel to make final arrangements with the catering manager. "But I'm sure I did. We even mentioned it in the conference booklet."

"Oh yes. We surely did. I've already had people tell me they can't wait for a good old-fashioned chocolate shake. I hated to tell them, but sooner is better than later when it comes to something like this. A few of them were mighty disappointed."

I pictured b.u.t.ton collectors, thirsty from a day of judging and buying, anxious to slurp a nice, frosty shake and- And cursing me for dropping the ball.

My shoulders flagged when Helen said, "I told them it wasn't your fault, dear. I didn't come right out and tell them what you're up to, but I did explain how the mind can play little tricks like that on us when we're preoccupied. They'll get over it."

I swallowed my disappointment. It wasn't so easy to get rid of my embarra.s.sment. "And everything else?"

"Like I said, not to worry." Helen's voice was breezy. "I've got everything under control."

I hung up and groaned, only since Nev was giving the b.u.t.ton to an evidence tech, he didn't hear me.

"What?" Finished, he took one look at my face and knew something was up. "Something happened at the conference?"

"Something didn't happen at the conference." I collected my purse and stood. "I need to get back there as soon as I can. People are expecting milkshakes, and I completely forgot and-"

"Hey, don't be so hard on yourself." Nev stood, too, and he'd already put a hand on my arm when he remembered where we were. He backed off instantly, glancing around to make sure none of the other cops noticed. I could tell by the way they looked away that of course they had.

"You're doing a great job," Nev said.

"Maybe with murder, but not with b.u.t.tons. I've got to go see what I can do to make it up to everyone."

Chapter Eleven.

WHAT I DID TO MAKE IT UP TO EVERYONE WAS ORDER ICE-CREAM sundaes for the crowd (since there was no special equipment involved, it was more doable than milkshakes at late notice), and honestly, everyone was having such a good time watching the old TV shows and dancing to the music of Elvis and Ricky Nelson, I don't think they minded. Thank goodness! I'd seen the way a couple attendees looked at me when I walked into the hotel late that afternoon-like I had a lot of nerve showing up at my own conference-and I didn't like it at all. I vowed right then and there to pay more attention to the details and make sure the rest of the week went as smoothly as possible.

With that in mind, I had just finished a sweep of the ice-cream stations to make sure there was plenty of hot fudge, whipped cream, and sprinkles and was heading back across the room to check on the sale of raffle tickets when a voice from behind me brought me spinning around. "You want to dance?"

I turned to find Daryl Tucker in skinny jeans, a white T-shirt, and black-and-white sneakers. He looked like he belonged in one of those old TV shows, like the stereotypical cla.s.s nerd-well, a nerd with a bushy beard-and I almost complimented him on his costume. Until I realized it was probably what he would have worn no matter what the party theme happened to be.

He looked over my black-and-red-checked skirt, my crisp white blouse, and the lightweight red cardigan, which matched the chiffon scarf that tied back my ponytail.

"You look nice, Josie," Daryl said. "That's why I thought you might want to-"

"Would love to. Really. But..." I poked a thumb over my shoulder toward the doors, where Helen was selling raffle tickets, and it was a good thing I acted fast; the music switched from something with an upbeat, rocking rhythm to a slow song. My heart jumped into my throat, and I poked faster. "I can't leave Helen high and dry."

"You mean high and dry again."

This was an especially perceptive comment from Dylan, and I narrowed my eyes and looked him over. "What you're saying is-"

"Nothing. Really." With a twitch, he retreated back into his sh.e.l.l in a nanosecond, head down, voice stammering over the words. "There's just been some talk. That's all. You know. About how you haven't been around because you're investigating Mr. Wyant's murder and-"

"I'm right here, right now." I tapped one saddle shoe against the floor to prove it.

"Does that mean you found out who the murderer is?"

"I haven't found out anything." We were standing at the edge of the dance floor, and a couple sashayed by and practically ran into me. I figured that was my cue to escape. "If you'll just excuse me, Daryl, I'll..." And before he could say anything else, I scampered away.

"Is that any way for the cla.s.s good girl to treat the nerd who's nuts about her?"

Kaz.

Of course.

He intercepted me before I had a chance to cross the room, grinning as he looked me up and down. "Figures you'd be dressed like a 1950s Goody Two-shoes."

"Figures you'd be dressed like a bad boy." He was, too, in b.u.t.t-hugging jeans, a black T-shirt that was molded to his chest, and a black leather jacket. He even had his hair slicked back and greased. Rather than ask where he got the costume, worry about my next month's credit-card statement, and spoil my mood, I enjoyed the view. That is, right before I asked, "What's wrong with being a Goody Two-shoes, anyway?"

"Nothing. If you want to be boring." Before I saw it coming and had a chance to counter, he looped an arm around my waist and sailed me onto the dance floor, and once we got there, he locked his arms tight around me and whispered in my ear. "But I know your secret." He braced a hand behind my back and dipped me until I was practically on the floor, then lifted me and swung me around, tightening his hold. "You, Jo, are anything but boring," he growled.

