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“You tell ’em, Jo!”

The words of encouragement came form Kaz, who gave me a thumbs-up.

“That’s not all,” I said, hitting the tough stuff before I lost my momentum. “It’s also important that you know something about the death of Thad Wyant. Namely, that the man who was murdered here on Monday was not Thad Wyant.”

This time, the roar was a veritable tsunami of noise. Dozens of people called out questions, and the person-to-person murmur lasted so long, I wondered if they’d give me a chance to continue.

I was pretty much assured of it when Kaz put two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle that broke the sound barrier.

The room fell silent.

“The man who was killed here was actually Brad Wyant, Thad’s brother,” I told the stunned button collectors. “His murder, like every murder, is a terrible tragedy. But the police tell me the reason he was here in Chicago to begin with… Well, it’s a pretty ugly story.”

I told them how Thad had been killed back in Santa Fe and how Brad had come to our conference with larceny in his heart. Believe me, I had their attention then. One hundred percent.

“Brad Wyant came to Chicago to sell the Geronimo button,” I said, and before another cascade of voices could
drown me out again, I added quickly, “But the button he was selling as the Geronimo button… Well, I’m sorry to report this, but it was all a hoax.”

This time I expected the uproar, and I simply waited it out. When it finally ebbed, I got through the rest of what I had to say as quickly as possible.

“The police tell me that four people here at our conference agreed to deal with Brad, thinking they were buying the real Geronimo button. They each paid ten thousand dollars for it. Detective Nevin Riley is in the back of the room.” I waved that way, and Nev held up a hand so people could easily identify him. “If you were one of those people who paid Brad Wyant for a button, you can talk to Detective Riley. We’re going to be meeting here in the ballroom at four this afternoon, and Detective Riley assures me that if you come forward then and tell him what happened, and if you can prove you paid for what you thought was the Geronimo button, you can get your ten thousand dollars back.”

That was it. All I had to say.

I stepped away from the podium and headed right into the service entrance just as the waitstaff was coming the other way, carrying dessert. It was that, or get swallowed up in the crowd that surged forward to ask questions.

I didn’t need questions, I needed answers.

And at four o’clock, I intended to find them.

G
REAT PLAN, RIGHT?

Too bad four o’clock came and went—and nobody showed up in the ballroom but me and Nev.

I held out hope. Honest, I did. At least until four thirty. That’s when I leaned back in my chair and groaned, “Is police work always this discouraging?”

“Hey, at least we’ve got nice, comfy chairs to sit in. And iced tea!” The catering manager had brought up a pitcher when we got to the ballroom, and Nev poured himself another glass and topped off mine. “You should see some of the stakeouts I get involved in. Long hours sitting in a police car tend to make me crabby.”

I have seen Nev crabby. Which means he’s also short-tempered, abrupt, and bristly. I was grateful for the ballroom and the comfy chairs, too.

Except…

“Iced tea or no iced tea, we’re not getting anywhere.” Any more iced tea and I’d burst. I had another sip, anyway.

“After that offer we made to get them their money back, I thought your collectors would come running,” Nev commented. “Button people never do what I expect them to do.”

“That’s because a lot of collectors care more about their buttons than they do about the money. And yes,” I added when I knew he was going to tell me that was just crazy, “it does sound odd. But a collector’s reputation… Well, that might be more important to that person than getting his or her money back.”

He cocked his head, considering this. “Who?” he asked.

I shrugged and let out a laugh. “Everybody. I’ve told you that before. Everybody who comes to a conference—”

“But who fits that bill and had the opportunity to kill Brad Wyant?”

I knew what he was getting at and considered the possibilities. “Donovan Tucker and his mother were out in the lobby at the right time,” I said. “And Helen was late for the banquet, and Langston was in the vendor room. I know that, because I ran into him when I went after Helen. Chase was in the ballroom, and talk about somebody who would care more about his reputation than about money!”

“Anybody else?”

“Well…” Something had been niggling at the back of my mind since lunchtime, and I’d hesitated to mention it because it seemed so silly. “It’s probably nothing,” I told Nev.

“It could be something.”

“But it doesn’t have anything to do with Brad’s murder.”

“Anything that we know of.”

I gave in with a sigh. “It’s the contest. And Gloria’s ivory buttons. She got a measle, see.” Nev’s eyebrows rose, and I explained how Gloria had been disqualified and why. “So how did that button get changed on her tray?” I asked.

“And why?”

I waved away Nev’s question. “The why is the easy part. If Gloria’s the one who did it.”

His eyes lit. “We could ask her.”

Apparently, button dealers aren’t made for stakeouts, even ones that include comfy chairs and iced tea. Just the thought of getting out of the ballroom and on to something where we were actually doing something other than just sitting around and waiting cheered me no end. I jumped out of my chair at the same time Nev stood. “It’s the last full day of the conference, and like all serious collectors, I’d bet Gloria is in the vendor room.”

We got there in record time, and I glanced around at the three dozen or so vendor tables and the hustle and bustle going on all around us. The last day of any button show is always busy with people wheeling and dealing and hoping the buttons they’ve been coveting since early in the week are still there, and maybe available now at a better price.

Before I had a chance to spot Gloria Winston, Langston caught my eye. He gave Elliot instructions before he walked away from his booth and strolled over. “Any luck?” he asked.

“With getting people in to get their money back?” Of
course it was what he was talking about. Langston is one of the most intelligent people I know, and that means he’s naturally curious. “You’d think it was an offer they couldn’t refuse,” I said.

He lifted his shoulders in an elegant gesture. “You’d think.”

