Buttoned Up (9 page)

It was Monday, and just for the record, Monday traditionally isn’t the busiest day at the Button Box. That gave me the perfect excuse to close early. No, it had nothing to do with the knock-down, drag-out I had with Nev that morning. Honest! In fact, once he was out of the shop door, my mood actually brightened. I wasn’t sure why, and I wasn’t sure I wanted to know why. I only know that I spent the rest of the day in relative calm and blissfully headache-free. By four o’clock, I figured it was time to reward myself.

And these days, I could think of no better reward than a little investigating.

I headed over to the Chicago Community Church, and I was just in time to catch Laverne before she left for the day. Laverne and Richard.

“Hey.” They were standing together looking at Forbis’s exhibit and I stepped inside the church and waved. “I didn’t think I’d find you both here.”

Richard gestured toward the huge box with Congo Savanne still standing tall (and ugly!) above it. “I’ve got to get all this stuff packed up and shipped out of here. Laverne and I were just trying to figure out the logistics.” His shoulders sagged. “I’d hoped we’d sell more and have less to ship back. But hey, I suppose I should look on the bright side. There’s still a chance for sales, especially now that the media is all over the story of Forbis’s murder. There’s nothing like a little sensationalism to drive up interest in an artist’s work.”

Laverne had the good sense to look embarrassed by the comment. Richard, not so much. In fact, he mumbled something about jacking up the prices and, rubbing his hands together, went and collected a clipboard piled with papers so he could take notes about his idea.

“So . . .” I knew I had to ask Laverne about what I’d heard from Gabriel Marsh, about how he’d seen Richard after the show and not with her. I just figured I should edge into things slowly. It was obvious she and Richard had history and just as obvious that reminding a person about the history they had with another person can sometimes ruffle feathers.

Not that I was thinking about Nev and Evangeline or anything.

“Do you have another exhibit coming in?” I asked Laverne.

“Not for another month. But then, we thought this one would be here longer. Our next gallery showing is artwork from the day-care center across the street.” She grinned. “You know, I’m actually looking forward to it. These days, little kids’ pictures of flowers and smiling suns sound a lot more appealing than vudon and buttons.”

To me, nothing could ever sound more appealing than buttons, but I knew where she was coming from.

“You don’t mind if I poke around, do you?” I asked. “I was hoping to take a close look at the buttons, and now that I know everything’s going back to Georgia . . . well, it might be my only chance.”

Laverne’s smile said it all. “You know I don’t mind. The way I see it, we owe you. You’re the one who kept me from completely going to pieces when we found the body.” A shiver snaked over her shoulders and jiggled the colorful beads she was wearing with a black suit and a teal shirt. “I suppose there’s no way I can ever make that up to you.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said before I realized that made absolutely no sense to anyone who thought my only occupation was selling buttons. Rather than explain, I stepped up the single stair that separated the exhibit from the main floor of the church. “I’ll stay out of the way,” I promised. “I’m just going to take a few photos.” I pulled my camera out of my pocket. “And a few notes about the buttons and how Forbis used them.”

“Have a blast!” Laverne left me to it and walked over to where Richard was mumbling to himself about markups and profits. I took a deep breath and glanced around.

So many buttons, so little time!

I should have come hours earlier, that was clear right from the start. Forbis used thousands of buttons in his work, and each was more interesting than the last, at least to this button nerd. I started with a careful survey of the buttons on the ceremonial drums, taking photos, jotting down my impressions, and wondering if Forbis ever kept notes about where he bought the older buttons, and if Richard might be cajoled into looking through Forbis’s files and sharing the information.

If this sounds more like busywork than investigating, it’s no wonder. Aside from satisfying my button itch, my survey of the drums and the thousands of buttons on them was a stall tactic and I knew it.

If I was really going to investigate . . .

If I was really going to discover anything that could explain what had happened there in the Chicago Community Church a few days earlier . . .

If I was ever going to prove that I wasn’t a wimp who was afraid of inanimate objects . . .

I pulled in a breath for courage, gulped down my uneasiness, and made the move. When I stationed myself in front of the Congo Savanne statue, my knees were a little rubbery and my breaths came a tad too fast. Too bad, so sad. If I was going to find answers, this was where I had to start. After all, this is where the mystery began and ended.

Keeping the thought in mind, I stepped back, then moved forward again, following the same path I’d walked side by side with Forbis that fateful Thursday night. We’d gotten about this far . . .

I stopped to check my position and looked to my right, to where Forbis had stood as we approached the statue to place that last button. “Right here,” I mumbled to myself. “It was about right here that he dropped his champagne glass.”

Yes, dropped his champagne glass, I reminded myself, and said those cryptic words, “Le bouton, le bouton.”

“Le bouton.” I spoke the words out loud, but since Richard and Laverne had moved to the far side of the exhibit, deep in a conversation about packing and loading semis, I figured nobody would care. “Le bouton?” Before I even realized what I was up to, I asked the question of the fierce loa who loomed over this particular part of the exhibit. The mother of pearl buttons on Congo Savanne’s skull glistened and winked down at me. The black buttons Forbis had used to accentuate his sunken eyes were bottomless pits, and instinctively, I knew that anyone careless or foolish enough to get too close would be dragged down and never see the light again.

Still, it was impossible to look away. Just like it was impossible not to take another step closer to the people-eater.

It must have been the way my neck was kinked when I looked up at the statue; the blood whooshed in my ears and Laverne’s and Richard’s voices, hushed but distinct only a short time earlier, were suddenly as muffled as if they were lost in a fog.

