Panic Button Part 2

"Kaz," I told myself, and in a twist of fate designed to make me believe in deja vu if not in curses, I stepped out of the back room only to find Stan standing at the front door.

"Forgot my wallet," he muttered, his lips thin with disgust. "I never forget my wallet. It's not like I'm an old man or anything." Still mumbling, he retrieved not only his wallet but his Windbreaker, too, and went on his way.

This time he was gone for a while.

A really long while.

I wrapped up the first phone call and another to a collector in Baltimore who answered the questions my Cleveland friend couldn't. I finished the last of my pastrami sandwich. Because I couldn't resist it, I took a few more pictures of the beautiful enameled fish b.u.t.ton, and I even waited on a particularly picky customer who was looking for b.u.t.tons for a baby's christening gown.

No Stan.

I actually had the phone in my hands and was all set to call Walgreens before I came to my senses. I'd told Stan I didn't appreciate having a babysitter, and I imagined he wouldn't, either.

Still...

Stan was no spring chicken, and anything could happen between the shop and Walgreens. If he wasn't back in ten minutes...

When the bell above the front door rang, I breathed a sigh of relief and swore I wouldn't let him know how worried I'd been.

That resolve lasted about ten seconds when I walked out front and realized Stan wasn't the only one who'd stepped into the b.u.t.ton Box. There was a uniformed Chicago cop there, too.

"What happened? Are you all right? Was anybody hurt?"

The way the questions poured out of me and the fact that my heart was suddenly beating double time and making my blood whoosh in my ears, I wouldn't have heard even if I did give either of them a chance to answer. I raced the entire length of the shop and looked Stan over. He didn't seem to be hurt, and if anything had happened to him, health-wise, he wouldn't have been there, right? They would have taken him to the hospital in an ambulance.

"So?" My throat suddenly tight, my gaze darted between Stan and the cop.

Stan stomped past me. "That's the last time I go to that store," he grumbled. "There was this kid behind the counter, see, and she saw me looking at the batteries, and I guess...well, I don't guess anything. I know she must have been high or something. Imagine her thinking that I could possibly steal anything!"

"Shoplifting? You?" Honestly, it was so out of the realm of possibility, I almost laughed. Except for the cop still standing near my door.

I spun to face him. "You don't really think-"

"We got it all straightened out, ma'am," the cop said. He was young, fresh-faced, and he held his hat in his hands. "There was a little mix-up and-"

"You call that a mix-up?" Stan's cheeks were maroon. "Back in my day-"

"You're right, sir." I could tell this cop would go far in the department. He had a soothing voice, and he knew how to use it to say all the right things. "And believe me, I understand how you feel. I'm sure Detective Riley did, too."

My turn to interrupt. "Nevin got involved? How? He's working the afternoon shift. He shouldn't even be at the station yet."

"Not exactly involved." Stan had never finished his corned beef sandwich, and he went into the back room to retrieve it and took a chomp. "I had the store manager call him at home. You know, to tell them who I was and how that crazy girl must have been mistaken. And Nev..." Stan chewed and swallowed. "Well, she knows he's a nice guy," he explained to the officer in a cla.s.sic example of too much information. "They're dating, you see. Nev..." Stan looked my way. "He vouched for me, and explained everything to Officer Ramirez here."

I looked over my shoulder at the officer. "Thanks," I said.

"No problem, ma'am." He set his hat back on his head. "Funny thing is, after I had another talk with that clerk at the store, she said she didn't think Mr. Marzcak really took those batteries in the first place. Said she didn't know what she was thinking when she said she did. It was like the whole situation was...I dunno...all confused or something, and then Mr. Marzcak, he told me about those old b.u.t.tons of yours and the curse, and I remember what my abuela used to say about bad luck and-"

I opened the door and stepped back so Officer Ramirez could leave. Don't worry, I was polite. After all, I didn't point out that he and his abuela were both nuts if they thought I put any stock in superst.i.tion.

I didn't mention it to Stan, either, after the cop was gone. I didn't need to. By the time I was heading back into the workroom, he was wiping a dab of mustard off his chin.

"I dunno, Josie," was all he said. "You know I don't believe in curses, either, but it's pretty hard to ignore facts."

Somehow, I managed.

"HEY, LISTEN TO this."

