Button Holed (11 page)

And the third.

And the fourth.

And the fifth.

It wasn’t until I’d been through all my books and done a thorough Internet search that I realized my eyes burned and my neck felt like it was in a vise. That’s the first I bothered to check the clock. It was past nine, and my rumbling stomach reminded me that I hadn’t had dinner. I stretched, rubbed the small of my back, and dragged into the kitchen for a yogurt. Just so I didn’t sit there and accomplish nothing while I was eating it, I grabbed a couple of the books I’d already looked through and flopped them on the kitchen table.

“Carved buttons, wooden buttons, realistic buttons,” I mumbled to myself, paging through the books. I got nowhere fast, and aside from some antique boxwood buttons from China, I didn’t see anything that even came close to the boxwood hawk in style or workmanship.

Just to be sure, I checked the photographs Nevin had provided for me. Again.

I nodded, confirming something to myself. “Good work, kiddo,” I told myself, just like Stan would have if he were there. In fact, he would have been proud of me. I’d refused to let myself jump to conclusions, checking and rechecking all the references and all the facts before I made up my mind, even though I’d been tempted to do just that the moment I saw the button.

All along, I suspected it was what we in the button biz call a studio button, that is, a button made in limited quantities and not by a factory or a manufacturer, but by an artist. Studio buttons aren’t really even intended to go on clothing. Most of them are snapped up by collectors.

Trouble is, the style and craftsmanship of this studio button didn’t ring any bells.

I rifled through the photographs the police had taken, including the one I’d insisted on that showed the back side of the button. “No artist’s signature, no marking, nothing to indicate who made it or where it came from.”

I propped my elbows on the table and cradled my chin in my hands. If I was going to figure out where the button came from and—more importantly—why it was on the floor right where Kate’s body had been found, I was going to need more to go on. It was late, and unlike a certain button dealer who pretty much lived and breathed her business, most of the other dealers and collectors I knew had actual lives. It was too late to call them, and I promised myself I’d do it in the morning. For now, all I could do was wonder. About the button and its maker. About whoever had brought it to the shop.

About those suspects Stan had mentioned.

Mike Homolka.

Brina, my first and now my former employee.

Dr. Levine.

Why any of them would have the button was as much of a mystery as why it had ended up being left with Kate’s body.

“And none of it’s getting me anywhere,” I mumbled to myself. Right before my cell phone rang.

I would have kept on mumbling and let the call go to voice mail, but as far as I knew, nobody but friends had the number. Whispering a silent prayer that I hadn’t, in a moment of weakness, given it to Brina, I answered.

“Josie, is that you?” I barely recognized Hugh’s voice. But then, he was sobbing. “Josie, baby girl, I need to talk to you. Now. Josie . . .” He gulped. “You’ve got to help me out. Like you always do. It’s about Kate, see, and . . .” He let go a shaky breath. “I think I did something really, really stupid.”

Chapter Seven

I WAS CARDED AT THE FRONT DESK OF HUGH’S LUXURY hotel and again outside the elevator that was for the sole use of those staying in its priciest suites. Up on the thirty-first floor, my ID was checked once more, this time by a strapping guy in a dark suit who walked me to a set of double doors and handed me off to a trim and efficient-looking woman in black who introduced herself as Lucia. She told me to have a seat and that Hugh would be with me in a moment. Even though it was after ten o’clock, Lucia didn’t seem fazed by my visit, and I imagined I knew why; I pictured Hugh’s opinion of me in neon lights, flashing over my head.

Good ol’ Josie—reliable, dependable, predictable.

No wonder Lucia wasn’t surprised. If she knew that much, I figured she also knew that things had always been this way between Hugh and me, even back in college. He needed help—with anything from homework to laundry—and I pitched in. At first, it was because I had an aching crush on Hugh and I was hoping to get him to notice me. But even a button nerd is not completely dense. It didn’t take longer than the first semester for me to realize I was out of his league. Hugh liked his women tall, busty, and gorgeous. I was none of those things, but he liked me, anyway. As a friend. A friend who could get things done.

Good ol’ Josie always pitched in, and always without a complaint.

Only this time . . .

Lucia excused herself, and waiting for Hugh, I glanced around the incredible living room, with its startling post-modern furniture, the white and plum decor, and an amazing view of Lake Michigan out the floor-to-ceiling windows that took the place of two walls.

This time, I had to admit, I was worried. About Hugh’s phone call and that problem he said he had. About what he expected me to do about it.

There was more than a thread of panic in his voice when we talked, and I couldn’t get that, or what he said, out of my head.

You’ve got to help me out. Like you always do. It’s about Kate . . . I did something really, really stupid.

I wondered how stupid really, really stupid was.

And if that really, really stupid had something to do with murder.

“Hey, baby girl!” Hugh’s voice zapped me out of my thoughts and back to reality. I looked up just in time to see him walk out of what must have been the bedroom of the suite. Hugh had always been good-looking, in a film-student, artsy sort of way. It was the long dark hair and the soulful eyes that had gotten to me years before along with the ragged jeans, the secondhand denim jackets, and the endless supply of T-shirts he borrowed from the endless one-night stands who were only too happy to share. These days, he preferred Dior to denim and a corporate haircut that made him look every inch the Hollywood power broker he was.

None of that could disguise the furrows of worry on his forehead. The forced cheeriness in his voice didn’t fool me, either. Hugh’s eyes were red. So was his nose. His hair stuck up at odd angles like he’d been tugging at it.

Instinctively, I stood, prepared—as always—to offer him comfort and a shoulder to cry on.

He didn’t give me a chance. Before I could move away from the couch, he was right up in my face. He grabbed both my hands and squeezed tight.