This close, a spotlight caught the fearsome skull face directly from my right and the milky buttons on it gleamed as if the statue was sweating. A chill breeze out of nowhere ruffled the back of my neck and though the breeze couldn’t have been strong enough to make it happen, I swore I saw the statue sway.

“Scared to death.”

The words echoed through my head to the rhythm of those same drumbeats that had haunted my sleep on Saturday night. Nev had told me that the medical examiner said it looked as if Forbis had been scared to death, and staring into the face of Congo Savanne, I could see how it was possible. My blood beat in my veins and my heart pounded so hard, I could practically feel the buildup of adrenaline that signaled fight or flight.

Only I couldn’t have moved if I wanted to.

I was frozen to the spot. Paralyzed. All I could feel was the cold that settled in my stomach and sent out icy tentacles that infiltrated every cell of my body, then slowly but surely immobilized each and every one of them. I wondered if Forbis felt exactly this before his heart gave out. In those last moments, did he realize that once the ice penetrated every inch of him, it would be too late?

It wasn’t until I felt myself pitch forward that I snapped out of the daydream and back to reality. I took a sharp breath, further grounding myself at the same time I distanced myself from the weird feelings that had engulfed me out of nowhere. I was never going to get anywhere in terms of my investigation if I let my imagination run away with me, and determined (even if I wasn’t completely convinced), I looked up at the statue and growled, “Take that.” Yeah, it was false bravado, but it worked. This time, I didn’t feel any bizarre sensations, no crazy, out-of-nowhere chills. The message was clear: Congo Savanne or no Congo Savanne, it was time to get down to business.

The thought firmly in mind, I backed up, the better to get an overall look at what Forbis must have seen right before he ran up to the choir loft. At the same time, I took a careful look at the spot where the red button was supposed to have been mounted.

Just like last time I’d seen it, the place on the front of the box where that last button was destined to go was blank, and a bare bit of wood showed through the buttons that surrounded it. The red plastic button would have been at the center of a flower, and again, I studied the buttons that made up its petals. Every button was exactly as I remembered it. There was the yellow glass moonglow button just below where the red one should have been, the same brass button with a beautiful little butterfly on it above. To the right of center . . .

My breath caught, and I leaned closer. On Thursday night, the button to the right of the flower’s center was ochre-colored ceramic, incised with curving lettering. It was odd, it was distinctive, and of course I noticed it the night of the murder because buttons are my life and one that unusual was impossible to forget. I’d told myself I was going to ask Forbis about it after our little button-installation ceremony was over, but, of course, I never had the chance. That was because on Thursday night, Forbis looked where I was looking right now, and he screamed, “Le bouton, le bouton” and ran.

“Except le bouton . . .” I inched nearer, my gaze trained on the spot. “If le bouton is the button I’m thinking it is, le bouton isn’t here anymore.”

In fact, what was there was a pretty but perfectly ordinary orange glass button, one I knew I hadn’t seen the other night.

By this time, I was kneeling in front of the exhibit, the better to get a really good up close and personal look at what was—and wasn’t—there. I snapped a few pictures before I touched a hand to the orange button.

“Tacky.” As a test, I touched my fingers together. They were slightly sticky. “Like something was glued over this button,” I told myself. “Yeah, something, all right. Like that ceramic button with the writing on it.” Thinking this over, I sat back on my heels, and it was a good thing I did. Otherwise, I never would have noticed something flashing at me from the base of one of the ceremonial drums on my left. Still on my knees, I scooted that way, bent nearer, and reached a hand around the nearest drum so I could close my fingers over the object. When I unfolded my fingers, I found myself looking down at a silver and onyx tuxedo stud.

“Just like the ones Vincent Cherneko was wearing the night of the exhibit,” I told myself.

And added (like I needed to), “The night of the murder.”

Curiouser and curiouser. Until I had a chance to mull it all over, I tucked the stud in my pocket and pulled myself to my feet. Laverne and Richard were nowhere to be seen, and like I said, I needed to talk to them about their alibi. Until I could, I needed time to think about the missing ceramic button and the shirt stud.

I looked around the church and realized that my timing was perfect. Standing on the old altar and facing where the congregation would have been, I saw that the afternoon light shone from behind that rose window up in the choir loft. A riot of glorious colors floated in the air above the pews. Gold, orange, red, green. Tiny dots of dust danced in the rainbow and, thanks to the sunlight, sparkled like fairy dust.

I am not a big believer in signs and coincidences, but I’m not a complete moron, either. And besides, I didn’t have a better idea. I headed up to the choir loft to sit and think about all I’d discovered.

There, the soft colors flowing from the rose window washed over the organ and the risers where singers once belted out their sacred tunes.

“Forbis, Forbis, Forbis.” It’s not like I expected, or wanted, an answer from the Great Beyond, but heck, as I’d learned over the course of my other investigations, it never hurts to bounce ideas off another person. And when another person isn’t around? Well, it doesn’t hurt to do a little thinking out loud, either.

“What were you doing up here?” I asked. “Who were you hiding from? And did it have anything to do with . . .” I made my way to the front of the loft and looked over the railing and across the expanse of the church. The lights of the exhibit made those thousands and thousand of buttons glow like jewels. Of course, it wasn’t the buttons that were there that I was thinking about. It was the one that was missing. And the one that didn’t belong. “Does your murder have anything to do with that funny, ceramic button? Is that what you were referring to when you said ‘le bouton’? And how did Victor Cherneko’s shirt stud end up in the midst of all those buttons?” I listened to the nothing but silence that greeted my questions, sighed, and leaned against the railing.