"I'm anything but feeling well after all this twirling and whirling. Besides..." I did my best to extricate myself from his hold long enough to peek over Kaz's shoulder. Just as I suspected, Daryl was watching us, and I cringed. "You're making me look bad. I told Daryl I didn't have time to dance."

"What you meant, of course, is you didn't have time to dance with Daryl. You wouldn't say no to me."

"Or maybe I would if you'd just give me a chance."

"You owe me."

His smile was tight, and I knew what that meant. That's why I laughed. "Let me guess, Helen ran you ragged today."

"Understatement." He grabbed one of my hands and, as if I were a yo-yo, pushed me away, then pulled me in again. That is, right before he curled his arm around my waist again and pulled me close. "The woman is like some evil incarnation of the Energizer Bunny. She never stops moving."

"There's a lot to do to keep a conference going."

"So she tells me." He made a face. "I didn't mind when I thought I was going to be your a.s.sistant."

"You are." Thank goodness the song ended. My head was spinning, and the scent of Kaz's aftershave-the one I always bought him for Christmas because it made me crazy-was destroying what was left of my equilibrium. "By helping out Helen, you're helping me out, too."

"Not what I had in mind." He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his jacket pocket, and when my jaw dropped, he rolled his eyes. "Not to worry. I haven't picked up any bad habits. Any new bad habits, anyway. The cigarettes just add to the image. You know, rough and tough."

"If only Amber could see you now!"

He winced and looked over his shoulder at the doorway. "Thank goodness she can't. She's called like a dozen times today."

"And where are you now? Still in Paris?"

His shoulders shot back. "As a matter of fact, I'm in Scotland. And the weather is terrible. I was supposed to leave for home tomorrow, but it looks like that's not going to happen. Fog, you know."

When I shook my head, my ponytail twitched. "Poor Amber."

"Yeah." Kaz is a nice guy. Honest. I knew he felt bad about leaving Amber in the lurch. But not bad enough to risk any sort of personal contact that might be construed as commitment in any way, shape, or form. "She came all the way here just to see me and now she's in town, all alone."

"Not what I was talking about." I leaned in close. "I meant that poor Amber is a sucker to believe a word you say."

And with that, I spun around-and realized I was facing the wrong way. So much for all that twirling and whirling. I turned again and marched to the door.

"He's a sweetheart." Helen was waiting for me, raffle tickets in hand. She was dressed in pink, of course, a tailored dress with a matching hat. She was wearing little wrist-length white gloves, too, and I noticed they were adorned at the wrist with tiny MOP b.u.t.tons. Authentic vintage gloves. Leave it to Helen. "He was a great help to me today."

"I appreciate you keeping him busy. That way, he stays out of trouble."

"Oh, you can't be serious. He's such a sweet boy."

Kaz was a lot of things. A sweet boy wasn't one of them.

Rather than get involved in a debate I knew I wouldn't win, I asked about raffle-ticket sales. I was one of the retailers who'd donated b.u.t.tons for prizes, and it was nice to hear sales were brisk.

My good mood was dashed when a lady walked by holding a bowl overflowing with ice cream and hot fudge. "Not exactly the same as a milkshake," she mumbled, loud enough for me to hear and quiet enough that if I'd confronted her about it, I was sure she would have said I heard wrong.

I never had a chance to find out. That was because my cell phone rang.

This time, Nev didn't even bother with an opening "Hey." He launched right in with "I'm up in Wyant's room, and I think there's something here you should see."

"Now?" Truth be told, I couldn't decide what would be worse, ducking out of another b.u.t.ton conference function or letting Nev see me in my 1950s throwback outfit.

"Now or later, it doesn't really make much difference." n.o.body could be as matter-of-fact as a cop. "But it is pretty interesting. I think you're going to want to come now."

I guess he knew me better than I thought he did. There was no way I was going to miss out on a suggestion that tantalizing.

As casually as I could-maybe my fellow sock hoppers would just think I was headed to the ladies' room and not abandoning ship again-I sidled toward the door, and once I was out in the hallway, I hurried to the elevator. A couple minutes later, I was up in Thad's suite.

A smile sparkled across Nev's face when he looked me over. "You look like Olivia Newton-John. You know, in Grease."

Now that he mentioned it, I guess I did. Except she is a blonde, and my hair is chestnut brown. "Maybe at the beginning of the movie, but remember, John Travolta liked her better at the end, when she put on that bad-girl outfit. You know, black leather, tight pants."

As if he was picturing me dressed like that, he c.o.c.ked his head and pursed his lips. "Yeah, that would be all right. But really..." His cheeks got rosy. And I knew he would have come out with a compliment if we hadn't heard a b.u.mp from the bathroom.

Nev cleared his throat and explained. "Crime-scene team. Here to do one final sweep."

