Panic Button (10 page)

I was about to say something noncommittal in agreement when, behind us, the front
door opened and spanked shut and a group of women walked in.

Susan’s eyes were green, and not the least bit attractive when she shot a look over
my shoulder. It was such a change from the cordial way she’d been looking at me, I
couldn’t help wondering what was up.

Reminding myself I needed to be as inconspicuous as possible, I turned around to look
where Susan was looking at.

The three newcomers were all younger than Susan and more stylishly dressed. The one
in the middle, a petite woman with spiky red hair and wearing tall stilettos and big
jewelry, made such an effort to keep her eyes on her companions and not look at the
line ahead of her, I had no doubt she was the one Susan wasn’t happy to see.

Apparently, the feeling was mutual.

Interesting, I told myself, turning back around and keeping my expression blank.

Interesting, and probably completely irrelevant.

Susan wadded her tissue into a ball and shoved it in her purse.

“You were the one who was doing the appraisal for Angela, right?” she asked. “In Chicago?
I wonder…Do you think…I mean, do you have any idea if they’ll still let us have it?”

Oh, how I hate it when I feel I’m out of the loop! Right about then, I not only was
out of it, I wasn’t even sure where the loop was.

Apparently Susan realized it because after we inched forward and closer to the door
to the room where Angela’s coffin was displayed, she offered a small smile.

“I mean the police, of course,” she explained. “Do you think they’ll still let us
have the charm string?”

“I can’t say what the police might do.” I congratulated myself, spoken in true mole
fashion. “But why—”

“I’m being such an airhead!” Susan riffled through her purse, then handed me a business
card. “I’m the curator,” she explained before I’d even had a chance to read the ecru
card tastefully printed with sepia ink. “Of the Ardent Lake Historical Museum.”

Now it all made sense! I tucked the card in my own purse for future reference, and
considered what I could—and couldn’t—tell Susan. I decided to start with the basics.
That is, the information that had been included in all the newspaper and TV accounts
of Angela’s murder in the first place.

“I’m afraid the charm string was seriously damaged when Angela was attacked,” I said.

Susan gulped. “Then it’s true? What I heard on TV? About Angela being…choked…with
it?”

“I’m afraid so.”

She slid me a look. “And the buttons?”

“I can just imagine how anxious you were to put the charm string on display.” How’s
that for a slick way to sidestep a direct question? “Angela said so many wonderful
things about your museum, I’m hoping I have a chance to stop there before I have to
get back to Chicago. What other kinds of buttons do you have on display?”

“Buttons?” Top lip curled ever so slightly, Susan backed up and gave me a look. “As
a matter of fact, we don’t have any. I know buttons are your business, but the fact
is, our visitors aren’t exactly interested in things like buttons. Or in much of anything
else of historical value for that matter. My goodness, I don’t think there would be
a museum here in Ardent Lake at all if it wasn’t for Ben.”

I don’t think I was making much of an impression. I mean, what with looking confused
all the time. Lucky for me, Susan was a kind woman. She didn’t hold it against me.
Or if she did, at least she didn’t let on.

In fact, she laughed, then realized it wasn’t an appropriate sound in a place like
that, and pressed her fingers to her lips.

We inched forward in line before we stopped to wait some more. “Thunderin’ Ben Moran,”
she explained. “I should have remembered you’re not from around here so you might
not know. Why, Ben’s the closest thing we have to a celebrity in these parts. But
then, pirates have that whole wild and crazy persona going for them.”

I had never associated northern Illinois—or any other part of the state—with pirates,
and I told Susan so.

“Well, you’re just going to have to stop by the museum and see. We’ll change your
mind, and your ideas about Great Lakes history.”

We moved forward again. We were getting closer to paying our last respects to Angela,
and here, we could hear the hushed organ music being piped in through the sound system.

I made sure I kept my voice even lower when I got the conversation back on track.
“The police have recovered the buttons from the charm string.”

“All of them?” Susan seemed honestly surprised. Was it because she knew there were
so many buttons to begin with? Or did she know two of them were missing?

Ridiculous.

I answered my own question. As far as I knew, Susan was just a museum curator who
had nothing to gain from Angela’s death. In fact, she had something to lose.

The charm string.

“You said you didn’t have any buttons in your museum.” I pretended to think this over.
“Your patrons must have really been looking forward to having the charm string on
display.”

Again, Susan’s gaze flickered over my shoulder and a small smile eased her expression.
“Well, it was something of a coup,” she confided. “Angela wasn’t the easiest person
in the world to work with. But then, you probably already know that.”

I didn’t, but I didn’t let on. Instead, I nodded. “You’re talking about her belief
in the supernatural.”

“Oh, that!” I had a feeling if we were anyplace else, Susan would have thrown back
her head and laughed. The way it was, she kept her cool and simply smirked. “That
was one thing, of course, and let’s face it, we’re logical, intelligent women. We
both know how pathetic
it is for anyone to believe that kind of hogwash. Imagine a woman basing her life
on horoscopes and psychic predictions! That’s just another thing that proves how unstable
she was.”

“And the other thing?”

Susan shifted her purse from one shoulder to the other and bent her head closer to
mine. “Well, I just assumed that, working with Angela, you knew how flighty she was.
Honestly, I’m not at all surprised by what happened to Angela. Not that I’m saying
she deserved it or anything. Don’t get me wrong. But facts are facts, and the facts
about Angela are impossible to ignore.”

We were at the threshold of the room bathed in a soft glow of pink light. Against
the far wall there was a veritable sea of white and pink flowers surrounding a white
coffin. Thankfully, it was closed.