Stan was sitting across my desk from me, reading the newspaper, and when he spoke, I looked up from the book I'd been paging through. It was nearly six that evening, and though I'd completed all the real research I had to do in regards to the charm string b.u.t.tons, that didn't stop me. I was happily perusing b.u.t.ton book after b.u.t.ton book, looking for examples of b.u.t.tons that were similar to the ones on the string and making notes. b.u.t.ton collecting, see, isn't all about the thrill of the hunt, though that's certainly part of the mania. I always feel a rush of adrenaline when I walk into the vendor room of a b.u.t.ton show or through the front door of an antique shop because I never know what treasure I'll find-that little b.u.t.ton that's been ignored for years, or even decades, and is just what I need to complete one of my collections or cater to a customer.

But there's a research component to b.u.t.ton collecting, too, and I'll be the first to admit that I love it. Looking through books, sketching timelines, digging into history...thanks to a hobby that had turned into a life's work, I often felt as if I was the luckiest woman in the world.

Well, except for the couple murders that had dogged me in the last year.

I shrugged away the uncomfortable feeling that snaked over my shoulders, concentrating instead on the positives. Like the fact that Angela had yet to call so I had some extra time with the charm string. And Stan had (finally!) calmed down. While I'd taken a few more pictures and consulted a few more reference books, making the last of my notations on the spreadsheet I'd print out for Angela, he'd been looking through the day's Tribune.

Yes, he could just as easily have read the newspaper at home.

No, I couldn't convince him I didn't need a bodyguard and he could leave. At this point, it was so late in the evening, he had announced that the only proper thing for us to do was to have dinner together. Remember what Angela said about me being smart? I was smart enough not to be fooled; Stan didn't want me to leave the shop alone, just in case that purse thief was lurking somewhere in the ever-deepening shadows outside.

"They're draining an entire reservoir in some little town north of here to do repairs on it," Stan said, scanning the newspaper and interrupting my thoughts. "They flooded over the old town when the reservoir was built. Ardent, it was called."

"Hmmm." I stopped to consider. "Angela lives in Ardent Lake. I wonder if they're close to each other."

Stan read some more. "Doesn't say," he finally commented. "But it does say that they're anxious to see what's left of the old town. Been under water since back in the seventies. And then there's this article." He ran a finger the length of the page and poked it against a photo of a man in a dark suit and top hat. "There's this guy over in Elmhurst who thinks he's the reincarnation of Harry Houdini. Even says he can do magic tricks and he's never taken a lesson."

Stan was obviously reading the odd news of the day.

I gave him a quick smile before I set aside my book and got up to walk over to one of the gla.s.s display cases near the wall. "Maybe that magician can explain how curses work."

Stan crossed his arms over his chest and plunked back in the chair. "I never said I believed any of that stuff about the curse, Josie. I just said it's best to keep the facts in mind. You can't dispute facts. As a detective, you know that."

"Except I'm not. A detective, that is." There was a feather duster nearby and I grabbed it and whooshed it over the top of the case, then moved from there to the case closer to the front window. "All I want to do is sell b.u.t.tons," I told Stan and reminded myself.

"Maybe, but you've solved a couple murders, and that's one of those facts that can't be denied. Don't worry." He got up from his chair and stretched. "I'm not going to talk you into admitting that bad luck exists. In my experience, bad luck happens because people make it happen to other people. The stars or the planets or those b.u.t.tons of yours, they don't really have anything to do with it."

"Exactly." I kept on dusting, working my way around the perimeter of the shop to the front door, and when I got there, I flipped over the sign in the window to tell those pa.s.sing by that the store was now officially closed. I did not, though, turn off the lights as I usually did that time of night. When she showed up, I didn't want Angela to think I'd forgotten about her.

"Except she said she'd call when she was leaving home," I mumbled to myself, strolling back toward my desk. "Don't you think it's odd? She definitely needs the charm string back today. That tea at the historical society is tomorrow afternoon."

Stan shrugged. "You need to look at the problem from all the angles," he said. "Maybe her cell phone ran out of juice. Or maybe she forgot she was supposed to call."

"Angela doesn't strike me as the type of woman who forgets anything."

Stan narrowed his eyes the way he always does when he's thinking. "An organized, methodical woman, and yet she believes in curses."

