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Authors: Kylie Logan

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BOOK: Buttoned Up
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“And English people are too well-behaved to get into arguments?”

It was Nev’s idea of a joke and, actually, it wasn’t a bad one. As I’d quickly learned once I started dating Nev, cops are a literal bunch. Just the fact that he was able to joke around after working more than twenty-four hours straight said something about a sense of humor I wasn’t always sure he had.

“I was thinking more like if it was Marsh, we might have heard his accent, but I guess not.” I dismissed the possibility with a sigh. “We heard Forbis, but not the person he was fighting with. Too bad. Then we’d know if it was a man or a woman.”

“And how do you know this Marsh guy is English?” Nev asked.

“When I ran after Forbis . . .” I popped open the top on my can of diet soda. “I found Marsh already outside looking for him. But of course, if Forbis was up in the choir loft the whole time, that explains why we never saw him. Unless . . .” This was something I hadn’t thought about earlier. “Maybe Forbis didn’t go upstairs when he ran off. Maybe he was up there way earlier. You know, like before any of us even got there for the show. Or maybe that’s where he was when he was arguing with . . . with whoever.”

Nev shook his head. He was a couple weeks past needing a haircut and a thick strand of his sandy-colored hair flopped over his forehead. “If Forbis was having that fight up in the choir loft, I’m pretty sure we would have known it. The acoustics in that church are really good. As for him being up there before anyone arrived at the show, after what you found up there, I did check that out. According to Richard, he and Forbis came over from the hotel together in a cab. They arrived at the church just as the doors opened for show attendees. Forbis waited in Laverne’s office so he could make his grand entrance. If he’d gone up into the loft, we would have seen him cut through the church.”

“So that is where he went when he raced off the altar. But why? Unless there was someone waiting up there for him?”

One corner of Nev’s mouth pulled tighter. “There were signs of other footprints in the dust. Unfortunately, some of them were yours.”

I hadn’t thought of this, and my stomach soured. “Sorry,” I said.

Nev finished his ginger ale and took the can over to my recycling container. “You couldn’t have known, and besides, it doesn’t really matter. We were able to eliminate yours because you were wearing heels. Obviously, Forbis wasn’t, and neither was the other person who was up there. The prints look like they were made by men’s dress shoes.”

“So someone
was
up there with him.”

“And maybe it wasn’t an accidental encounter. Maybe Forbis had arranged to meet that someone there.”

“Could that someone be the killer?”

I knew Nev hated not to have answers, so I could just about feel his pain when he had to admit that he had no idea.

“If Forbis’s champagne was poisoned . . .” I said, but Nev stopped me.

“We don’t know that yet. And I’m not going down that road until we do. We won’t know the cause of death until the medical examiner completes his autopsy. When I sent that officer out after Bob yesterday, he couldn’t find hide nor hair of the guy, but I finally tracked him down later in the afternoon. He confirms what Laverne told us. He not only mopped up the champagne, he used bleach to do it. If there was any evidence on the floor, that was sure to eliminate it.”

Nev took his empty plate and tossed it in the trash. “Thanks for dinner,” he said.

My plate wasn’t empty, but I threw it away, too. “That’s dinner? You need more than that if you’re going to keep going.”

“There’s a vending machine back at the station.” Nev made it sound like this was no big deal and that whatever he got there was an actual substitute for real food. Knowing his schedule, I was afraid that many times, it actually was. “But tomorrow night . . .” When I walked past, he stopped me and pulled me into his arms. “If I’ve made any progress on the case, maybe I can take some time and we can do dinner tomorrow night? Nothing fancy. Just someplace quiet where we can talk.”

I felt a smile relieve some of the tension that had been building in me ever since Nev dropped the
E
word. “I could be talked into making marinara.”

Nev loves my marinara. He grinned and kissed me quick. “I’ll bring the garlic bread.

“And I’ve got the fixings for salad.”

“This does sound like a real meal. And that calls for a bottle of wine. I’ll take care of that, too.”

Our conversation sounded just like all our talks did in the old days (that is B.E. . . . Before Evangeline) and smiling, I leaned my head against Nev’s chest.

And nearly jumped out of my skin when his phone rang close to my ear.

“Sorry.” He stepped back and took the phone out of his shirt pocket. “I’ve got the ringer set loud so I make sure I hear it.”