Susan glanced at the coffin and at the short, chubby guy who stood near it, quietly
chatting with each visitor. In just a moment, it would be her turn to offer her condolences.

“Angela’s cousin,” she said, indicating the short man in the brown suit. “Charles.
The only family she had.”

“And the one who inherits.”

Susan’s sharp look reminded me this wasn’t exactly the time—or the place—for comments
like that. At least if you’re just supposed to be a button dealer who is definitely
not investigating a murder.

I smiled by way of apology. “Sorry. I’ve been watching too many old movies.”

“You’re not too far off base.” We moved forward again. Susan would be the next person
to speak to Charles. “Well, you didn’t hear it from me,” Susan said,
“but I always thought he was jealous. You know, of everything Angela got when their
great-aunt died.”

“And how did Angela feel about all that?”

The man in line in front of Susan finished talking to Charles and she moved up to
take his place, but not before she whispered, “Angela? The woman was a certified nutcase.”

I
F
S
TAN HAD BEEN BACK IN
C
HICAGO PLAYING POKER
, he would have gladly stayed up until what he considered the wee hours. That is,
ten or eleven. The way it was, by eight, we’d finished dinner at a small but charming
(naturally) restaurant in the heart of Ardent Lake’s small but charming (naturally)
downtown, and he grabbed a book and headed for the communal library/coffee room at
the B and B where we were staying. (I’m not even going to bother to mention how charming
the B and B was; suffice it to say that it was called The Victoria Inn, and lived
up to its regal moniker.)

As it turned out, that reservoir draining project Stan had read about in the newspaper
back in Chicago was happening not far away, and one of the engineers working on it
was also a guest at the B and B that night. Stan was
interested, and I had a feeling he wasn’t planning on reading as much as he was hoping
to bump into the engineer and ask a lot of questions.

The night was mild, and in the distance, I heard the first of the spring peepers croaking
out their love songs. I told Stan I’d see him in the morning, grabbed a jacket, and
went for a walk.

I have to make something perfectly clear here. I love Chicago just as much as I love
buttons. The city is in my blood. I swear, my heart beats to the sounds of traffic
on Michigan Avenue.

But I have to confess something else, too.

Though the peace and quiet of Ardent Lake weren’t nearly as thrilling as the buzz
of the big city, after a block of strolling, I found myself breathing easier. After
two, I realized I had more spring in my step than I’d had since that morning I found
Angela’s body in the courtyard.

Energized at the same time I was relaxed, I headed toward downtown—a whole three blocks
from the B and B—and window-shopped at the antiques store, a women’s boutique, and
a bakery. There wasn’t much on display in the bakery window aside from some cookies
shaped like tulips, but what I saw looked so scrumptious, I promised myself a trip
back the next day. I ambled through the neatly tended park smack in the center of
town, and when I realized there was a canopy of stars overhead the likes of which
we never see in Chicago, I sat on the steps of a white gazebo, tipped back my head,
and decided right then and there that there was a lot to be said for small town living
and the kind of peace and quiet broken only by the occasional swoosh of a car passing
the park.

That, and the noise of a twig snapping now and again as someone slipped through the
darkness.

Suddenly alert, I sat up like a shot. There were showy Victorian lampposts up and
down the walkway, and if I leaned forward and squinched up my eyes, in their dim light,
I could just make out a figure scooting from shadow to shadow.

Fight or flight?

In a place as idyllic as Ardent Lake, both options seemed silly to the point of impossibility,
and just to prove it to myself, I stayed right where I was. That doesn’t mean I’m
anybody’s fool. Just in case, I reached in my pocket for my B and B room key. If I
needed a weapon, it wouldn’t be much of one, but hey, I can poke and jab with the
best of ’em.

Thus armed, I bent my head to listen more closely and strained to try and get a clear
look at the figure.

As the person drew nearer, some of the details came into focus.

Small. Tiny, in fact, except for the odd, lumpy blob at chest level. Dark sweatshirt.
Dark pants. Sneakers. One second, the figure was lost in shadows and I’d convinced
myself I was imagining things. The next, the light of the nearest lamp gleamed on
spiky red hair.

It was the woman who’d been behind me in line at the wake that afternoon, the one
Susan O’Hara hadn’t been happy to see.

More curious now than I was afraid, I sat up, and waited for the right moment. When
the woman was no more than twenty feet away, I called out a greeting.

She slowed to a trot and I wondered if she was going to
pretend she hadn’t heard me. Apparently, the fact that I stood up and moved into a
halo of light changed her mind.

“Oh, hi.” Keeping her place, she shifted from foot to foot. “I didn’t see you there.”

“Beautiful evening, isn’t it?”

The woman’s shoulders were so slim, I barely noticed when she shrugged. She took a
step closer and I saw that the funny lump that made her look so misshapen in the dark
was actually a paper shopping bag she had clutched to her chest. “My husband thinks
I’m out jogging,” she said with a quick smile and a look that darted all around, as
if she wanted to make sure we were really alone. “That’s what I tell him, anyway.
You know, when I want to go out at night and catch a smoke.” She took a couple steps
back. “He thinks I quit at the first of the year.”

From the odor of cigarettes I caught even at this distance, I doubt he was fooled.
Not that I cared a whole bunch. I do admit, though, to being more than a tad curious
about who would claim they went jogging carrying a shopping bag.

As casually as possible so she didn’t notice and think I was paranoid, or worse, some
kind of danger to her, I slipped my room key back in my pocket, and when I moved forward,
the soft glow of the nearest lamp lit my face. The woman took a good look at me.

“Hey, you’re that Josie from Chicago who was at Angela’s wake.”

Not to worry, I wasn’t about to join Angela in the league of paranormal believers.