Hot Button (23 page)

I didn’t bother to tell him I would be. Instead, as determined as I’d ever be and likely to talk myself out of this cockamamie tryst if I didn’t get moving and do it fast, I marched toward the hallway. I stopped only once. That was so I could stand on tiptoe and give Nev a quick kiss on the cheek.

His face flushed with color. “What was that for?”

He’s a smart guy, so I figured he knew. I also figured it never hurts to spell things out.

“It’s the least you deserve,” I told him. “For caring.”

W
HEN IT COMES
to an investigation, I might be willing to swallow my pride, but I am not a complete moron. I deliberately avoided any restaurant that even hinted at candlelight and romance and went for sleek, casual, and well lit instead. One within walking distance of the hotel so we didn’t have to ride in the backseat of a cab together. Murderer or garden-variety nerd, it didn’t matter; I was determined to spend as little time alone with Daryl as it was possible to get on any date.

I ordered the shrimp and red-pepper pasta. And a dirty martini for courage.

Daryl asked for chicken tenders, extra fries, and a beer.

Had I been with anyone else (Nev, for instance), this is the part where the conversation would have lagged, and what started out as a promising evening crashed and burned. As hard as it was to believe, that meant there was an actual plus to dating Daryl. (I mean other than trying to find out something that would lead us to Brad Wyant’s murderer.) Two button collectors at dinner together? No way we could ever run out of things to talk about.

“So…” I scooted forward in my seat, my hands clutched around the stem of my martini glass. “It’s been so busy at the conference, we haven’t had much of a chance to get to know each other, Daryl. What kind of buttons do you specialize in?”

“Specialize?” He had just lifted his beer mug, and he looked at me through the golden liquid in it. It wasn’t until after he’d taken a drink and set down his glass that he replied.
“I’m too new to collecting to specialize in any one kind of button.”

“I remember those days.” I did. Just barely. Still, it seemed like a first-date (and there-will-never-be-another-one) thing to say. “When you first get into collecting, they all have a special appeal, don’t they?”

I could have sworn Daryl was listening intently, but then, there was a light hanging from the ceiling right above our table, and its glow reflected in his glasses. Maybe his gaze wasn’t glued to me the way I thought it was. “What’s that you said?” he asked, adjusting the lapel of that hideous plaid sport coat and leaning forward. “About every button being—”

“Special. Sure. I’ll bet you feel the same way. At first, they’re all so interesting.”

“They. Meaning the buttons.”

“Of course. But there must be one certain kind that really attracts your attention.”

A slow smile spread over Daryl’s face. “One certain kind of button? I thought for sure you were talking about one certain kind of woman.” He slipped his hand across the table toward mine.

I tucked mine in my lap.

The way Daryl’s cheeks darkened above his bush of a beard, I was pretty sure he got the message. He took another sip of beer. “I like colorful glass buttons, and Western-themed ones, of course. But then, that’s the whole reason I came to this conference in the first place, so I could hear Thad Wyant speak.”

It was an uncomfortable reminder of why I was really there, but trust me, I was grateful for it. Better to think about murder then to get carried away with my ruse and even begin to consider Daryl as potential boyfriend material.

He scratched a hand through his beard. “Have you heard anything?” he asked. “From the police?”

“You mean about the murder. Funny you should ask…” The waitress delivered my pasta, and I sat back and bided my time. Maybe it was a good thing I did; it was the first I realized Nev was seated at a table across the aisle and two down, facing my way. He looked as casual as can be, sitting there drinking a cup of coffee, but I could feel his eyes on me. Not sure if that was reassuring or annoying, I ignored him, twirling my fettuccine onto my pasta spoon and keeping up the conversation.

“The police mentioned something to me that sounds a little odd,” I said, and because I didn’t want to seem too anxious, I ate that forkful of pasta, and since it was incredibly delicious, another one, too. “They were questioning me. You know, about the night of the murder.”