Obviously, the only answer I had to that was a shrug. "Angela's very matter of fact. Very even keel. I mean, except for the stuff about the curses. In fact, if it wasn't for that and her reading her horoscope every day, I'd say Angela was the most levelheaded person I've ever met."

I stand by this description of Angela. At least I did until I heard a furious pounding on the front door and hurried over there to find Angela on the other side of the display window, her hair standing up as if she'd been pulling on it and her face puffy. She was wearing green sweatpants, a hot pink T-shirt, no socks, and a pair of Crocs that looked like they'd last been worn in a muddy garden.

I unlocked the door and pulled it open, looking in wonder at the woman who had been so well put together the last time I saw her. "Angela! I've been waiting for your call. What happened?"

She pushed past me and into the b.u.t.ton Box. "Just get me those d.a.m.ned b.u.t.tons," she growled. "Now. I can't wait to get them out of my life forever."

It didn't take any magical powers to know something had gone haywire in Angela's life, or that whatever it was, she was bound to blame it on the charm string. If her wardrobe wasn't a giveaway, the dark smudges under Angela's eyes were. So was her red nose. "Are you all right?"

Her jaw stiff, she sniffled. "I'm fine. It's just...allergies. My miserable allergies. I need to get home and take some medication and get to bed. I feel miserable, and I don't want to feel miserable and look miserable tomorrow at the tea. I need my rest. That means I don't have time to stand here and chitchat."

I got the message and went into the back room for the floral hatbox Angela had used to bring me the charm string. I'm not saying I was a convert to the believe-in-curses camp, but I do admit to peeking inside the box, just to make sure the charm string was in there where I'd put it along with a copy of the spreadsheet I'd prepared.

"You know, Angela," I said, walking back to the front of the shop, my hands tight around the box that contained the precious cargo, "it's not too late to change your mind. I'm still interested in buying."

Her shoulders shot back. Her chins quivered. "No. I like you, Josie. I can't let anything happen to you. Besides..." She was as reluctant to take the box out of my hands as I was to let it go, but after a couple seconds of awkward tug-of-war, I relinquished my hold. "Maybe once this thing is safely in the museum, I can break the curse. Once and for all. Maybe I can even..." Her voice clogged. "Maybe there's a way to reverse some of the bad things that have already happened. Do you think so?" Her eyes snapped to mine, suddenly so full of desperate hope, I couldn't help feeling sorry for her.

My voice was wistful when I looked at the hatbox. "I guess the only way to find out is to give away the charm string."

"Yes." Angela was convinced. She held the hatbox close to her chest. "That's exactly what I'm going to do. Hear that, Universe?" Like she actually expected some unseen force to answer, she looked up and all around, and when the only response she heard was silence, her shoulders fell.

"I've got to get home," she said. "Back to Ardent Lake. One more night to have this wretched thing in my possession. Then..." Angela breathed in deep and let the breath out slowly. "Then maybe I'll have some peace."

"I hope that's true." It was a noncommittal sort of thing to say, but I was sincere enough. For all her quirks, Angela seemed a nice enough person. If donating the charm string eased her mind, so be it.

Even if it did just about kill me to think of how I'd cherish the charm string if it were ever mine.

I walked her to the front door.

"Oh, here." Before she walked outside, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a check made out to me. It was for a sum considerably larger than the one we'd agreed on for the appraisal. "Not a word of complaint," she said, when I opened my mouth to do just that. "You did a lot of work, and you did it in record time. I'm going to get a chunk of money off my taxes when I donate this thing, and I wouldn't have known its real value if it wasn't for you. The least I can do is share the wealth."

I thanked her, and opened the door.

We were just in time to hear a dog bark.

"LaSalle," I explained even though I was pretty sure Angela didn't care. She turned to head off down the street to the right and stopped in her tracks when the dog's bark turned into a long, mournful howl.

Angela swallowed hard. "Dog howling in the dark of night," she whispered, "howl for death before daylight."

And with that, she walked away.

I didn't wait to watch her go. Instead, I went into the shop, turned off the lights, and told Stan it was time to get a move on.

"Let's go get Swiss steak at that diner I like so much," he suggested when we stepped out of the shop and headed to the left. "It's Wednesday. They've got rice pudding for dessert on Wednesdays."

I like rice pudding.

And no one tried to steal my purse once we were outside.

All in all, things were looking up.

Maybe Angela was right about the charm string all along. Now that it was out of my life, maybe my bad luck would evaporate.