He answered and this time, he didn’t turn his back on me, and while he talked, I cleaned up the chips and the salsa.

“Really?” Nev asked the person on the phone. “You’re sure about that?”

Of course I was curious about who he was talking to and why there was suddenly a vee of worry between Nev’s eyes, but I didn’t want to look too nosy. Or too much like I was worried it might be Evangeline. I grabbed my purse, and since Nev was wandering as he talked, I followed him out to the front of the shop, turning off lights and my computer as I went.

By the time he hung up, we were at the front door and I flipped the sign in the window that said the Button Box was now officially closed.

Even then, Nev didn’t budge. His head cocked to the side, he stood at the door, and didn’t say a word.

“Bad news?” I asked.

Nev shook himself back to reality. “Weird news.” He tucked away his phone. “That was Manny from the medical examiner’s office. They finished their autopsy on Forbis.”

“It was poison, wasn’t it?” I was so sure of it, I would have bet a boatload of buttons. “And dang, too bad Bob cleaned up that spilled champagne so well or you’d have even more evidence.”

“No, it wasn’t poison.” Nev put a hand on the door. “Manny said there was no sign of poison or drugs or even alcohol in Parmenter’s system except for that little bit from the champagne. He also said from what they could tell, Forbis never had previous heart trouble.”

Like I said, I was curious. I leaned forward, urging him to spill the beans. “And heart trouble is important because . . . ?”

“Because if Forbis did have heart trouble, they would have seen old damage. At least that’s what Manny said. He also said something about . . .” Nev paused to think and I knew he wanted to get the information right. He’s nothing if not a ducks-in-a-row kind of guy.

“Manny said something about ventricular fibrillation and I don’t understand it completely so don’t ask me to explain until I find out more. But he said that’s what killed Forbis. Ventricular fibrillation.”

“He had a heart attack?” I suppose this should have made me feel better; we weren’t dealing with murder. But there was still the matter of Congo Savanne and those buttons on Forbis’s eyes and mouth. If he’d died of natural causes and someone came along and did that to the body . . .

I shivered and wrapped my arms around myself. “We’re not talking murder?”

Nev pressed his lips together. “I wish I knew,” he said. “Because Manny said . . . well, what Manny said is that if he had to make an educated guess, he’d say that Forbis Parmenter was scared to death.”

Chapter Six

Drums pounded in the distance.

They echoed all around me, and I wasn’t sure if I was running toward the sound or away from it. I only knew that each beat reverberated in my body. My heart thumped. My blood throbbed. I couldn’t catch my breath.

The drums kept up the incessant beat.

And I kept running.

It was dark and wherever I was, it wasn’t any place I was familiar with. There were plenty of trees, and a path so thick with leaves, my footsteps were muffled. But this wasn’t Lincoln Park over near the lake or Seward Park in the Old Town neighborhood where the Button Box is located. Somehow, I knew that instinctively. This was strange territory. Foreign and forbidding. I was lost, and scared out of my wits.

When I raced down the path, cold wisps of fog swirled around me, ghosts in the darkness. They closed behind me, brushing over me with their skeleton fingers.

Behind me, somewhere back in the darkness, something thudded on the path. Or maybe it was just the sound of my stomach hitting bottom and bouncing back up again when I realized there was someone just a dozen paces in back of me. Someone following me. Someone closing in.

I picked up the pace. Or at least I tried to. My legs were leaden and each time I lifted a foot and plunked it down again, it felt as if I’d never have the energy for another step.

The drums, though . . . the drums never stopped.

They hammered in my ears and shivered in my breastbone. They drowned out the noises behind me and I cursed each and every beat. The drums were so loud, I couldn’t tell if I was still being followed.

I could stop. I could look. I would know for sure then.

My logical self knew this was the best plan. But I couldn’t take the chance. This was no time for reasoning. This was all about animal instinct, and mine told me that if my pursuer was still back there, I couldn’t waste a step.

One foot in front of the other. One breath, then a second, and my lungs were on fire.

Behind me, the air stirred, and the chill turned molten against the back of my neck.

The drumbeats deafened me.

Rap, rap, rap
.

The sound penetrated my subconscious, mingling at first with those drums in the distance, then gaining strength and volume.

Rap, rap, rap
.

