Buttoned Up (11 page)
Authors: Kylie Logan
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #General
“You’re right.” I pulled in a long breath. “As of here and now . . .” I slapped the arms of the chair and stood. “I’m back to being the old Josie. Practical, dependable, and without all sorts of weird ideas flying through her head.”
“That’s my girl!” Stan stood, too, and walked me to the door. “Only remember, you’re allowed some flights of fancy now and again when it comes to your investigation. Clues and facts, witness statements and evidence, that’s all important. But sometimes, a detective’s got to listen to what’s in here.” He pressed a hand to his heart. “And what’s in here.” He moved his hand down to his stomach. “Don’t let anybody tell you it’s not valuable.”
I kept the thought in mind and within an hour, I was acting on the advice.
Gut instinct, along with that onyx and silver shirt stud in my purse, led me to Victor Cherneko.
• • •
The outside of the new headquarters building for Cherneko Industries was jaw-droppingly gorgeous. Sleek lines, plenty of glass, steel beams that gleamed in the afternoon sun, just like the waters of Lake Michigan that I could see on the other side of the wide swath of perfectly manicured green space that surrounded the building.
The inside . . .
When I stepped out of the revolving door that led into the lobby, I looked in wonder at the huge blank wall straight ahead of me. I mean, really blank. While all around me, every other surface gleamed with steel and granite beauty, this wall with its plain white plaster stuck out like a sore and very homely thumb.
A problem for the architects, I told myself, and strode over to the reception desk where I told the young woman that I had an appointment and was escorted to the elevator that led up to Cherneko’s offices.
More granite, more steel, and here on the forty-eighth floor, vistas that took my breath away. If it was a really clear day, I bet I could see across the blindingly blue waters of the lake all the way to Michigan.
I had an appointment.
I waited for thirty minutes before a woman with an unreadable expression escorted me to an office as big as my apartment.
“Ms. Giancola.” Behind his sleek desk, Victor Cherneko rose and cocked his head, like he was trying to place my face. “You left a cryptic message with my secretary. Something about buttons?”
As I recall, my message wasn’t as cryptic as it was purposely vague. Which made me all the more curious about why Cherneko had agreed to this meeting so easily. Curious, and a little suspicious. “I was at the Chicago Community Church the other night. At Forbis Parmenter’s—”
“The exhibit. Of course.” He came around the desk to shake my hand. “You’re the young lady who brought the button that Parmenter was going to place on the exhibit. That is, before that whole ugly incident happened. And then the murder.” He pressed his lips together and shook his head. His salt-and-pepper hair matched the charcoal, pinstripe suit he wore with a killer Italian silk tie in shades of moss and gold. “Such a terrible thing,” he mumbled before he put a hand on my elbow and escorted me over to a sitting area complete with buttery leather couches and chairs and a wet bar. He did not offer me a drink.
“I have to confess to being a little confused,” he said. “You said you had something that belonged to me. But we never met at the show, did we? I saw you, of course, during that little ceremony. But if we never spoke, how could you possibly have something of mine?”
The shirt stud was in my purse. I took it out and handed it to Cherneko.
“But where . . .” He turned the little stud over in his fingers. “I knew it was missing, of course. I realized it as soon as I got home that night. But how—”
“That’s what I’m trying to figure out. The police have asked for my help, you see, because of the buttons. I was at the church surveying the exhibit and that’s when I found the stud.”
His look was as level as his voice. He didn’t even blink. “Surely not near any of those other buttons. I never left the floor of the church, never got close to the artwork.”
The look I returned was just as even.
“Actually it was right under one of the pieces.”
He pursed his lips. “Really. Well . . .” He didn’t so much smile as he bared his teeth. “I suppose shirt studs can roll.”
We both knew they could, just like we both knew they couldn’t roll up a step to the area where the artwork was on display.
So I wouldn’t be tempted to point it out, I looked at the photos displayed on the mahogany coffee table in front of the couch. One showed Cherneko reeling in a marlin as big as a Fiat. In another, he was standing in front of the Kremlin. A third . . .
I took the framed photograph off the table, the better to take a careful look at it. In this particular picture, Cherneko was dressed in shorts and a golf shirt. He was kneeling in the dirt, surrounded by children with big eyes and ragged clothes.
“I have a factory in Haiti.” Cherneko plucked the photo from my hand and set it back where it came from. “There are a couple orphanages nearby that are close to my heart. I like to visit.”
“That’s really nice.”
“So . . .” He stood, and the message was clear: I’d done what I’d come to do, it was time for me to hit the road. “Thank you for returning the stud. I appreciate your kindness. Perhaps our paths will cross again at another art show. Until then, if there’s anything I can do to repay your kindness . . .”
