Free Buttoned Up by Kylie Logan Page B

black bean salsa, a bag of corn chips, and a couple of paper plates. I’d run out earlier in the day for the express purpose of buying comfort food so I could eat it in front of the TV once I got home, but hey, keeping Nev going was more important and I’d still get my comfort-food fix. I filled our plates and because I didn’t like the thought of salsa mingling with my buttons, I called Nev into the back room.
    He brought the guest list along with him and while he polished off his plate of chips and salsa in record time, I looked it over.
    “There are a few collectors from the area,” I told him, and pointed out the names. “I spoke to all of them briefly when we first got to the art show. Remember? In fact, they’d heard about Forbis’s exhibit from me and I’m the one who called Laverne and had them added to the list. They’re all nice people. As far as I know, there isn’t one who would have a gripe against Forbis. In fact, none of them had ever even met Forbis.”
    “Except he got his buttons from somewhere, right?” Nev talked with his mouth full, swallowed, and took a glug from the can of ginger ale I’d put out for him. “If some of those buttons belonged to one of them and—”
    “I did some research last night,” I told Nev, and pointed to my own pile of papers that I’d left on the counter near the mini-fridge. “According to what I found online, Forbis got his buttons from garage sales and estate sales near where he lived in Georgia. And when he couldn’t find enough–because let’s face, there couldn’t possibly have been enough, what with all the buttons he used in his work—he ordered them directly from button manufacturers, most of them in China. He bought so many, they were more than happy to give him wholesale prices.”
    “Which means none of the buttons at the exhibit were very valuable.”
    “I can’t say.” It was true, and thinking it over, I crunched into my own chips while Nev refilled his plate. “I’d have to take a closer look,” I said before I realized I was insinuating myself back into the case. What about maintaining distance? Not to mention tranquility? As tempting as it was, I knew it was more important to find justice for Forbis. Even so, I gave Nev an out. “That is, I’ll take a closer look at the buttons at the exhibit if you’d like me to.”
    “Are you kidding?” The snack brightened Nev’s spirits. He grinned. There was a blob of salsa on his green plaid tie and I dabbed it up with a paper towel, then wet another one and got rid of the tomatoey residue. Well, most of it, anyway. “If you could go back to the church one of these days and do that for me, that would be fabulous.”
    “So you think there’s a button connection? That someone wanted one of the buttons in the exhibit?”
    Nev wrinkled his nose. “Not really. I mean, if that was the case, why not just grab the button? Why kill the crazy artist? But I would like to cover all the bases.”
    “You think it’s far more likely that someone had it in for Forbis?” He crunched into a chip. I chewed thoughtfully. “Why do people kill other people?” I asked Nev. Then, just so he didn’t think I was being too philosophical, I added, “I don’t mean because the killer hates the person, or the killer’s evil or anything. I’m talking more about motive.”
    “That’s easy enough.” Nev settled on one of the high stools at the table. “Revenge, jealousy, greed, lust, hate. Motives are living proof that the deadly sins really exist.”
    “So we should ask ourselves who wanted revenge against Forbis.”
    Nev shrugged. But then, his mouth was full so there wasn’t much he could say.
    “Or who was jealous.” To me, this sounded like a better motive, what with the fact that we were dealing with the art community. As a collector, I was on the very fringes. I sometimes sold my buttons to artists and discerning crafters and I’d seen how their vision of their art—not to mention some of