My eyes were weighted down with bricks, and I had to fight to open them.

Rap, rap, rap
.

It took me a minute to realize I was sitting in the plump and comfy armchair in my living room, right where I’d drifted off. The reading lamp on the table next to me was still on, and the art magazine I was scanning for any news about Forbis was still open on my lap.

I was home, and safe.

Like a swimmer coming up for air after being underwater too long, I gulped in a breath and let it out in a whoosh, then pulled in another and another.

It was a dream. All a dream. No one was chasing me, and there were no drums.

Rap, rap, rap.

But there was someone at my door.

Even though it felt like I was moving through quicksand, I managed to scoop the magazine off my lap and stand, and when the room did a one-eighty and my knees buckled, I grabbed the chair to steady myself. A few more quick, steadying breaths and I started toward the door, massaging my throbbing temples with my index fingers.

Eleven fifteen.

I checked the clock on the cherry sideboard that had once belonged to my grandmother. I couldn’t have been asleep more than twenty minutes, yet it felt like I’d been out of it for days.

“Eleven fifteen.” I checked the clock again, just to be sure and mumbled to myself, “Who in the world comes calling at eleven fifteen on a Saturday night?”

Stan.

The idea hit like a wave of ice water, and worried that something had happened to my neighbor, I made for the door as quickly as I could.

Rap, rap, rap.

“I’m coming!” I called, my voice dull and muffled. I shook my head to clear it and when that didn’t work, I stumbled to the door and yanked it open.

“Stan? Is it Stan? Is something—?”

The words froze on my lips.

But then, finding gorgeous Gabriel Marsh standing in the hallway was something of a surprise.

“You were in bed.” He looked me up and down, not as penitent as he was simply curious. Since I was dressed in capris and a T-shirt the exact color of his inky hair, I guess he thought better of his initial assessment. “Or not. Have I interrupted something?”

“Would you care?”

He grinned and looked past me and into the apartment. From where he stood, I knew he couldn’t see much. When it comes to living space, I’m a pretty basic person, but then, this is Chicago, and even with the royalty check I get every month from the crazy movie I once did costumes for that has since become a cult hit, fancy is a out of my price range. “Vintage charm.” I guess that’s what my apartment could be said to have, what with the oak crown molding, the fireplace, and the leaded windows. But in reality, the place is not that different from the thousands of other apartments in the area: living room, dining room, two bedrooms, one bath. Thanks to a recent renovation, the kitchen is no longer Eisenhower-era, but no way Gabriel could see the granite countertops or new appliances.

And why would I want him to, anyway?

I ran a hand through my hair and forced myself to focus. “What are you doing here?”

“Bothering you, apparently.” This may have been true, but it didn’t stop him from stepping into the entryway before I could even think about closing the door in his face. “I need to talk to you.”

“You could have stopped by the shop.”

“At this time of the night? My dear lady, I hear you love your buttons, but no one’s that dedicated.”

“Of course I wouldn’t be at the Button Box.” I was still swimming to the surface to escape the remnants of the disturbing dream. Otherwise, I was sure I would sound more coherent. Or at least a little more intelligent. “The shop is closed tomorrow. You could come on Monday.”

His smile was brighter than anyone’s had the right to be at that time of the night. “That’s the thing, isn’t it? I’m afraid I’m not very good at waiting. For anything.”

It was my turn to eye him. Like he had been at the art show opening, Gabriel was wearing jeans and a black T-shirt. His denim jacket had seen better days, but his sneakers were new. I remembered what Nev had said about the footprints up in the choir loft. Mine, Forbis’s, and one more set that looked to have been made by a man’s business shoes.

“How did you know where I lived?” I asked Gabriel.

Honestly, I thought he was going to say, “pish-tosh,” and when he didn’t—when he just gave me a sort of lopsided smile—I wasn’t sure if it made me feel better, or worse. “I’m a reporter. It’s my job to know things.”

“You write for some snooty art magazine. It’s your job to know the difference between ultramarine and cobalt.”

The heat radiating off his smile reminded me of the fire I felt against my neck in the dream. I shivered. The way his smile inched up a notch, I think it was safe to assume it was a reaction he often got from women. “You certainly know your shades of blue.”

“And you know . . .” I paused long enough for him to fill in the blank and when he didn’t, I threw my hands in the air. “You’re looking for information. About Forbis.”

