Button Box Mystery: Hot Button Part 19

I COULDN'T SLEEP that night.

For one thing, Kaz said his nerves were so shot from being worried about me that he had a couple beers after he and Stan closed up the b.u.t.ton Box. And beer always makes Kaz snore.

Yes, he was on the couch out in the living room of my suite.

Yes, I was in the bedroom, and the door was closed (and just for the record, locked, too).

But there was no way I could sleep with all that noise.

And that didn't even count all the racket inside my head.

Donovan Tucker, his mother, Brad Wyant, phony Geronimo b.u.t.tons.

If I hadn't had a headache before, I surely would have after Lieutenant Daniel Kane delivered the news.

Not that the b.u.t.tons themselves were phony. I mean, they were real b.u.t.tons, obviously, and one look and I knew they were also old.

It was the provenance papers that told the tale.

"The guys at the lab are sure of it." The next morning, Nev and I were talking over coffee in my suite. Unlike Kaz, who'd been up and moving early and had left to go downstairs a half hour before Nev arrived, I hadn't mustered the energy to even get dressed. I'd bet anything I looked like a fright with my hair pulled back in a ponytail and wearing my flannel sleep pants and an old Bears T-s.h.i.+rt. Honestly, I was in no mood to care, and Nev was so intent on discussing the case, I don't think he even noticed.

"The lab techs explained it all had to do with the ink," Nev said, stirring three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and downing it fast. "The papers we found in the trash can a couple days ago along with that b.u.t.ton, those were the real thing. The paper was old and so was the ink. The other sets-the ones we took out of Donovan Tucker's suitcase last night-are clearly forgeries. Whoever faked them made them look real enough at first glance. But they were printed on paper that's only been manufactured in the last couple years. And the ink is pretty standard stuff for computer printers."

"But the b.u.t.tons are old." I drummed my fingers against the table. "Of course, that would be no big deal to accomplish. There were millions of MOP s.h.i.+rt b.u.t.tons made in the nineteenth century. They're a dime a dozen. So we know Jenny Tucker got the b.u.t.tons and the phony papers-somehow-from Brad."

Nev was just taking a swallow of coffee when I said this, and with one finger, he signaled me to stop right there. "We picked up Jenny Tucker at the Greyhound station on Harrison Street this morning," he said. "She had a ticket to Omaha in her purse. The guys who found her took her in, so once I get back to the office, I'll question her, and we should be able to get that part of the story straight." This was good news, and both Nev and I knew it. "Even before I take her statement, though, I'm thinking we're on pretty solid ground as to what Brad was up to. Fake b.u.t.tons and fake papers. That means-"

"He phonied up the provenance papers." I took over the story. "He bought some old b.u.t.tons to go with them, or found them in Thad's collection, and he came to Chicago to sell as many of the real' Geronimo b.u.t.tons as he could, to as many collectors as he could find who thought they were buying the genuine article."

"But one of them was genuine, or at least the provenance papers were." Nev's reminder made me think about that b.u.t.ton and its glorious history and how it had been tossed in the trash, and my stomach soured. "And the others... ?"

He was asking for my expert opinion, and I knew it. "There's no way to tell that one old b.u.t.ton was on Geronimo's s.h.i.+rt and the others weren't, of course, but Thad Wyant wrote about the Geronimo b.u.t.ton in countless articles and in his book on Western b.u.t.tons. He never said he owned more than one." Looking through everything I could find that Thad Wyant had ever written was one of the things that had kept me from sleeping a wink the night before.

"He was so proud of that b.u.t.ton," I told Nev, "that if there was more than one, he would have mentioned it for sure." I'd had a couple sips of my own coffee and-thank goodness-my head was starting to clear. "So there's Thad out in New Mexico, and his brother kills him and a.s.sumes his ident.i.ty. And he must have heard Thad talk about the Geronimo b.u.t.ton because it was Thad's claim to fame. And Brad realized he could sell the b.u.t.ton and get big bucks for it."

"And that if he had more than one, the bucks would be even bigger."

Nev and I were on the same page, and we signaled it with a look across the table.

"That," I said, warming up my coffee with some from the carafe, "explains the money you found in Brad's room."

"Yup." Finished with his first cup, Nev poured another. When he called to tell me he was stopping by to talk to me this morning, I'd gotten right on the phone with room service and had them bring up some Danish, and he reached for a cherry-cheese pastry with white icing drizzled over it and took a bite. "It might also explain how he ended up dead," he said, while he chewed.