As if.

Chapter Four.

THE NEXT MORNING DAWNED BRIGHT AND SUNNY, AND I was grateful. I'd had enough thinking about doom and gloom and bad luck. With the help of a little sunshine, I could forget about curses and get my life back to the way it was supposed to be-calm and b.u.t.ton-filled.

I was humming a little tune when I got off the El, made my way to the shop, and stuck my key in the door.

The song evaporated when I noticed a b.u.t.ton lying on the sidewalk.

Remember what I said about the thrill of the b.u.t.ton hunt? My head knew this was probably nothing more than just a plastic b.u.t.ton that had fallen off someone's raincoat, and still, my b.u.t.ton-loving heart couldn't resist. My fingers suddenly itching the way they always did when I was closing in on a new b.u.t.ton discovery, I picked up the b.u.t.ton and turned it over.

The b.u.t.ton was what we in the b.u.t.ton biz call a small, that is, between three-eighths and three-quarters of an inch in diameter, and it was made of black gla.s.s. There was a flower pattern etched into the gla.s.s and it was accented with gold paint.

These kinds of b.u.t.ton were common enough back in the days when Queen Victoria was mourning her Prince Albert. She wore b.u.t.tons made out of jet, an organic mineral that was expensive even back then, and the ma.s.ses, eager to follow her fashion, copied her by making b.u.t.tons out of black gla.s.s. The gla.s.s was far less expensive than jet and some would say just as pretty, though as a purist, I wasn't convinced.

There had been a number of these small black gla.s.s b.u.t.tons on Angela's charm string.

Weird, and the weird got weirder when I realized there was another b.u.t.ton lying on the pavement not far away.

This one was a man's shirt b.u.t.ton and it wasn't plastic, but mother of pearl. I knew this for a fact because I automatically held the b.u.t.ton to my cheek and it felt cool in a way plastic never does. That meant the b.u.t.ton was old, and an old b.u.t.ton lying on the sidewalk outside my shop- I would like to say I stayed calm, but let's face it, my life's work-and my life-was contained within the walls of the b.u.t.ton Box. I flashed back to the break-in I'd had soon after I opened the shop and how the goons who'd engineered it had left my inventory in shambles. All those happy thoughts I'd had earlier vanished and my stomach soured. I raced to the door, tried the handle, and- Locked.

My heartbeat ratcheted back, my breathing slowed.

"Security system," I reminded myself. "You installed a security system after the last break-in. Everything inside is safe and sound. Your b.u.t.tons are fine."

But that, of course, didn't explain the old b.u.t.tons on the sidewalk.

My eyes narrowed against the morning sunlight, I scanned the area in front of the shop. Old Town is a popular tourist destination and usually bustling, but it was early, and the other merchants who were my neighbors had yet to open for business. There was no foot traffic, either, not yet, anyway, and I was grateful. That meant I could be pretty sure that nothing had been disturbed. The black gla.s.s b.u.t.ton had been on the sidewalk to my left at about nine o'clock, the mother of pearl b.u.t.ton had been in the twelve o'clock position. Now, I realized there was a b.u.t.ton at one o'clock, too, and one at two, and another at three.

I hurried over to pick up those three b.u.t.tons-two more mother of pearls and a bra.s.s b.u.t.ton with an eagle on it-glancing around as I did and realizing with a jolt to my midsection that a trail of b.u.t.tons caught the morning sunlight, a trail that led to the alley that ran between my brownstone and the one next door.

Black gla.s.s, clear gla.s.s, steel, bone...

As much as I was tempted to bring order to the chaos and rescue the b.u.t.tons from the pavement, at this point, I didn't bother to stop. I was too busy following the brick walkway and the b.u.t.tons scattered on it that led into the courtyard we local merchants maintained as our private spot to have lunch and take a breather. There was a park bench in the middle of the tiny courtyard, and in a few more weeks when the days were longer and the temperatures were a little warmer, each of us would contribute a potted plant and our little oasis would be complete with color and greenery.

Of course, we'd have to get rid of the body first.

The thought struck like so many out-of-the-blue revelations do, but then, it was a scenario no sane person expects to encounter first thing in the morning, or any other time of the day.

I froze in my tracks, doing as quick and thorough an inventory of the scene as I was able before the panic and horror set in as I knew they would.