“That first night of the conference. Sure.” Daryl took a bite of chicken fingers and left behind bread crumbs in his beard. “I remember. We were just getting seated for the banquet, and I went out to the lobby to take a phone call.”

“And you told the cops that’s when you saw Thad Wyant outside the hotel arguing with another man.”

Daryl was in the middle of chewing, so he didn’t so much answer as he did grunt.

That gave me the opportunity to go in for the kill.

“Only you didn’t, did you, Daryl?”

He was still chewing, and he excused himself by pointing to his mouth, swallowing, then washing down the chicken with a sip of beer. “What are you getting at, Josie?”

“I’m not getting at anything. I’m saying it plain and clear. There are security cameras all over the hotel.” The aroma of shrimp and red peppers tickled my nose. I took another
bite before I continued. “They’ve got video,” I pointed out. “Video of you in the lobby, talking on your phone.”

Daryl nodded.

“And video of Thad Wyant,” I added, even though, technically, the video wasn’t of Thad Wyant, but of Brad. “He never left the building, Daryl.”

Daryl adjusted the glasses on the bridge of his nose. “You mean—”

“That you couldn’t have seen Thad outside arguing with a man in a raincoat, because he never went outside.”

“Oh.”

“That’s it?” My fork clattered against my plate, and when the noise brought Nev up and out of his seat, I warned him off with a little shake of my head. Before we attracted any more attention, I schooled my voice. “You lied to me, Daryl, and you lied to the cops, too. I was hoping for a little more of an explanation than
oh
.”

A fidgety smile came and went from somewhere inside of that dark, shaggy beard. His left eye twitched. “Can this get me in trouble?” he asked.

“That all depends…” I picked up my fork again, the better to make it look like we were having a dinner conversation, not a showdown. “What did you see that night, Daryl?”

He was about to grab a french fry, and he stopped and sat back. “I wasn’t lying when I said I saw Thad Wyant in the lobby.”

“I didn’t think you were.” Not technically correct because ever since Nev had told me about the security tapes and what wasn’t on them, I wasn’t sure what to think of Daryl. “But like I said, you didn’t see him go outside. You couldn’t have.”

“No.” He picked up a french fry, dipped it in ketchup, then set it down again. “That’s true.”

“So if you didn’t see him go outside, you didn’t see him argue with a man out there.”

Daryl hung his head. “That’s true, too.”

“Then why…” Honestly, I didn’t get it. Too antsy to just sit there and wait for answers I wasn’t sure were anywhere near coming, I picked up my glass and sipped my martini. A minute later, I felt steadier, and ready to start again. “Why lie?” I asked Daryl. “It doesn’t make sense.”

His white shirt suddenly matched the color of his skin. Except for the two bright spots of color peeking out at the place where beard met bare skin. “I thought…” Daryl’s voice caught, and he coughed, twitched, and took a swallow of beer. When he was done, he gave me a level look. “I thought it would make me look more important,” he said. “To you.”

“To… me?” Big points for me, I didn’t groan when the truth hit like a ton of bricks. Then again, Daryl didn’t exactly give me the chance.

My hand was on the table and he grabbed it and clutched it in his sweaty palm. “I had to do something to get you to notice me,” he said, the words rushing out of him. “I mean, I knew, ever since that first evening when we went on that cruise… I knew you were special, Josie. And I knew there was no way a woman who’s as smart and as beautiful and as accomplished as you are, I knew there was no way you were ever going to notice me.”

Were my eyes as big as saucers? I’d like to think I’m a little more subtle than that, but at that moment, I wasn’t so sure. I had been expecting the truth from Daryl. Heck, I’d been hoping for it.

But not this truth.

Talk about subtle—I raised my free hand in a sort of
help!
gesture I hoped Nev could interpret.

He drank his coffee.

“You understand, don’t you, Josie?” Daryl’s hand closed tighter over mine. “You can see how a guy like me… Well, I know you might find this hard to believe, but I don’t have that much experience when it comes to romancing a woman. I thought—”

“That lying to the cops would get me to notice you?” Since Nev ignored my first signal for assistance, I tried again. My left hand shot up; then, to try to make it look like the most casual thing in the world, I ran it through my hair.