I followed him to the door. “You could answer a question for me,” I said. “That wall down in the lobby. Everything else is finished but that one wall—”
“Oh, that.” He acted like it was no big deal, but I couldn’t help but remember what Stan told me about gut instinct. Cherneko’s cheeks got dusky, and my gut told me there was more to the story than he let on. “A dispute with the artist who was supposed to be completing the mural, nothing more,” he said. “We’re in the process of getting things sorted out now. Thank you again, Ms. Giancola. I’ll have my secretary show you out.”
“There is one more thing.” To prove it, I stopped and refused to budge an inch, even when he backed up to give me clearer access to the door. “It’s just a little thing, of course, but a man like you, I’m sure you understand. Little things are often important. I’ve been asking everyone who was at the show about their alibis for after.”
A muscle jumped at the base of his jaw. “The police have already done that.”
“Of course they have. That’s their job. And it’s not like I have any official standing in the case. I mean, I’m just the button expert. That’s all they’ve called me in to consult on. Buttons. But it does kind of help me get a sense of things, you know?” He didn’t and frankly, I didn’t, either, so before he could point out that getting a sense of things had nothing to do with buttons and was, therefore, none of my business, I hurried right on. “And I did bring that stud back to you. You know, rather than turn it over to the police.”
“You did. And I appreciate it.” Cherneko put a hand gently to the small of my back, the better to escort me all the way to the door. “One of these days, I’ll thank you with a drink. How does that sound? We’ll go to Remondo’s. That’s where I was after the show. I stopped for a drink at Remondo’s.”
Remondo’s.
It was on my way home so don’t think I didn’t take the opportunity to stop in. It wasn’t hard for the bartender to remember Cherneko. He was a regular, and a big tipper.
“Sure he was here Thursday night,” the man told me. “Late, and all dressed up in a tux. But then, Mr. C., he’s usually coming or going to some fancy affair or another.”
“Was he alone?”
The way the bartender’s eyebrows elevated, I knew he was about to tell me it was none of my business.
I slid a twenty across the bar. “I’m just trying to get some facts straight,” I said.
He palmed the money. “They sat over there,” he said, pointing to a table in a corner. “Mr. C. and another guy. Maybe in his forties. With kind of soft features, you know. And thinning hair.”
“Richard Norquist,” I mumbled to myself.
“Richard. Yeah, that’s it.” The bartender nodded. “That’s what I heard Mr. C. call the other guy.”
“They stayed long?”
“Mr. C. did. Had a couple Drambuies before he called it a night. The other guy . . .” Thinking, he narrowed his eyes. “He walked in here carrying a package. About yea by yea.” He held out his hands to indicate something the size of a shoe box. “It was all wrapped up in brown paper. He sat down for a while, didn’t order anything.”
“And when he left?”
Three cheers for the bartender. He knew exactly what I was getting at. “The package stayed with Mr. C,” he said.
I left Remondo’s convinced that my twenty was well spent. After all, I knew a little more than I’d known when I started out that day.
For one thing, I knew Gabriel Marsh was telling the truth. He had followed Cherneko and Richard and they were definitely together.
For another, I knew that Richard and Laverne were lying, and that told me that whatever Richard was up to with Victor Cherneko, it was something he didn’t want anyone else to know about. It also told me that Laverne was head over heels about the man. Go figure. She wouldn’t have been willing to lie for him otherwise. I reminded myself not to forget it, and outside Remondo’s I headed for the nearest El stop. It was only a little after four and as promised, I’d be back at the Button Box in time to relieve Stan and close the shop.
I knew one more thing about what happened on Thursday night, I told myself when I got on the train. I knew that shirt stud I found belonged to Victor Cherneko, and I knew Victor Cherneko hadn’t been near the artwork during the show, no one had.
That meant Victor Cherneko was near the exhibit some time between when Laverne locked up the church for the night and the next day when I found Forbis’s body.
“You’re a peach, Stan.”
“Nah.” He shrugged off the compliment, but I wasn’t fooled. The tips of Stan’s ears turned pink. “You know I don’t have much else to do. I don’t mind coming in here to the shop. In fact, I’m getting to like these buttons of yours.” He had just set down a box filled with buttons on the worktable in the back room and ran his fingers through them. “They kind of grow on you, you know?”
I did know. I just didn’t think Stan ever would. “Coming in here two days in a row to watch the shop for me is—”
“An excuse to get this old guy out of his apartment.”
“I was going to say too much. You know, Stan, I’ve been thinking.” I had, ever since the day before when I returned to the shop after my visit to Victor Cherneko and Remondo’s. “When I first opened the shop, I hired an assistant. That didn’t work out too well.” Understatement. Brina was, in a word, a total disaster. Even if that isn’t one word. “How’d you like to make it official?”