I nodded-slowly, because though my head felt a whole lot better, I wasn't taking any chances. "So Brad checks the list of registered attendees we published, contacts some people, and tells them he's interested in selling the Geronimo b.u.t.ton."

"They pay him up front. Cash. As soon as they arrive at the conference. He tells them once he has money in hand, he'll arrange to meet them to deliver the b.u.t.ton."

"And that's why he made a note on each of those envelopes. To remind himself where he was supposed to go to deliver each of the b.u.t.tons. And he delivers two b.u.t.tons, including, apparently, the real one. But before he can get the other two to the people who bought them, somebody figures out what he's up to."

"And kills him. Over a b.u.t.ton!" It wasn't what he said; it was the way he said it, and realizing it, Nev gulped down a mouthful of Danish. "I didn't mean-"

"Sure you did. But don't apologize. I understand. Unless you've got b.u.t.tons in your blood, you can't possibly imagine how important the Geronimo b.u.t.ton is to collectors. The chance to own that kind of a piece of history..." The very thought took my breath away.

While I was trying to get it back, Nev finished off the cherry-cheese Danish and reached for one filled with apricot. Apricot was my favorite; I was glad I'd ordered two. "Notice he didn't ask you if you were interested in buying it."

"I don't specialize in Western b.u.t.tons."

"Chase Cadell does." We exchanged looks, and I knew Nev would be having a little sit-down with Chase very soon. "I'm also thinking," he said, "that Wyant figured you were too smart to fall for a scheme like his."

Was I? I wondered. If I'd been approached by the man I thought was Thad Wyant and offered the Geronimo b.u.t.ton for ten thousand dollars, would I have seen through the scam? Or gone running to my ATM?

"Brad must have made each of his buyers agree to keep the transaction secret," I said, because it was better than trying to get Nev to understand the green-eyed monster of overwhelming b.u.t.ton desire. "Otherwise, word of the sale would have gone through the conference like wildfire."

"And he couldn't have let that happen because then he could have only sold to one person."

"So he makes each of them agree to a secret deal, and because he's not taking any chances, he buys a plane ticket to get out of town as soon as the last money's in his hot little hands. Just in case anybody does spill the beans, he'll be long gone, and when the police in Santa Fe come to look for him-"

"They'll find Thad in the freezer, and Brad will be back in California. Only before any of that can happen, somebody kills Brad." Nev was convinced. He pulled out his notebook and clicked open a pen. "Who's that serious about b.u.t.tons?" he asked.

"Here at the convention? Everybody!"

He scratched the pen against his chin. "That's not very helpful."

"It certainly doesn't narrow down the field."

"Except..." Nev's hand hovered over the last apricot Danish, and yeah, I must have flinched or something, because he changed his mind and reached for another cup of coffee instead. "What if you paid ten thousand dollars for something you didn't get?" he asked. "Wouldn't you want your money back?"

"Yeah, if I didn't get a b.u.t.ton I was supposed to be buying, and if I bought one, then found out it was a fake."

"Only n.o.body knows about the fake b.u.t.tons. n.o.body but us. Well, and Brad Wyant, but he's not talking."

I wasn't sure where Nev was headed with this, so I propped my elbows on the table, cupped my chin in my hands, and listened.

"It's like this." Whatever the idea, Nev was warming to it, and he brushed crumbs from his hands and sat up. "We know four people gave Brad ten thousand dollars each. That means that, originally, there must have been four Geronimo b.u.t.tons he agreed to sell. Or at least what those people thought were Geronimo b.u.t.tons. One b.u.t.ton was found in the trash."

"And you have two more."

Nev nodded. "That means there's one more out there. We might be able to work that angle somehow."

"Except..." I was as sure of this as I was that if I didn't move fast on the apricot pastry, I wasn't going to get any, so I grabbed the Danish and took a bite. "The one person who still has the b.u.t.ton has no idea that it's not the real Geronimo b.u.t.ton. That means that person thinks he-or she-owns a glorious piece of history. So he-or she-isn't likely to give it up."

