Buttoned Up (18 page)

I am not a flashy dresser, but I guess I did a pretty good job of getting ready for the art show opening because when I walked out of my bedroom in the nipped-waist, black lace, sleeveless dress with the short, slightly flared skirt, Gabriel’s eyes lit. Then again, I suppose I had the same reaction when I saw him. While I was getting ready, he’d gone . . . where? . . . and when he came back, he was dressed in a tux.

“Well, you can’t expect me to go to an opening like tonight’s in jeans,” he said in response to my open-mouthed appreciation.

Slack jaw is not a good look for me. I snapped my mouth shut, then reminded him, “You went to Forbis’s opening in jeans.”

“That was at the Chicago Community Church. Forest is a little more upscale.”

He was right.

From its Michigan Avenue address to the valet parking out front, Forest was a whole different ballgame. While the website was drenched in warm colors that gave off earthy vibes and there was a sort of green tree thingy just inside the front door (tapestry? sculpture? I wasn’t sure) that played on the theme, the gallery itself was an eye-popping extravaganza of high ceilings, stark white walls, and stainless-steel accents. A jazz trio played in the far corner of the room and servers in black pants and white shirts circulated with tiny appetizers and glasses of champagne.

I am no bumpkin, but in a room where every man wore a tux and every second woman had on more jewelry than I have owned throughout my lifetime, I can’t say I felt at home.

Not so Gabriel. By the time we got to the halfway point in the long gallery, he’d already returned the greetings of a dozen or so of our fellow guests. While he was at it, he scooped two glasses of champagne off the tray of a passing server and handed one to me at the same time he asked, “What?”

I guess he knew what I was thinking. Or maybe he saw the question in my eyes.

“You know everyone.” As if to emphasize the point, a dowager type loaded down with diamonds put a hand on his arm and greeted Gabriel. “Everyone knows you.”

“Of course they do.” His smile was as bright as the sparks off the elderly woman’s jewels. “I attend all these things. Arts journalist, you know.”

I imagined a wink going along with the comment, but truth be told, I wasn’t looking Gabriel’s way. My attention had been caught by the art installation that dominated the center of the room. Center of the room and up.

My gaze naturally went right there, and I found myself looking at the accouterments of a full, formal English tea—china cups and saucers, silver teapots, lace-covered table and all. All upside down and facing us from where they were stuck to the gallery ceiling.

No doubt, some artist’s idea of turning tradition on its head.

“So . . .” I looked from the ceiling to the other artwork around us. “What does your arts journalist self have to say about Forest?” I asked Gabriel.

“Eclectic.” At the same time he said this, Gabriel checked out a way-bigger-than-life bronze sculpture of a lobster riding a pony. “If I were writing about the event, I might even throw in words like
idiosyncratic
,
whimsical
, and
haunting
.”

“You might.” I took a tiny sip of champagne and strolled nearer to an installation of garden tools covered with mud. “If you were an arts journalist.”

Gabriel stepped back to give the tools a better look. “Commonplace and weathered. Still, they brim with yearning and are aquiver with history.” He slid me a sidelong look and warmed it up with a smile. “Arts journalist enough for you?”

I suppose it was, and told myself to stop obsessing. Who—or what—Gabriel really was and why he was really mixed up with Forbis and the Button of Doom didn’t matter at the moment. Not as much as locating the button—and the murderer who’d probably taken it off the loa box.

As if in response to the thoughts swirling through my head, I caught a glimpse of Victor Cherneko across the gallery. Gabriel saw him, too, and side by side, we headed over to greet him.

“Oh . . . er . . . Ms. . . .”

“Giancola.” I filled in the blanks for Victor and believe me, I didn’t hold it against him that he didn’t remember my name. A man who lived in the stratosphere barely had time, much less memory, for those of us mired on terra firma. “We met when I returned your onyx stud.”

“Of course! Of course!” A lifetime of cocktail parties, board meetings, and dinners at the country club had served Victor well. He must have known we hadn’t run into him simply by chance, yet he was as gracious as if we’d met at the polo grounds. “I was grateful that you took the time to bring the stud back to me. They were a gift from my wife for our thirtieth anniversary and you know how women can be about things like that.” He looked Gabriel’s way for support and, not finding it, Victor glanced around. “So . . . what do you think of Forest?”

“Idiosyncratic, whimsical, and haunting,” I said. “But what I’m really wondering is why I found your shirt stud under those ceremonial drums in Forbis’s exhibit back at the church. You couldn’t possibly have been near those drums—at least not until after everyone left the church that night.”

Victor’s face turned to stone. “You’re not saying—”

“I’m saying it’s curious. And I bet the cops would love to hear all about it.”

Oh yeah, I was playing hardball and that’s not like me at all, but then, with a guy like Victor, I was pretty sure I had to. A man didn’t get to be a billionaire because he had warm and fuzzy tendencies. Or because he happened to suddenly feel like sharing his secrets with some woman he hardly knew.

I knew this. But I also knew that billionaires don’t like to have their luxury boats rocked. If I was going to get anywhere with Victor, I had to push the envelope and make him more than just a tad uncomfortable even on what was essentially his turf.

I guess my strategy worked because Victor cleared his throat and stepped back from the crowd and toward a doorway that led into a service corridor alongside the gallery. Gabriel and I followed.

