Button Holed (32 page)

Kaz didn’t answer. Instead, he grinned and pointed. “Like the hat?”

“You rented a hat?”

“Nah. One of the other drivers parked outside took his off so he could comb his hair. He set it on the hood of his car, and—”

“You’re wearing a stolen chauffeur’s cap.”

“I don’t know if the guy stole it.”

“But you sure did.”

His expression brightened. “All for a good cause.”

In Kaz’s universe,
good cause
always means
Kaz’s best interests
. It was one of the reasons I’d divorced him. That and the fact that he couldn’t pass up a card game, a bet on a horse race, or a Mega Millions lottery ticket sales machine. Then again, with Kaz, I knew what I saw was what I got. The trick was remembering that. And forgetting that for a few years of my life, I’d actually been naive enough to think he was my happily ever after.

“You might want to explain what that good cause is,” I said, sliding a look toward where Thad was closing in on us. “Before I tell my guest of honor that you’re really a phony.”

“What, and make yourself look bad when he was just realizing how classy you and the rest of the button crowd is?” Kaz’s grin said it all. He had me and he knew it.

I watched as Thad stopped and chatted to a man seated down at the end of the bar. “He’s sure not what I expected,” I mumbled. “He’s so—”

“Noisy and obnoxious?”

I slid my ex a look. “I was going to say
outgoing
. Thad Wyant is the world’s leading expert on Western-themed buttons. But he never goes to conferences or button shows. He’s a recluse. He sits at home and writes articles for the collectors’ magazines. He’s even written a book on Western collecting. I thought . . .” Thad roared a laugh and slapped the back of the man he was talking to. “I guess I pictured someone a little more studious. You know, kind of quiet.”

“Maybe he’s loud because he doesn’t get out enough.” Kaz had an eye on Thad, too. “You know, like he’s making up for lost time.”

“Maybe.” I glanced at the carry-on Kaz was holding. “I just wish we could get back to the hotel so I could take a look at that button.”

I pretended not to notice when Kaz rolled his eyes.

“You can’t deny the historical significance,” I said.

“Sure I can. I saw your conference brochure, and it says something about some famous Geronimo button, and this guy’s all into Western stuff so I’m guessing he’s the owner of the button. But I dunno, Jo, I just don’t get it. What’s so special about one little button?”

“Geronimo? The famous Native American warrior?” I figured he knew this much, so I didn’t elaborate. “In the last years of his life, Geronimo was a prisoner of the American government. But talk about being a rock star!” Remembering all the stories I’d read, I couldn’t help but smile. “Geronimo rode in President Theodore Roosevelt’s inaugural parade. And he appeared in Wild West shows. And even though he was technically a prisoner and the government wouldn’t let him return to his people in Arizona, he received dozens and dozens of visitors and admirers. When people came to see him, he sold them the buttons off his shirt.”

I didn’t need Kaz to open his mouth; his look said it all.

“Of course it sounds dumb to you,” I said. “You don’t care about buttons. Chances are, most of the people who bought Geronimo’s buttons didn’t, either. But the buttons gave them something to remember him by, some connection to history. And for Geronimo . . . well, the story is that at the time of his death, he had more than ten thousand dollars in the bank. That was a lot of money in 1909. So he did pretty well for himself selling his autograph and those buttons. And when he cut one button off his shirt and sold it, he just sewed another one on. The actual value of that little button might be minuscule, but the fact that it came from the shirt of the most famous Native American warrior in history . . .”

I guess Kaz actually got it, because he nodded. “And this Wyant guy is the one who owns one of those buttons.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s in that bag you’re holding.” My fingers itched to grab the carry-on and root through it. “Thad is going to talk about the button at dinner tomorrow night. He’s going to display it throughout the conference. In the world of button collecting, Wyant might be a rock star, but the fact that I got him to agree to come to the convention and do all this for us, well . . .” I pulled back my shoulders and stood tall. No easy thing for a woman as short as I am. “In the button world, I’m a superhero.”

“Wonder Woman. I always said so.”

Thad was closing in on us, so I was forced to grumble under my breath, “I never heard you say that.”

“I thought it.”

“Not the same.”

“So, what are you two lollygagging around for?” Laughing at his own cleverness, Thad grabbed my arm and dragged me out to the concourse. “We’ve got a convention to get to. Let’s get a move on.”

Get a move on, we did. Kaz grabbed Thad’s two suitcases from the luggage carousel, and we headed out to where the car was parked.

Only the car wasn’t Kaz’s beat-up Jeep.

It was a limo. A long, black limo so shiny, I could see my reflection in the door.

“Kaz . . .” I waited until the luggage was stowed in the trunk and Thad was in the backseat. “Please don’t tell me you stole the car, too.”

“Don’t be silly. You know I’d never do anything like that. The limo is legit. Bought and paid for. Well, rented and paid for.”

I breathed a sigh of relief.

At least until I remembered the state of Kaz’s bank account. “But you—”

He didn’t give me a chance to ask the question. He opened the door and stepped back to allow me to climb inside, and once I did, he bent down so that he could give me a thousand-watt smile and a wink while he whispered, “Not to worry. I told the rental company I was your assistant for the conference. The limo’s on your charge.”

By hook or by crook?

I pushed the door open and stopped dead in my tracks. The bag with my turkey sandwich in it slipped from my hand and hit the floor with a splat.

Too stunned to move a muscle, I stared at the chaos that reminded me of the chaos of the burglary.

The chaos I’d finally cleaned up and had under control when I left the shop not an hour earlier.

Like the hiccup of a bad dream, there were buttons spilled across my desk and all over the floor. But this dream contained another grisly component—in the center of all those buttons, there was Kate Franciscus, dressed in skinny leather pants and an emerald green jacket that would have looked spectacular with her coloring—if she wasn’t so ashen.

That silver swan-head buttonhook I’d arranged so neatly on my door-side table only a couple days earlier was sticking out of her chest, and blood curlicued down her side and puddled on the hardwood floor.

My breath gurgled on the bile that rose in my throat, and I jumped back onto the sidewalk. But I didn’t get the door closed fast enough.

That was why Mike Homolka was able to get a couple dozen photos of Kate’s body and a couple dozen more of me, staring in horror and screaming like a banshee.