"Unless we tell people that all the b.u.t.tons were phony. And that if they come forward and admit they bought one-"

"They'll get their money back!" This was so brilliant, I almost wished I'd let Nev have the last apricot pastry. Almost. Suddenly, I wasn't feeling so groggy anymore. I got up and hurried into the bedroom to get dressed. I was scheduled to give the remarks at that afternoon's luncheon. And I knew exactly what I was going to talk about.

Chapter Eighteen.

I GOT DOWNSTAIRS JUST AS THE CONTINENTAL-BREAKFAST crowd was breaking up, and I was headed into the ballroom to check on arrangements for the lunch where I would implement the brilliant plan Nev and I had come up with when Helen hurried over.

"They found them!" I didn't have to ask what she was talking about. It had to be the trays of b.u.t.tons missing from the contest. I breathed a sigh of relief, but at the same time, I wondered why Helen wasn't beaming. This was good news, indeed, and it sure saved my bacon when it came to my reputation as conference chair. Yet the corners of Helen's mouth were pulled down, and her eyes were narrowed. As if she wasn't quite sure what to make of it.

I guess I could understand. A surprise is a surprise. Even when it's a good one.

In fact, it was the first good news I'd gotten in nearly a week, and I beamed enough for the both of us. "I'm so glad! Who found them? Where were they?"

Baffled, Helen shook her head. "The committee decided the only thing we could do was work with the b.u.t.tons we had, and we were going to announce the winners at lunch. We were going through the entries one last time, and well..." She pressed a hand to her heart. "My goodness, there they were!"

"Right back where they were supposed to be?" OK, I understood now why Helen seemed so confused. I couldn't blame her. This was more than a little weird.

And I wasn't about to question it. I was too grateful.

Helen had always been a stickler for fairness, so I wasn't surprised when she said, "We've got judges looking over the found entries right now. They'll be included in the contest just like they were never gone."

"And you'll announce the winners?" I asked Helen, and I didn't wait for her to answer. She was the judging committee chair, after all, and I was sure by the time lunch was over, she'd be less shocky and more inclined to share the good news.

Feeling (slightly) less worried than I had in days, I headed into the ballroom. There was a tech there from the video company we'd hired to record each of our sessions, and while I had the opportunity, I went over the details of how the DVDs would be available in the vendor room the next morning and how the company would s.h.i.+p a supply to the secretary of our organization for people who wanted to order them via our website. That taken care of, I composed my thoughts and went over in my head what I'd say to the collectors who'd be a.s.sembled there for lunch.

The minutes moved like hours. But then, I was anxious to walk up to the podium and make the announcement I knew would galvanize the crowd.

WHEN LUNCHTIME FINALLY rolled around, I was seated at a table at the front of the room, picking my way through a chicken Marsala that was having a hard time getting past the lump in my throat and trying not to look too anxious when I saw Nev slip in through the doors at the back of the room.

I was so on edge, my hands were trembling, and I tucked them in my lap. After all, Kaz was seated there at the committee table with me, and I couldn't let him catch on to what was up. What I had to say had to come as a surprise-to everyone. And all I had to do, I reminded myself, was keep calm and get through the announcement of the b.u.t.ton-contest winners.

The moment the thought hit, I cringed. It was no wonder why. The announcement of the winners is usually my favorite part of any b.u.t.ton show (well, in addition to the panels, the featured speakers, the vendor room, and the chance to reconnect with friends and customers), and I hated that I was so wrapped up in the investigation that I was wis.h.i.+ng the time away.

b.u.t.tons.

This was all about the b.u.t.tons and the dedicated collectors who put so much time and trouble, so much money and sweat equity, in to a.s.sembling their most wonderful b.u.t.tons to show off to their fellow aficionados.

I owed it to those collectors-and to myself-to pay attention and join in the applause as each winner was announced.

"Our next category..." Helen was barely taller than the podium. I watched her silvery hair bob behind the microphone. "The next category is ivory b.u.t.tons. And our winner is..." She paused, drawing out the suspense. Or maybe Helen just couldn't find her place in the list of winners on the podium in front of her. That is, until she said, "Gloria Winston."

I sat up like a shot, and dazed and confused, I watched Gloria, shoulders back and head high, march up to the front of the ballroom to receive her prize for first place. Yes, I applauded. Just like everyone else in the ballroom. But all the while, all I could think about was that scene in the ladies' room with Gloria just a couple days earlier and how she'd been so upset about the measle she'd gotten for including a bone b.u.t.ton in among her ivory ones.