When the door closed behind us and shut out the hum of conversation and the soft beat of the music, Victor shifted from foot to foot and tugged at his left earlobe. “You two . . .” His gaze zipped from me to Gabriel and back to me. “You’re not saying . . . well, you couldn’t possibly be!” His laugh echoed against the high ceiling. “Why would I possibly want to—”

“Mr. Parmenter was supposed to complete a commission for that new headquarters building of yours.”

This was news to me, and I hoped the look I shot Gabriel told him so; I didn’t like being blindsided.

But I wasn’t about to admit it in front of Victor. “The mural in your lobby . . .” I picked up on the hint from Gabriel and ran with it. “It was supposed to be done with buttons. When did Forbis back out?”

Victor scowled. “After it was too late to do anything about it. I had no choice but to open the building with that damned blank wall sticking out like a sore thumb. But you don’t think . . .” When a waiter walked by on his way into the gallery, Victor deposited his empty champagne glass on the man’s tray. “Give me a break, you two. You can’t possibly think that Forbis backing out of a contract gave me reason to kill him. Kill him in court, yes. I planned to sue the pants off that goofy man. Imagine him telling me that he didn’t have time for me anymore. That he didn’t have time to complete the mural. It’s unfathomable! But I certainly didn’t kill him to exact some sort of revenge. I’ll find another artist. Believe me, with what I’m willing to pay to get that mural completed, they’re lined up like pigeons on a telephone wire.”

“Still, it must have been plenty aggravating,” I suggested. “Not to mention humiliating. Especially with Forbis’s art star rising.”

Victor’s opinion came out as a grumbled
harumph.
“I know art. I have a house full of it. And the money to buy more. Why would you think that I had any appreciation for Forbis and his silly buttons? Yes, yes, it would have been quite a spectacular mural in the new building, one wall entirely covered with buttons. It would have been unique. And people talk about unique. Forbis had sent sketches. A Chicago skyline. A rendering of Lake Michigan. If he’d been able to pull it off, and all in buttons, it would have been something to talk about, all right. But that other stuff of his? The drums and the statues and the household utensils covered with buttons? Silly.”

“And valuable,” I suggested.

“Possibly.” Victor threaded his fingers together. “I honestly don’t know. I never cared enough to look into it.”

I gave him the moment, and another one after that. Then again, as a once-upon-a-time theater major, I knew the value of timing. As a button dealer who was sometimes a detective, I also knew that waiting for the exact right moment before I said another word could do more than just about anything to advance an investigation.

I let another heartbeat pass then said, “If you didn’t think Forbis’s works were valuable, why did you have Richard Norquist stealing them for you?”

Victor was a big guy, so I guess it was a good thing that when the starch went out of him, he collapsed against the wall. I didn’t much like the thought of picking him up off the floor.

“How do you . . . how did you . . . ?” He gasped like a fish out of water. “You can’t possibly know—”

“But I do.” When I took a step closer, I had to look up to look Victor in the eye. “I know Richard Norquist was skimming off the top of Forbis’s art show sales. And that tells me that Richard is a conniving little thief. That means he’s not above swiping whatever he can get his hot little hands on. And what he got his hot little hands on . . . that’s what he brought you at Remondo’s the night of the murder, wasn’t it?”

Victor didn’t have to answer. The fact that his face went ashen pretty much told me everything I needed to know.

“Richard brought a package to the bar. He left without it.” Victor knew this, of course, but I figured it wouldn’t hurt to explain this part of the story to Gabriel. “That package went home with you, Mr. Cherneko, and I know what was in it.” (OK, so I didn’t, not for certain, but hey, like I said, timing is everything and this wasn’t the time to sound unsure of myself.) “Richard stole one of Forbis’s smaller works and you bought it from him. When the police find out—”

“Really, Ms. Giancola!” A waiter came in from the gallery and the noises of the party and the music overlapped with Victor’s harsh whisper. “Keep your voice down,” he said and he put a hand on my arm.

For exactly one nanosecond.

But then, that was because Gabriel stepped between me and Victor so fast, I don’t think poor Victor knew what had happened until he realized that instead of looking into the sweet but determined eyes of a button dealer, he was staring into eyes as gray as they were steely.

“OK. All right.” Victor flattened himself against the wall. “I didn’t mean anything by touching Ms. Giancola. I only thought I’d remind her—”

“Whatever you’re going to remind her . . .” Gabriel’s words were half growl, all warning. He backed away from Victor and stood at my side. “You can remind her from right where you are.”

“Yes, of course. I didn’t mean . . .” Victor coughed. “What I meant, of course—”

“What you meant is that you know you could help clear things up,” I suggested, hoping to take advantage of a contrition I knew wouldn’t last long. “All we’re looking for is the truth, Mr. Cherneko. If you had nothing to do with Forbis’s murder, you won’t mind sharing it.”

“That . . .” Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest. “And your interest in le Bouton de Malheur.”

What was that I said about the right words at exactly the right time?

Victor’s spine accordioned. His mouth fell open. He rubbed his hands over his face. “How do . . .” He looked at us through his fingers. “How do you two know about the button?”

“Oh, come on, Victor!” Gabriel gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. “You think you’re the only one with an interest in island legends? Josie here . . .” He glanced my way. “She knows about the button. I know about the button. Forbis Parmenter, he certainly knew about the button. But then, so did his father and his grandfather.”

Victor nodded, but no words came out of his mouth. Not for a few moments, anyway. Finally he sputtered, “Like you said, it’s just a legend. That’s all. There isn’t anyone who takes that sort of thing seriously!”

“Except I bet you do.” This was me, and yes, I was going on nothing but instinct alone. Three cheers for me, because it worked.