Authors: Kylie Logan
Tags: #Fiction, #Mystery & Detective, #Women Sleuths, #General
Buttoned Up (5 page)
It must have happened weeks before, but it was obvious this still baffled Laverne. She screwed up her face and shook her head. “Richard told me that the show at Mango Tango had been cancelled. Just like that, out of the blue. He said he was looking for another gallery to host the show and he had plenty of places that were jumping at the chance to do it, but the first person he thought of was me.” She held out her hands, palms up. “So here we are. I was thrilled to show off Celestial Spaces and so grateful when Richard said the church could share in the profits from any sales. Then this . . .” Again, her gaze traveled in the direction of the altar. “It was supposed to be so wonderful, and a springboard for discussion and a way to bring the neighborhood and the community to our church. And now this horrible thing has happened.”
“So why was the show cancelled at Mango Tango?” Nev’s turn to ask, maybe because he knew I would if he didn’t.
Laverne shrugged. “All Richard ever said was that the owner there . . . some man named Burt or Bart, some name like that . . . all Richard ever said was that he was unreasonable. Some sort of art world prima donna. Richard was thrilled that we could accommodate the show. And we were thrilled to host it! Anyway, that’s how Richard explained why he wanted to move the show here.”
“You don’t actually believe him, not completely.” No, I’m not psychic, but one woman can read another woman’s emotions as sure as shootin’.
Laverne proved I was right on the money when she grinned. “I thought maybe . . . Like I said, Richard and I were old friends. I thought maybe once he knew I lived here and that I was involved with Celestial Spaces . . . Well, I think he might have moved the show here on purpose. You know, so we could rekindle our friendship. And to help out the church, of course.”
Nev had been scribbling in a little notepad, and he stuck it back in his pocket and looked around. “There was a security guard here last night during the show.”
“Yes, but he didn’t stay. Not all night,” Laverne told us. “The church was locked up nice and tight. We didn’t think we needed more security than that and, frankly, we can’t afford it.”
“Which makes me wonder how if Forbis did leave, he got back in here,” I said and looked Nev’s way. “Unless there was some sign of a break-in?”
Apparently not. “Who has keys?” he asked Laverne.
She laughed. “Keys? I can see you’ve never been involved in your church, Detective. In any church, everybody has keys, and this place is no exception. Reverend Truman, our minister, he certainly has keys. So does Bob, the maintenance man you saw a minute ago. The grounds staff does because they’re always coming and going, and me, of course. As church secretary, I have a set. So does our choir director, the president of our board, and anyone who’s ever served on a committee. Then there are the workers we hire for the jobs Bob can’t handle. A lot of times, there can’t be someone here to meet them, you know, if someone comes in to fix something electric or to mess with the plumbing or whatever. When that happens, we just leave a key outside for them and they use it and put it back where they found it when they’re done.”
“So anybody could have a key,” I said.
“Pretty much,” Laverne said.
Nev and I exchanged looks. For this, I was grateful. It meant that, at least for now, we had put aside the Evangeline question and were back in investigating mode. Investigating was good. Investigating was all about logic, and with any luck, I could keep my emotions in the background where they belonged. At least until Nev and I had a chance to sit down and have a real heart-to-heart.
Even before Nev said, “I think we need to talk to Reverend Truman,” I was already headed for the door. Yep, we were back to being a team and thinking alike. I didn’t even realize that it felt as if a hand was squeezing my heart. Not until the pressure let up.
We found the minister in an oak-paneled office with bookcases on two walls and a window that looked out over the parking lot. He was an African American man in his sixties with gray hair, and he looked decidedly unclerical in khaki pants and a green golf shirt. When we walked in, he had a dust rag in his hands, and he was rubbing away at the side of his desk.
“Be with you in a minute.” He tossed the comment over his shoulder at us. “Just can’t stand the thought of a mess in here. Whatever this is, it wasn’t here when I left yesterday evening, that’s for sure. And now there’s this white greasy stuff all over the side of my desk.”
Nev stepped forward and whisked the dust rag out of the minister’s hand before he could take another swipe. “It might be evidence,” he said.
“Oh.” Reverend Truman had a round, pleasant face and bulging eyes. “Oh,” he said again after he’d had a moment to think about it. “I’m sorry. I never thought it might be important. After what happened here last night . . .” His gaze drifted to the hallway and the gallery beyond. “I prayed, of course. I prayed for the poor man’s soul and the soul of whatever monster did this to him. And then I couldn’t keep still. I had to do something and cleaning up seemed like the right thing to do. I never thought—”
“It’s OK.” Nev had plastic evidence bags in his pocket and he took one out and dropped the rag into it, then took a look at the smudge on the desk. “You’re sure this wasn’t here yesterday?” he asked.