The measle that had disqualified her tray from the contest.

The tray that had then gone missing.

And was found.

And was now a winner.

Honestly, I didn't know what any of it meant. But I recognize weird when I see it.

And this was weird.

"But how. . ?" I mumbled the words under my breath, then stopped myself. It was bad form to look like I was questioning the results of the contest.

Even though I was questioning the results of the contest.

And apparently, Nev could see that.

Across the ballroom, he gave me a quizzical look that I sloughed off with a (hopefully) casual lift of my shoulders. It was all the time I had to consider the mystery. Helen finished presenting the last of the prizes, and it was my turn to take center stage.

I walked out to the dais, positioned myself behind the microphone, and drew in a breath for courage. "It's been quite an exciting week," I said, and at any other conference, I'm sure the attendees would have smiled at me and nodded and mumbled comments on how much they'd enjoyed this panel or that one, this speaker or that one. But this wasn't any other conference, and nothing about it had been normal. Before they could meet my remark with stony silence, I headed them off at the pa.s.s. "That's an understatement," I groaned.

Good move. There was a ripple of laughter from the audience.

"I have to say, when I volunteered to chair this conference, I never thought I'd be dealing with murder. Of course, you all know about that. It's no secret that a horrible event happened here on Monday night. But there are some things about the death of the man you all knew as Thad Wyant that you're not aware of, and before we each go our separate ways tomorrow, I think the least I can do is tell you as much of the truth as I know. I will warn you now: none of it is good news."

Another ripple. This one was more like the rumble of thunder.

"Number one," I said and steeled myself for the reaction I was sure was coming, "Donovan Tucker was here."

The rumble rose to a roar, and I silenced the crowd with a wave of one hand. "There's not much we can do about it now," I told them. "He attended the conference under a false name, he had a hidden camera, and he kept it rolling the whole time. My only consolation is that although he might have been trying to show the world how crazy b.u.t.ton collectors are, I don't think he got much of a chance. Our panels have been excellent. Our speakers-every last one of them-were professional and interesting and informative. If Donovan Tucker wants to make fun of that, so be it. My guess is no one who watches his movie-if anyone watches it at all-will agree. What they'll see is some fine, intelligent, and educated people discussing a subject they love, and doing it with style and cla.s.s."

"You tell 'em, Jo!"

The words of encouragement came form Kaz, who gave me a thumbs-up.

"That's not all," I said, hitting the tough stuff before I lost my momentum. "It's also important that you know something about the death of Thad Wyant. Namely, that the man who was murdered here on Monday was not Thad Wyant."

This time, the roar was a veritable tsunami of noise. Dozens of people called out questions, and the person-to-person murmur lasted so long, I wondered if they'd give me a chance to continue.

I was pretty much a.s.sured of it when Kaz put two fingers in his mouth and let out a whistle that broke the sound barrier.

The room fell silent.

"The man who was killed here was actually Brad Wyant, Thad's brother," I told the stunned b.u.t.ton collectors. "His murder, like every murder, is a terrible tragedy. But the police tell me the reason he was here in Chicago to begin with... Well, it's a pretty ugly story."

I told them how Thad had been killed back in Santa Fe and how Brad had come to our conference with larceny in his heart. Believe me, I had their attention then. One hundred percent.

"Brad Wyant came to Chicago to sell the Geronimo b.u.t.ton," I said, and before another cascade of voices could drown me out again, I added quickly, "But the b.u.t.ton he was selling as the Geronimo b.u.t.ton... Well, I'm sorry to report this, but it was all a hoax."

This time I expected the uproar, and I simply waited it out. When it finally ebbed, I got through the rest of what I had to say as quickly as possible.

"The police tell me that four people here at our conference agreed to deal with Brad, thinking they were buying the real Geronimo b.u.t.ton. They each paid ten thousand dollars for it. Detective Nevin Riley is in the back of the room." I waved that way, and Nev held up a hand so people could easily identify him. "If you were one of those people who paid Brad Wyant for a b.u.t.ton, you can talk to Detective Riley. We're going to be meeting here in the ballroom at four this afternoon, and Detective Riley a.s.sures me that if you come forward then and tell him what happened, and if you can prove you paid for what you thought was the Geronimo b.u.t.ton, you can get your ten thousand dollars back."

That was it. All I had to say.