It wasn’t often I got the drop on Stan. He may be a senior citizen, but he’s one sharp guy. For once, he was so surprised, he actually flinched. “Me? Work here? You mean like on the payroll? Come on, Josie, you don’t have to do that. I don’t mind coming in here when you need me so I can help out.”
“But I mind asking you to come in here and help out.”
“You make me dinner. And you get me Cubs tickets. And you take me over to the diner for Swiss steak and rice pudding.”
“Yeah, once in a while. But that’s not the same. If we had a more formal agreement, I wouldn’t feel so guilty.”
He gave me the eagle-eye look I knew he’d once reserved for perps. “Really? You feel guilty?”
“As sin.”
He hadn’t come right out and said
no
, and that’s what I’d expected. Encouraged, I pressed my advantage. “You don’t want me to walk around feeling guilty, do you?”
“Of course not, Josie, but—”
“My conscience just can’t take it, Stan. My scruples are all in a twist.”
He laughed. “I don’t think scruples can twist.”
“Mine can. They do. And you wouldn’t have to work here full time. You’d be bored silly, and there’s usually not enough to do to require another full-time worker here. Of course, we also have to consider that you’ll still want time for your senior softball team, and for meeting your friends for lunch and for visiting that great-grandchild of yours. I’m thinking . . .” I crossed my fingers behind my back. “Fifteen hours a week?”
He tapped a finger to his chin. “Does yesterday count? Because I was here three hours yesterday and—”
“Yes, yesterday counts. And so does today.” I had to force myself not to jump up and down for joy. “I’ll pay more than minimum,” I added, then because I knew he was going to protest, “You know I can afford it so don’t argue. Your schedule will be completely flexible. Each Sunday, we can look at the upcoming week, see what you’ve got coming up—”
“And what murder you need to investigate.”
I ignored this last bit, and no wonder. Just like I had the last time and the time before and the time before that, I hoped this murder investigation would be my last and I wouldn’t have to worry about taking time off for sleuthing. “I won’t ask you to do any more than you’ve ever done,” I said. “All I would need you to do is watch the shop when I can’t be here, and help keep things in order.”
“And save damsels in distress.”
It was my turn to be surprised and seeing it, Stan laughed again. “Yesterday when you were gone. A lady came in. She was outside sipping an iced tea and she spilled it all over herself. Poor thing! She said she was headed to a job interview and she was really upset.”
“So you saved her.”
“Well, not exactly saved. I gave her paper towels and let her get cleaned up back here. By the time she left, she was calmed down and she looked just fine. I told her to stop back after her interview and let me know how it went, but she never did. I hope she got the job.”
“Well, we can add saving damsels in distress to your job description. So what do you say?”
Grinning, Stan stuck out his hand and I shook it. “So,” he said, “where do we begin?”
“We’re not going to do anything different than we’ve ever done. I’m just going to run out for a little while and—”
“Investigate, eh?” I knew Stan was a little jealous. He’d been a cop for forty years and it was hard to put that kind of experience aside. “I could help you do that, too.”
“You do. I don’t know what I’d do if I didn’t have you to talk over everything that happens. You give me advice. You help me decide where to go and who to talk to. You help me interview witnesses and suspects. Without you, there’s no way I could help out the cops the way I do.”
“There you go again, trying to give me a swelled head.” Another wave of the hand. “You don’t need me for any of those things. That’s what you have Nev for.”
Nev.
Just the mention of his name made my stomach bunch. But then, I knew where I was headed when I left Stan in charge of the shop for the rest of the afternoon.
“You look like you swallowed a pickle.”
Leave it to Stan to bring me back to reality! I shook away the uneasiness that had settled on my shoulders. “It’s that obvious, huh?”
He waited for me to say more and while I worked out how to put it into words, I scooped a handful of buttons out of the box in front of him and started sorting. As always with a new batch of buttons, the first thing I did was sort the buttons by color. Later, I’d worry about dividing the buttons according to what they were made of and where and when they were manufactured.
“I was doing some research last night,” I told Stan. “Trying to find out more about that ceramic button I told you was missing from Forbis’s exhibit. I didn’t find anything useful, so I came in here extra early this morning and looked through all the books I have here.”
“And . . . ?”
My drooping shoulders said it all. “If there was ever another button like it, nobody’s written about it, nobody’s photographed it. Nobody mentions it in any of the monographs I read about handmade buttons. Nobody references anything like it, or like those letters that were etched onto the button.”
“And this has you looking all puckered when I mention Nev because . . . ?”
I sighed. “Because I was thinking. About Forbis. And about the exhibit. And about the whole tie-in with vudon. Forbis was from an island off the coast of Georgia where vudon was practiced back in the day. What if that button has something to do with the religion?”
Stan pursed his lips. “It’s possible I suppose.”