“Have you seen Gloria?”

Langston is taller than me, and he glanced around the room. “A while ago. She was at the booth next to mine, saying something to the dealer there about getting more ivory buttons. But I don’t think he was interested in dealing. Not for the price she wanted to pay.”

“And now?”

Langston looked around again. “It’s too crowded in here to see clearly, but you could try near the far doors. There are a couple big women standing over there.” He craned his neck. “I can’t tell if one of them is Gloria.”

I thanked him and headed that way. I’d just dodged around a woman carrying two shopping bags when I bumped into Helen and nearly bowled her over.

“I’m so sorry.” When she jumped back and swayed, I put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. “I was looking for Gloria and—”

“No problem. Really.” Helen glanced away. She’d been digging through a poke box, and she tucked her hands in the pockets of her white jacket. Definition time: at shows, vendors usually put out a box of miscellaneous odds and ends of inexpensive buttons for collectors to poke through. Poke-box buttons usually sell for less than a dollar each and are generally worth about that much or less. Sure, it’s fun to poke, especially for a new collector, who isn’t sure yet which buttons to specialize in. For experienced collectors like Helen—

I couldn’t help myself. I took a long, hard look at the top layer of the buttons in that poke box. If Helen was looking through it, she might have heard a rumor about some valuable button having inadvertently been dropped in there. Like button collectors everywhere, it was hard for me to ignore the siren’s call of an overlooked treasure.

“You’re holding out on me.” I was teasing—and fishing for information just in case there was something in that box I would love to get my hands on. “What are you up to, Helen?”

“Nothing. Really. Just looking around one last time. I really need to get back to my room and pack and… and I’ll see you later, Josie.”

Who would have thought a senior citizen could walk away that fast?

“What?” I asked a couple minutes later when Nev found me looking through that poke box.

He leaned over my shoulder. “You’re supposed to be looking for Gloria Winston.”

It was my turn to look as mortified as Helen had when I found her midpoke. “Oh, yeah, Gloria…” There was nothing unusual in the box after all—a whole lot of MOPs, some black-glass buttons that were pretty but hardly valuable, a couple realistics that I knew I already owned—nothing I could turn around and sell at the Button Box, and nothing I couldn’t live without in my own collection, so I walked away.

That was when my phone rang.

I checked caller ID and gave Nev a questioning look. “Daryl? I mean Donovan. Why isn’t he—”

“Out on bail,” Nev said, just as I answered and listened to the words that rushed out of Daryl.

“Now?” I said in response. “You need me to come up to your room now?”

“I think it’s important,” Donovan said. “I caught something one day when I was filming, and I don’t know if it’s important or not, but I think you should see it. Of course…” Now that he was out of police custody, the edge of cockiness was back in his words. “If you’re not comfortable coming here, I could always come to your room.”

Yeah, like that was going to help.

Or make me forget that this was the same guy who’d whacked me over the head with a broom handle.

What was that about a siren’s call?

I guess the chance of learning more about the mystery that had all our brains in a muddle was just as strong as button desire.

I signaled to Nev that he needed to come along with me and told Donovan I’d be right there.

Chapter Nineteen

I
WANTED ALL THE ANSWERS, AND BY THE TIME WE WERE
done in Donovan’s room, I still didn’t have them. Oh, I had another piece of the puzzle, all right. But the picture still wasn’t in focus.

There was only one way I could think to make things come clear.

I made some phone calls and issued a few special invitations. That evening at the Button Box, I said. Seven o’clock. I told my guests I wanted to thank each of them personally for helping me out at the conference.

I was there at six thirty, and though Stan had already closed the shop for the day, I’d called to tell him what I was up to, and he insisted on staying around. Just in case Nev needed backup, he said. I invited Kaz, too, and yes, it was against my better judgment, but he had just about as much stake in the results of this investigation as I did. After all,
he’d picked up the slack as my assistant when I’d been forced to concentrate on the case.

A few minutes before seven, we were ready. As we’d done at the end of the last case I’d helped Nev investigate, we arranged chairs in a loose circle in the center of the shop. Nev and I talked about the things I was going to tell my guests—including the huge surprise I hadn’t revealed at the luncheon that day—and he took up his position in the back room, the better to let the folks I’d invited think they could speak freely, without a law-enforcement official there to listen. Or slap on the cuffs.

Deep breaths.

One last look to make sure everything was in order.

And my guests arrived.

Donovan and Jenny Tucker showed up first, and I hoped that when the button collectors got there and realized who he was, I could keep them from wringing Donovan’s neck. Then again, if he opened his mouth and said stupid things about film and honesty and how he was immortalizing button collectors so people could laugh at us, I decided he was on his own.

Langston, Chase, Helen, and Gloria shared a cab and showed up together.

As one, they stopped just inside the door and aimed death looks at Donovan. How did they know Mr. Hunk was the nerd from our convention? It was that same, damned sport coat, of course. Apparently, good looks and a sense of style do not go hand in hand.

“You can deal with him later,” I promised, ushering them to their seats. “After I’m done talking to all of you.”

“Talking?” Helen glanced around the shop. Stan had done a great job of getting everything cleaned up from the cocktail party the night before. The shelves and displays
were back in order and back in place. The appetizer tables and the makeshift bar were gone.

“But I thought this was a kind of party,” Helen said. “When you called, you said you wanted to—”

“Thank you. Yes. That’s exactly what I said, and it’s what I want to do.” I took my place at the portion of the circle nearest the front door. It wasn’t like I expected them to make a break for it, and I certainly didn’t think I could stop them if they tried. It just seemed like the best place to stand.