I suppose that made sense. Nev being here? Not so much. "What about you? Last I saw you-"

"The station. Yeah." He sc.r.a.ped a hand through his hair. "Didn't think I'd get back here today, but the techs called me a little while ago. They were being a little more thorough this time. And they found something very interesting."

Nev led the way over to the far end of the room and pointed toward the heating-and-cooling vent up where the ceiling met the wall. "The stuff was in there," he said, pointing to the opening and the slatted vent cover, which had been removed and put into an evidence bag and propped against the wall. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised at where people hide things." He waved me over to the dining area.

There were five plastic evidence bags on the table. Four of them contained white, business-size envelopes. "You can look them over," Nev said.

I did, picking up the first bag. "There's something in the envelope," I said, running my fingers along the length of it. "Paper, maybe. At least that's what it feels like. And on the front..." I took a close look. The envelope I was holding had words scrawled across the front of it. "Number one," I read out loud. "Sunday after the cruise."

When my inquiring look at Nev got me no answer, I picked up the second bag. It felt as soft and as squishy as the first. "Number two," it said in a loose, scrawling hand. "Tuesday morning. Hotel workout room." I set this bag down, too, and reached for the next ones. "Number three. Hotel bar, after banquet. Number four. Laundry room. Before the banquet."

My head came up. "The laundry room before the banquet. That's where-"

"Yeah, apparently Wyant had a date to meet his killer."

"And that last envelope?"

Nev picked up the bag and handed it to me. "Take a look."

I did, and saw that it contained a ticket to Fresno with Thad Wyant's name on it. The plane was scheduled to leave Tuesday afternoon.

"He was leaving? The conference?" I didn't believe my eyes, so I took another look. "But Thad was supposed to show off the Geronimo b.u.t.ton all week. He was going to be on a Western b.u.t.ton panel on Wednesday and..." One more look, and I finally admitted to myself that the ticket was real. "I bought him a ticket to leave Chicago late Sunday. But he wasn't going to use it. He was all set to leave on Tuesday."

"WHAT'S IN THERE might help explain why he was so anxious to get out of town." Nev stepped nearer and picked up one of the evidence bags with an envelope in it. "Ten thousand in each one," he said. "Cash."

"Wow." There was a chair nearby, and I dropped into it. "So he met four different people and was giving each one of them ten thousand dollars?"

"Or he got ten thousand from each of them. And he marked each of the envelopes with a note about when he was supposed to see them again."

I wrinkled my nose, thinking this over. "But how do we know that? Maybe he just met them and got the money and-oh." I felt my cheeks get hot. "If he was meeting with them once and getting the money then, the money from Monday night wouldn't be here."

Nev nodded. "Because that was the night he was killed, and he would have had the money with him when we found his body. Or the killer would have s.n.a.t.c.hed it back after Wyant was dead. That seems more likely."

"So he got money from four different people." I dangled the idea like a worm on a hook, and when Nev didn't tell me I was wrong, I ran with it. "And then he met with each of these people and, apparently, sold them something. I mean, why else would he have received ten thousand dollars from each one of them? And he did this on Sunday night. And he did this on Monday morning. And he was supposed to do it Monday evening, too, but-" The full meaning of what I was saying sunk in and my heart thumped. "Number four is our killer," I said, breathless.

Nev sat in the chair across the table from mine. "Looks that way."

"And the Geronimo b.u.t.ton?" I did my best to think through the scenario to its logical conclusion, but rather than making more sense, it only made less. "Do you think Thad sold the Geronimo b.u.t.ton to one of these people? Is that what the ten thousand was for? But if you paid ten thousand dollars for a b.u.t.ton-"

"Why turn around and throw it away?" Nev didn't sound any more sure of any of this than I felt, and I have to admit, that discouraged me. If he knew where we were headed with these questions, it would have made me feel like we were on more solid footing. He crossed his arms over his chest and the cream-colored shirt, which looked as droopy as the curl of hair that fell over his forehead.

"And if Wyant sold the Geronimo b.u.t.ton to one of these people, what was he selling to the others?" Nev asked, thinking out loud. "You're the expert. What kind of b.u.t.ton could possibly be worth that kind of money?"

It was my turn to be completely baffled, and I admitted as much. "The Geronimo b.u.t.ton has historic value, and I can see that certain collectors might be attracted to it for that reason alone."

"But ten thousand bucks? For a b.u.t.ton?"

Nev didn't mean this to be patronizing, and I knew it. Which is why I didn't take offense. "It is hard for a noncollector to understand. As for a collector..." I was talking about myself now, and I took a few seconds to think through the problem. "I've been reading Thad Wyant's articles about Western b.u.t.tons ever since I started collecting," I said. "He loved that b.u.t.ton. He loved the lore. He loved the history. He loved talking about it and writing about it. If he was willing to sell it, he must have been awfully hard up."