“I would have noticed.” The reverend nodded. “Yesterday was Thursday and Thursday is cleaning day. We can’t afford to have a crew come in and do the work. We each clean our own offices.” He looked toward Laverne for confirmation. “I cleaned this place top to bottom yesterday. Dusted, vacuumed. I would have noticed something smudged on my desk, that’s for sure.”
“We’ll get the techs in here,” Nev told him. “And they can take samples.”
“You think . . .” The reverend’s gaze slid toward the smudge. “You think the murderer might have—”
“We don’t know, Reverend. Not yet. For now . . .” Nev put the evidence bag with the dust rag in it into his pocket. “We’re wondering about keys to the church. Who has them?”
“Everybody!” Reverend Truman confirmed what Laverne had told us a little while before. “We’re a small congregation and running a church and a food pantry and the little thrift store we maintain to bring in a few extra dollars and the gallery, of course . . . well, it’s a lot of work. Pretty much anyone who’s ever helped has a key.”
“I’ll need a list of those people,” Nev said and the reverend looked to Laverne, who nodded. “And I’ll need to know if there are extras.”
“Extra keys?” For a moment, Reverend Truman seemed confused by the question. “Well, there are . . .” He walked around to the back of his desk and opened the top drawer. “There are these.” He took out a key ring with three keys on it. “And these,” he said, taking out a second key ring. “These are the ones we leave when the utility companies need to come in, you know to check the water meter and such. And, Laverne, didn’t we give that other extra set to somebody? Was it Miss Maud from the choir? I think it was. And then of course there are the keys over there . . .” He dropped the key rings back in his desk at the same time he made a vague gesture toward the door. “We always keep those on the nail right inside the door. Just in case anybody needs them for anything.”
Both Nev and I looked that way, and we both saw the nail the reverend was talking about.
Just like we both saw that it was empty.
Reverend Truman realized it just as we did, and his mouth dropped open. “They were there last night,” he said. “I’m sure of it. Before I went in to the gallery to take a look at the show, those keys were hanging right there inside the door.” He hurried around to the front of the desk and headed over to the door, but before he could get too close, Nev stopped him.
“There could be fingerprints,” Nev said.
The reverend froze. “Then you think the murderer was in here.”
“It would have been easy to slip in here during the show,” I pointed out. “There were lots of people in the gallery and no one would have noticed if someone slipped out and came in here. It would be pretty easy to pocket the keys and use them to get back into the church after we were all gone.”
Reverend Truman dropped his chin onto his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. “And kill that poor artist. God forgive him.”
“Except he would have had to get Forbis back here to the church to begin with.” I wasn’t sure anyone wanted to hear this bit of theorizing on my part, but I felt it was only fair to bring it up. “Forbis left. So how did the killer get him to come back to kill him?”
“Unless he wasn’t killed here. He could have been killed somewhere else,” Nev suggested and I knew he was right.
“But if he was, it would have been a heck of a lot easier to leave the body wherever that somewhere was.” Nev didn’t argue so I went right on. “Which means there was a very particular reason the killer wanted Forbis found where he was, and the way he was. I mean, with those buttons on his eyes and mouth. It’s like he was sending a message.”
One corner of Nev’s mouth twitched. “Maybe he was an art critic.”
One of the crime-scene techs came in and asked Nev to come into the gallery, and this time I knew better than to poke my nose where it clearly didn’t belong. It was one thing working alongside Nev to think our way through an investigation. It would be another altogether if the techs, uniformed cops, and other detectives there to do their jobs thought I was an interfering buttinski.
Rather than stand there with nothing to do, calling attention to the fact that I was hanging around where I didn’t belong, I stepped back into the church. Nev was taking a look at the body. Me, I went in the other direction.
Just like I had the night before, I walked down the main aisle of the church, stopping now and again to imagine all that had happened after Forbis dropped his champagne glass and ran. As long as I was at it, I looked around and wondered what Forbis had seen when he raced by.
Pews.
Nothing but row after row of pews.
Though if someone had decided to duck into one . . .
The thought struck, and I stopped and thought back to the scene. Though the art installation was brightly lit, it was pitch dark here in the body of the church, and even if I’d bothered to look around as I raced outside, I doubt I would have seen Forbis if he’d sidestepped into one of the pews and scrunched up to hide.
But why?