Bad move.

Number one, because Nev still didn’t get it. In fact, when I sent a desperate, pleading look his way, I found him studying the dessert menu.

Number two, because Daryl’s gaze moved to my hair, and his eyes lit up.

Oh no—he thought my little gesture was sexy, and I was coming on to him!

What little I’d eaten of my dinner soured in my stomach. My hands were suddenly as sweaty as Daryl’s.

I can’t even begin to explain how grateful I was when my cell rang.

I shot Daryl an apologetic smile, snatched my hand out of his reach, and grabbed for my phone.

“Looks like you need saving.”

“Kaz?” Automatically, I scanned the restaurant and found him sitting on a stool at the bar, where he had a clear line of vision to our table. “How did you—”

“Bad time to ask questions, don’t you think?”

Since I couldn’t sit there staring at him, I looked away, but I knew he was smiling.

“Ask me what’s happening at the conference,” he said.

“The conference?” That sourness in my stomach
ratcheted up a notch, and I squeezed my eyes shut. “Please, don’t tell me something else has gone wrong.”

“It’s a great excuse, don’t you think?”

I realized what Kaz was getting at and tried not to breathe a sigh of relief. At least not so Daryl could see it.

“I need to get back?” I said into the phone. “Right now?”

“I always said you were smart.” Kaz hung up.

I did my best to look and sound disappointed. “I’ve got to get back to the hotel,” I said, pushing back my chair and grabbing my purse. “There’s a problem. At the conference. And—”

“Sure. I understand. Only…” From behind his thick glasses, Daryl’s eyes were fixed on mine.

I prayed that wasn’t supposed to be some come-hither look, gulped, and parroted.

“Only… ?”

“You invited me,” Daryl explained. “I think it’s only right that you pay before you leave.”

I did. As quickly as I could. I left Daryl sitting there munching his chicken fingers and bolted for the door.

I was out on the sidewalk before I realized Kaz was already out there waiting for me. And Nev wasn’t far behind.

When I started for the hotel and he stepped up beside me, I shot Nev a look. “Thanks for nothing,” I said.

“Thanks? For nothing?” Some detective! He didn’t have a clue what I was talking about. Nev stopped in his tracks. And me? I never looked back. But that didn’t mean I didn’t hear Kaz when he walked up to Nev.

“Riley,” Kaz said, his voice tinged with barely controlled patience, “we need to have a serious talk.”

Chapter Fifteen

T
HE CONFERENCE WOULD OFFICIALLY WRAP UP AFTER
lunch on Sunday. That gave me two and one-half days to accomplish two things:

1. Figure out who killed Brad.

2. Redeem myself in the eyes of conference-goers.

Notice I didn’t say they were two easy things.

Which, believe me, didn’t mean I wasn’t going to try my darndest.

The thought firmly in mind, I vowed to devote all of Friday to conference activities and nothing but conference activities and think about the investigation later. First thing in the morning, I met with the security staff and found out they didn’t have any leads on our missing trays of buttons. After that, I called a meeting of the judging committee and left them with the charge of figuring out the most equitable
way to handle the contest. Before I attended one panel on calico buttons and another that focused on Oriental-themed buttons, I talked to Stan half a dozen times; he was at the Button Box, and at seven that evening, I was hosting a cocktail party there for any attendees who wanted to stop by. Stan and I went over last-minute details, checked and rechecked the catering menu, and even though I never mentioned it because I was sure he had everything under control, he told me—twice—how he’d vacuumed and dusted and made sure everything in the shop was shipshape.

So far, so good.

I was just on my way into another panel—this one was on military buttons, and I was anxious to hear it—when I saw Nev get off the elevator and walk into the hotel lobby. As soon as he scanned the groups of people walking out of one conference room and into another, I knew he was on the lookout for me.