Free Button Holed by Kylie Logan Page B

worry about it. Listen, I was taking a look at this morning’s paper and thinking that maybe now you’ll reconsider my offer.”
    I should have known this was coming, but I’d been so distracted—by the murder and the mess and the phone calls—I guess I wasn’t thinking straight. Now, a curl of ice wound its way through my insides. By now, I should have been used to the sensation. Every time Estelle and I talked, I ended up feeling like I’d just been put through the Slurpee machine at the local 7-Eleven.
    “Offer?” I squeaked out the word. “You mean, about me being on your show?”
    “You make it sound like a death sentence or something. Sorry!” She didn’t sound it; another laugh burst out of her. “I guess that’s not exactly an appropriate word to use considering what happened to poor Kate.”
    “But what happened to poor Kate, that’s exactly why you’re calling.”
    “Of course it is! What, you think I really am a bonehead?” My guess is that the majority of her adoring fans didn’t know the well-dressed, perfectly coifed, gorgeously turned out doyen of do-it-yourselfers smoked like a chimney. I heard her haul in a breath along with a lungful of cigarette smoke. “Come on, I’ve been asking you to do this button segment on my show for months. Now is the perfect opportunity. You and those damn buttons of yours . . . Well, after this, you’re going to be hotter than ever.”
    “I don’t want to be hot. Not because of a murder.”
    “Of course you do. Everybody wants to be famous and successful. It doesn’t matter how you get there; what matters is making it to the top. If that’s not what you want, why are you in business?”
    She was right. Of course, she was. But . . .
    I braced myself for the fight I knew was coming. “You know I’d be happy to do it, Estelle. I’ve told you that before. If we could just rework your concept for the segment and . . . and find another name for it.”
    I pictured her words whooshing out of her along with a stream of smoke. “What’s wrong with the Button Babe ? My God, Josie, it’s not like anybody takes any of this life-can-be-beautiful shit seriously.”
    “I take my buttons seriously. And my business.” I’d told her this before; maybe that’s why I thought I shouldn’t have had to mention it again. Why I sounded tentative and intimidated. “I want to be thought of as an authority, not as a babe. And that whole idea of yours, about having a sort of cabana boy bring out the trays of buttons, and about me lounging there, sipping a drink and talking about buttons . . .” Just thinking about it made my knees weak. If there was a chair around not piled with buttons, I would have flopped into it.
    “Oh, come on! You’re young. You’ve got nice hair, decent skin, that adorable little bowed mouth. You’re cute.” Facts were facts. At least that’s what Estelle’s tone of voice said. “As cute as a button. And I’ve told you before, the whole setup is perfect. People will love the idea of a nerdy little button babe being waited on hand and foot by a handsome hunk. Let’s face it, most people hear button collector and they think old fuddy-duddy. We could give buttons a whole new image!”
    We certainly could. And I was 100 percent certain it wasn’t the one I wanted to present to my fellow collectors or my customers. Rather than argue a point I knew she’d never understand, I went for the obvious. “I’ve told you, Estelle, just thinking about getting in front of the cameras makes me stutter and stammer. Add a hunky guy in a loincloth and—”
    “Ooh, loincloth! I hadn’t thought of that. We could give it a sort of ancient empire theme. I’m making a note of that now. Loincloth—you’re a genius!”
    “No, I’m not. I’m an introvert.”
    “Yeah, me too.” She didn’t give me a chance to respond to this barefaced lie; she stormed right on. “A little coaching from our producer, and you’ll sound like a pro. A little makeup