I took another look around the church. From here, about halfway down the aisle, there was a clear shot to the old altar area and the box where Congo Savanne lurked. If Forbis really had run away from the exhibit just as a stunt designed to attract attention to himself and his artwork, this would have been an ideal place to watch the show. From here, he could see the stunned expressions on peoples’ faces when they realized the star of the show had just taken off like a bat out of hell. He might not have been able to hear exactly what they said, but he would have been able to catch the excited hum of their conversation, just like I could hear the overlapping voices of the crime-scene techs at work around the exhibit.
This was a possibility Nev and I hadn’t considered and, wondering if it was actually feasible, I sat down in the nearest pew to think.
I stood up again just as quickly when I realized how slick the wooden pew was.
Of course! It made perfect sense. Laverne said that church services were conducted in the basement. Which meant that except for the art shows up front, most of the old church went largely unused and wasn’t cleaned often. This pew was coated with dust and that meant the others were, too.
Quickly, I headed to the front of the church, then back down the aisle, glancing left and right as I did. If Forbis crouched down in any of the pews, he would have left a smudge in the dust, just like I had when I sat down.
Only he hadn’t.
He didn’t.
Except for the spot where I’d just sat down, the light that flowed in through the stained-glass windows showed that the dust was undisturbed, a slick, smooth coating on each and every wooden pew.
Sure I was disappointed that my hunch hadn’t worked out, but I am nothing if not determined. Ask all the friends and family members who’d given me weird looks when I told them I’d decided to quit my admin job at an insurance company and open up my own button shop. Ever practical, I knew it was time to move on to Plan B.
This would actually have been a really good idea if I had a Plan B.
Grumbling, thinking, and grumbling some more, I wandered out the door at the back of the church and into the vestibule. There was no use going outside. I’d been out there the night before—me and hotness personified, Gabriel Marsh—and I knew there wasn’t anything to see. Not anything that would help me figure out what happened to Forbis, anyway.
I was just about to throw in the towel and go back into the church when I realized all wasn’t lost. There were other possibilities. Two of them, in fact. To the left of the main doors was an alcove that contained a baptismal font, and to the right, the stairs that led to the choir loft.
Like so much of the church, the baptistery was dusty and obviously unused. That left the choir. I took the steps two at a time, and by the time I got up to the loft that spanned the width of the church, my heart pounded and I was breathing hard.
I didn’t turn on the lights. That would only have attracted the attention of the cops swarming the art exhibit and, for now, I wanted to keep this little piece of the investigation to myself. If it panned out, I would certainly mention it to Nev. And if it didn’t, well, there was no use in him knowing that I’d tried and gotten nowhere.
Then he’d only have another reason to compare me to beautiful and brilliant Evangeline.
I slapped the thought out of my head. It was unworthy of me. Not to mention small-minded. Besides—a slow smile spread across my face—Evangeline might be an expert when it came to vudon and Barrier Islands culture, but I had it all over her when it came to buttons, not to mention murder.
The thought firmly in mind, I took a look around.
There was a rose window to my left, a long way off and directly opposite from where the old altar used to stand. With the morning light streaming through, it was breathtaking, but I tried not to get distracted by the pools of blue and purple and red that stained the old wooden floor. The night before, the choir loft would have been completely dark and not as easy to negotiate.
There were five rows of pews up here, each a little higher than the one in the row in front of it. That made sense, of course, both from the perspective of the congregation, who could look back and see the singers, and for the singers themselves, who would have a bird’s-eye view of the services. There was an aisle between the two sets of pews and directly at the end of it, a big old organ, its pipes arrayed on either side of the rose window.
I checked the pews, just as I’d done downstairs. It wasn’t hard to find the smudge in the pew on the left, three rows back from the railing that looked out over the church. It was at least three feet long and it rippled from the front of the pew to the back, like someone hadn’t just sat down there, but more like that someone had shifted back and forth. Or maybe tried to scrunch down to hide.
Oh yes, someone had been in the choir loft, and recently.
Another glance around and I knew exactly who that someone was.
There it was on the floor just next to the pew, its plastic wrapping caught in a particularly vivid ray of golden light so that it winked and flashed at me.
A root beer barrel.
• • •
I hurried back downstairs, and this time I didn’t worry about looking bad; I found Nev and told him what I’d seen up in the choir loft, and he sent a few of the techs up there.
“Good work.” When he smiled at me, I smiled back. It felt good, comfortable, and I was just about to tell him so when Richard Norquist walked into the church.
Talk about bad timing!
A team from the medical examiner’s office was just lowering Forbis’s body down from the statue, and Richard took one look at what was going on and turned as white as those buttons on Congo Savanne’s skull.
Nev and I exchanged glances and we knew we were on the same page: if Richard fainted and cracked his head on the stone floor, we’d have another problem that we didn’t need on our hands.