I finished with the buttons I was sorting but rather than reach for another batch, I brushed my hands together and stepped back from the table. Sorting buttons by color was something Stan could do sitting down and with a cup of coffee at hand, so it wouldn’t be too strenuous for him, not like dusting or vacuuming. Besides, until he knew a little more about buttons, I couldn’t ask him to do much more than sort. Sorting was a great place to start. All the rest about button history and what each button was made of would come later.
“If I want to know about vudon,” I said, “it only makes sense to go to one of the world’s recognized experts.”
The light dawned and Stan nodded. “Into the lion’s den, eh?”
“I’m not exactly sure that’s how I’d put it.” That hadn’t stopped me from dressing with extra care that morning. It was warm out, and I’d chosen a black pencil skirt and a cami the color of pink cotton candy. No, I am not usually a pink person, but I remembered that Kaz had always told me I looked good in pink because of my dark hair and eyes.
It’s not like I was trying to show anybody up. Not anybody. But I was concerned with looking presentable and professional and with making a good impression. On top of all that, I didn’t want to look like a reject, like some cast-off Nev had let go when someone prettier and smarter came along, someone with a bigger brain than mine.
Pathetic. Yes, I know. Rather than think about it, I gave Stan a few last-minute instructions and grabbed my suit jacket.
“Taxi’s already waiting for you,” Stan said, walking me to the front of the shop. “You’d better get a move on because the meter’s running and you’ll spend all your money and you won’t be able to afford my huge salary.”
When I walked out of the Button Box, there was a smile on my face.
That lasted exactly two seconds.
When I climbed into the backseat of the cab, there was already someone there waiting for me.
“What are you—?” I tried to play it cool, honest. That wasn’t exactly easy with Gabriel Marsh smiling at me like a
GQ
cover model.
“It makes perfect sense to share a ride,” he said. “I suspect we’re going to the same place.”
“How would you—?” I gulped down the rest of my words. I knew he’d never give me a straight answer anyway, so why ask the question?
That was about when I realized the cab driver was looking over his shoulder at us, waiting for instructions.
“Field Museum,” Gabriel and I said at the same time.
Gabriel sat back, perfectly comfortable and looking as at home in the cab as he had at my dining room table surrounded by Chinese takeout containers.
“You owe me an explanation.”
“Do I?” This close, I saw that the skin at the corners of Gabriel’s eyes was creased, like he spent too much time in the sun. Those little wrinkles were even more noticeable when he smiled. “I thought you would have figured it out by now.”
“Figured what out?”
“That I’m interested in Mr. Parmenter and what happened to him.”
“I didn’t need to figure that out. You told me that when you stopped over on Saturday. What you need to figure out is that you’re not going to find out anything about Forbis Parmenter at the Field Museum.”
“Neither are you.”
“Which would tell any logical person that I’m going to the museum for a whole different reason.”
“Are you insinuating I’m not logical?” When he laughed, he threw back his head. “I’ll take that as a compliment. In fact, when you get to know me better, you’ll find that I am among the least reasonable people you are likely to meet. I am not so much a man of intellect as I am a creature of passion.”
I suppose I actually could have given the whole intellect versus passion thing some thought if I wasn’t so focused on what he said about
when
I got to know him better.
Sizzling was poor form. So was melting into a puddle of mush. Rather than do either, I shook my head to help clear it, and when I realized Gabriel was studying my pink cami with far more appreciation than even Kaz ever had, I slipped on my suit jacket.
“Cold?” he asked.
“Icy.”
“I’d offer to provide some warmth but something tells me that wouldn’t go over well.”
“I’d rather have answers than warmth.”
“Ask the questions.”
“OK.” I thought about where to start and figured the beginning was as good a place as any. “How did you know I was going to the museum?”
“Damn!” He made a face. “And just when I declared myself illogical! Now you expect me to lay out my plan and actually have it make sense. Very well, here goes. I knew you would eventually go the museum because, eventually, you were bound to want to find out more about vudon.”
“But how did you know it would be today?”
“I didn’t.”
I may not have been genuinely cold before but suddenly, I was chilled to the bone. “You’ve been following me.”
“You make it sound like some kind of crime.”
Since my steady, and slightly sarcastic, gaze didn’t seem to make an impression, I said, “It is!”
One corner of his mouth pulled tight. “It’s not like I’m a stalker or anything. I’m a—”
“Journalist. Yes, I know.” I plunked back against the sticky vinyl seat, my arms crossed over my chest. “And that gives you the right to follow me?”
“It gives me the right to look for answers.”
“I told you before, I don’t have any. So you’re wasting your time.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.”
I didn’t respond to this less-than-subtle attempt at whatever it was he was attempting. How could I? If he was saying what I thought he was saying . . .