“I didn’t do it. You know that, don’t you, Josie? You know I had nothing to do with Kate’s murder.”

Startled by his intensity, I gathered my thoughts, hung onto my composure, and took a moment to study Hugh. Though we chatted on the phone occasionally, it had been years since we’d been face-to-face, since that first summer after college, in fact, when we worked on
Trolls
together, and I could see there was more to his transformation than pricey clothes and designer hair.

Hugh’s teeth were unnaturally white, and they’d been straightened since last I saw him. So had his nose. Come to think of it, I remembered his chin being rounder and fuller. At this point, I guess none of that mattered. Not as much as the way he hung onto me. Yeah, the phrase
for dear life
popped into my head.

“You believe me, don’t you, Josie?” His words shivered from trembling lips.

Too bad I wasn’t in any shape to offer reassurance. Listening to Hugh, seeing the desperation that shone in his eyes, my stomach flipped.

I commanded it to settle down and extricated myself from his grip. I might not have been feeling it, but in an effort to at least look calm, I sat back down, and said, “Apparently, we have a lot to talk about.”

He nodded. Took my lead and sat down. Stood up again. “There were lots of people who wanted Kate dead,” he announced.

OK. Have I mentioned this was getting weird?

Clearing my throat, I ordered my thoughts and gave him the kind of stare I’d once seen a trainer use on an unruly Jack Russell terrier. “Maybe you better start from the beginning,” I said. “I’m a little confused.”

“Yeah. Sure.” Hugh did a spin around the room. Sort of like that Jack Russell did when the trainer made an effort to control him. “It’s just that . . . The police called. They want to talk. To me.” Even though the suite was bigger than the entire fourth floor of my apartment building, he was moving a mile a minute, and by this time, he was already back in front of me.

I knew Nevin was the one who must have made the call since he was lead investigator on the case, and really, it wasn’t hard to think like Nevin. Nevin Riley might be more than a little rough around the edges when it came to personal relationships, but as he’d pointed out the last time we talked, he was a professional. With him, a case was bound to be all about the logic.

I held on tight to the thought and clutched my hands together on my lap. “Of course they called you,” I told Hugh. “You and Kate were working on a movie together, and they’re going to want to understand what Kate was up to in the days before she died. They talked to me, too. They’re putting together a time line. Your work with her and her visit to my shop, that’s all part of that time line.”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.” For the space of a few heartbeats, relief swept across his face. Right before he fell to pieces again. “But what if they ask questions I can’t answer?”

“Then you’ll tell them you can’t answer. It’s better than concocting a lie.”

He didn’t respond, so I tipped my head, trying to catch his eye.

“Did you hear me, Hugh? There’s nothing to be gained from lying to the police. They’ll find out eventually. And what . . .” A new and very disturbing thought hit. I sat back and swallowed hard, and when I forced myself to ask the question burning in my brain, my voice was breathy. “What do you . . . Is there something you need to lie about?”

He paced to the bar, poured Scotch into a crystal glass, and slugged it down. “
Charlie
, the movie we were shooting. . .
Charlie
’s shot to hell,” he grumbled. “A third of the way through, and Kate is in just about every scene. How the hell can anybody expect me to finish a movie about the most famous madam in Victorian-era Chicago when the madam in question has gone and gotten herself killed?”

I laced my fingers together. “You didn’t call me for business advice, Hugh. If I can believe what I’ve been reading in the papers these days, nobody knows the movie business better than you do. Besides, I’m sure this sort of thing has happened before. The production company must have insurance.”

“Yeah. Sure. Right.” He poured another drink and took his time with this one, sipping and studying me over the rim of the glass. “That’s not what I’m worried about,” he said. His chest rose and fell. “Josie . . . You’re the only one who can help me.”

Maybe.

Before I could point that out, he was pacing again. “I can’t believe she’s gone,” he sobbed. “I mean, Kate’s name is synonymous with beauty and youth and glamour and to think about her body stone-cold and dead . . .” When he swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbed. “People are stunned. They’re holding candlelight vigils outside her homes in Maui and Paris. They’re screening retrospectives of her work. Already, there are rumors that the whole thing is a put-on, that she faked her death to get out of the limelight. Like it was even remotely possible for Kate not to be the center of everyone’s attention!” His laugh teetered on the edge of hysteria. “I know there’s not a snowball’s chance in hell that the whole thing is a hoax. I mean, really, I know in my heart of hearts that she’s dead, but I keep waking up in the middle of the night thinking what if . . .” His eyes went glassy, his thoughts no doubt flying a million miles away to some happier place that still had Kate in it. He washed away the fantasy with a drink. “I guess it’s only natural not to believe she’s gone. I mean, how could any of us believe it? Could you? Could you believe it when you heard she was dead?”

I am never surprised to realize Hugh is being insensible. Again.

I am, though, always disappointed.

Disappointed, I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees, and a funny thing happened. Maybe it was my experience with Kaz (or more specifically, with divorcing Kaz) that had prepared me for this moment. Suddenly, I saw Hugh in a whole, new light.

It was not all that flattering.

“Kate was killed in the Button Box, my new shop,” I said. I wasn’t so much hoping to jog his memory as I was trying to make a point. As colleagues, he and Kate were close, and I understood how upset he was. But as the person who walked in and saw that buttonhook plunged into her heart . . .

I pulled in a long, shaky breath.

“I was the one who found her, Hugh. You know that.”

He finished his drink. “Then maybe you can understand a little of what I’m going through. The emptiness. The despair.”

More like the bad dreams, the creepy feelings.

I didn’t mention it. There was, apparently, no point. Once a narcissist, always a narcissist, and it looked as if Hugh had found his niche.