“Mr. Norquist, you really shouldn’t have come here.” Nev got to Richard before me and put a hand under Forbis’s agent’s elbow to pilot him to the nearest pew. Richard sat down so hard, the thump reverberated up to the painted angels who looked down at us from the high ceiling. “What are you doing here?”
“I’m . . . I’m . . .” Like Laverne had earlier, Richard stared at the body, and Nev, just like he had before, moved to block the view. I was struck by his thoughtfulness. That, and his desire to keep the conversation on track and to keep Richard Norquist from falling completely to pieces.
Richard passed a hand over his forehead. “I’m . . . I’m . . .” He swallowed so hard, I saw his Adam’s apple jump. He looked up at Nev, his eyes wide. “I’m sorry. What did you ask me?”
“I asked what you’re doing here. How did you know about Forbis?”
“I . . . I didn’t.” Richard pressed a hand against the front of his navy blue windbreaker. “Laverne called. She didn’t say what was wrong, she just said I should get down here. She sounded so upset . . .” He pulled in a breath, and like he’d just woken from a very sound sleep and a very bad dream, he shook his head. “I thought maybe the church had been broken into and some of the artwork was gone. Or that a pipe had burst and there was water damage. I never imagined . . .” Richard leaned to his right so he could see around Nev. “Do you think Forbis was murdered?”
“Somebody glued buttons to his eyes and mouth and put him in with that statue.” I did my best to keep from sounding cynical, but it wasn’t easy. “Do you really think—”
“Where were you last night, Mr. Norquist?” Nev interrupted me, and maybe that was a good thing. No doubt the irony of my words was lost on Richard Norquist. “After Forbis Parmenter left the show?”
“I . . . I . . .” Richard thought back. “I stayed around for a while. You know that.” He looked at me, then Nev. “And you do, too, Detective. You were both here. Forbis ran off—”
“And where do you suppose he ran to?” Nev asked.
Richard’s doughy features accordioned in on themselves. “I figured it was a stunt. I thought Forbis was looking for attention. I just thought he ran out of the nearest door and hit the closest bar. You don’t think—”
“You haven’t told us where you were,” Nev reminded him.
Richard took a moment to collect his thoughts. “Like I said, I stayed around. I did a little networking. You saw me, certainly. Detective, I talked to you and that very pretty woman you were with.”
Since I was outside looking for Forbis, the very pretty woman was obviously not me. I gritted my teeth.
“I reminded folks that even though Forbis wasn’t around, they were still welcome to look at his work,” Richard continued. “I told them they could certainly still make purchases. That woman you were with, Detective, you remember, she asked for prices on a couple of the pieces.”
Investigation, I reminded myself, and repeated the word like a mantra.
The investigation was what was important.
“Did anyone buy anything?” I asked him in the name of the investigation.
Richard shook his head. “It really fried me, I’ll tell you that. Forbis pulls these crazy publicity stunts, and he doesn’t even stop to consider that they don’t build interest in his work, they just turn people off. Like that time in Asheville when he had those models dressed as old-fashioned housewives—you know, wearing aprons and housedresses and high heels—show up at the exhibit that featured buttons on household goods. Everyone was so taken with these five gorgeous models, much more than they were with blenders and mixers and vacuum cleaners covered with buttons. Forbis just doesn’t get it. If he’s going to get anywhere in the art world—” He thought better of the comment.
“If Forbis
was
. . . If he ever was going to get anywhere in the art world, he knew the drill. The way to become popular is to get some of the movers and shakers to buy your pieces. That’s how this business works. People with big bucks. You know, investment bankers. Actors. Actors are great for business. Once a movie star buys a piece, everybody else thinks it must be real art. If we could get that to happen, I knew the world would beat a path to our door.”
“And last night . . .” Nev gently nudged him back on the path where we’d been headed before Richard took a major detour.
“Well, after all that drama from Forbis, no one made an offer on any of the pieces. I could have wrung his neck!”
Richard realized the error of his word choice just a second after both Nev and I had. His already pale face went a little paler.
“I didn’t mean that,” he said. “I mean, I did, but only as a figure of speech. You understand?” He didn’t care if I did; he looked at Nev, his eyes pleading.
“So you were angry.” It went without saying, but Nev, was a good interrogator. He knew it was important to let Richard know that he understand how Richard felt. “But not angry enough to try and find Forbis and figure out what he was up to. Unless you did find him.”
It took a moment for what Nev wasn’t saying to sink in. “Me?” Richard squeaked out the word. “I didn’t. I swear, I didn’t.”
“But you didn’t go after him,” I said. “And that seems odd since you’re his agent. I barely knew the man, and even I tried to find Forbis.”