He held up his left hand and the bag he was carrying in it. “I brought Chinese. Shrimp lo mein, fried rice, spring rolls.”

Shrimp lo mein is my favorite.

But don’t think I’m so easily distracted. Just because a gorgeous hunk comes knocking on my door late at night bearing the gift of Chinese food does not mean I completely lose my senses.

Since my front door was still open, it was easy enough to waltz across the hallway to Stan’s. He had a couple of TV shows he liked to watch on Saturday nights so I knew I wouldn’t be disturbing him. When he answered the door, I didn’t even bother to say hello, I just took his arm, walked him across the hall to my apartment, and waved a hand in Gabriel’s direction.

“This guy stopped in to see me,” I told Stan. “You getting a good look at him?”

Stan nodded. “Six one, one seventy-five. Mid-thirties. Scar above his left eyebrow.” I hadn’t noticed the scar. “What’s he doing here?”

“He says he wants to talk.”

Stan folded his arms over his chest. “Do you want to listen?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “But he’s got lo mein.”

“Lo mein, huh?” Stan pulled in a breath. By now, the air in the apartment was fragranced with the aromas of the food inside the bag. “You want me to sit in the living room until you polish off dinner?”

“That’s probably not necessary. Give us forty minutes.” Both Stan and I checked the clock. “Then come back.”

“And if anything’s wrong . . .” Stan’s gaze moved over Gabriel with laser precision. “I never forget a face. Just so you know. I could find you in a heartbeat, fella.”

With that, he turned around and walked out of the apartment. He didn’t close the door behind him. In fact, he went into his apartment, brought a chair and a book out into the hallway, and sat facing my door.

Gabriel let go of a shaky breath. “I didn’t expect reinforcements.”

It was my turn to cross my arms over my chest, the better to step back and give him another thorough once-over. “I hope you didn’t expect me to be stupid, either. And just so you know, Stan’s an ex-cop. See that blanket he brought to cover up his knees while he sits out there?”

Gabriel looked over his shoulder at Stan who simply stared back.

“I don’t have one doubt that he’s got his service weapon with him,” I told Gabriel. “After all, there’s a murderer on the lose.”

“You can’t possibly think it’s me.” Like he had every right to be there, he strolled into the dining room and plunked the bag of food on the table that matched Grandma’s sideboard. “Dishes?”

It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that if he expected that kind of service, he’d come to the wrong place, but the food smelled divine and I hadn’t had a bite to eat since I shared the chips and salsa with Nev. I went into the kitchen.

“I wasn’t sure you’d be home. I thought maybe you’d be out with that cop boyfriend of yours.”

I was just reaching into the cupboard for plates when I realized Gabriel had followed me, and I froze. But only for a second. I wasn’t sure what kind of game we were playing, but I did know I didn’t want to lose. I got down plates and took linen napkins out of a drawer. “You seem to know an awful lot about me.”

“You’ve got a reputation.” Another smile. “In the button community, that is. I will admit, when I heard you owned a button shop—”

My chin came up and I clutched plates and silverware to my chest. “What?”

“Well, it is a tad out of the ordinary.”

“Which doesn’t mean it’s weird.”

“No one said it was.”

“And they better not ever.”

I pushed past him and into the dining room, and set out the plates while he pulled white cartons of food out of the bag. He’d also brought along a bottle of wine. Before I could offer an opener, he pulled a Swiss Army knife out of his pocket and did the honors. There were wineglasses on the sideboard and I reached for three, and once he’d poured, I took one of the glasses to Stan.

Gabriel staked out the chair at the head of the table and I chose the one to his left. “You must have been pretty sure I’d be willing to talk,” I said, looking over the feast. “Or is the lo mein supposed to take care of that?”

“When it is appropriate, I’m not above offering a bribe.” He sipped his wine. My head was still pounding and I thought better of joining him, but one taste and I changed my mind. It was a pinot noir and pricey, if I knew my labels. A couple more sips helped clear my head. “As for the lo mein, it was a lucky guess. You look like a lo mein sort of girl.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“It was meant as one.” He heaped his plate with fried rice and chomped into a spring roll. “So . . .” He chewed. “That bit with Forbis at the art show, the dramatic dropping of the champagne glass and the race from the church, was it staged?”

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