Free Buttoned Up by Kylie Logan Page A

‘le bouton, le bouton.’ It’s French and yeah, it means, ‘the button, the button,’ but you know what? To me, Forbis didn’t seem like the kind of guy who’d just naturally start suddenly speaking French.”

Chapter Five

    I actually do have a real job. And a real button shop to keep open, running—and in the black. As intriguing as Forbis’s murder was, I knew it was best to leave solving the crime to the professionals so I could concentrate on what I knew and loved best, buttons.
    Besides, I’d learned that murder takes its toll on me. Like I mentioned earlier, I’d been involved in three cases previously, and with each, I found it nearly impossible to shake the pall of tragedy that followed in the wake of death.
    So much potential lost. Not just when an artist like Forbis is killed, but with every life lost. So much sadness.
    That next day at the Button Box, I knew I could kill two proverbial birds with one stone. Which, now that I think about it, probably wasn’t the best metaphor to use in regards to the situation. It was, however, true. I could concentrate on the shop and on the customers who came and went that Saturday and at the same time, I would use the opportunity to calm my mind and find familiarity and comfort, as always, in the sanctuary of the restored brownstone with its soothing sage green walls, tin ceiling, hardwood floors, and old library card catalogue file cabinets along every wall, each drawer filled with buttons.
    Ah, buttons!
    There is nothing like buttons to soothe this collector’s soul.
    By the time I helped a woman who was looking for just the right button to use as a closure for a purse she’d knit and felted, rearranged a couple shelves that didn’t need it, and re-catalogued all the buttons in the drawers where I stored my Wemyss (that’s pronounced
weemz
) Ware—those delightful earthenware buttons produced in Scotland at the end of the nineteenth century and distinctively decorated with wonderful things like cabbage roses and dogs—I was breathing easier.
    That is, until Nev showed up just as I was about to close and ruined everything.
    Oh my, that came out sounding all wrong!
    I didn’t mean Nev ruined everything because he came into the Button Box.
    I mean he ruined everything because as soon as he walked in, I saw that he had papers in his hand and that look in his eyes that said he was thinking about his case and needed to bounce ideas around.
    My vacation to tranquility came to an abrupt halt and my heart began a cha-cha in my chest.
    “The list of people invited to the opening Thursday night.” He held up the papers briefly before he tossed them down on the antique rosewood desk where my computer sat. “I thought you could look through it and tell me if there are names of any button collectors you recognize.”
    “Hello, Nev.”
    It took him a moment, but when he caught on, his shoulders drooped and he made a face. “Sorry. Hello.” Nev hurried over and gave me a quick kiss. “My lieutenant’s riding me about this case and you’ve seen the newspapers, right? Between the vudon connection and those buttons glued to Forbis’s eyes and mouth . . . well, the media is making a circus out of this. The brass isn’t happy about it.”
    “That means you’ve been working like mad and you didn’t even take the time for lunch today. Or breakfast, I bet.” It’s not like I was guessing. One quick look and I knew Nev hadn’t even changed his clothes since I saw him at the church the day before. That meant he hadn’t been home, that he’d been running since he’d first responded to the call at the Chicago Community Church. He was even more rumpled than usual, and the belt of his raincoat was still dragging. When he slipped off the coat, I tugged the belt through the loops to even it up all the way around, thus restoring order, at least in this little corner of the world.
    Before I said another word, I went into the back workroom and pulled out a jar of corn and