Buttoned Up by Kylie Logan Page A

And, Laverne, didn’t we give that other extra set to somebody? Was it Miss Maud from the choir? I think it was. And then of course there are the keys over there . . .” He dropped the key rings back in his desk at the same time he made a vague gesture toward the door. “We always keep those on the nail right inside the door. Just in case anybody needs them for anything.”
    Both Nev and I looked that way, and we both saw the nail the reverend was talking about.
    Just like we both saw that it was empty.
    Reverend Truman realized it just as we did, and his mouth dropped open. “They were there last night,” he said. “I’m sure of it. Before I went in to the gallery to take a look at the show, those keys were hanging right there inside the door.” He hurried around to the front of the desk and headed over to the door, but before he could get too close, Nev stopped him.
    “There could be fingerprints,” Nev said.
    The reverend froze. “Then you think the murderer was in here.”
    “It would have been easy to slip in here during the show,” I pointed out. “There were lots of people in the gallery and no one would have noticed if someone slipped out and came in here. It would be pretty easy to pocket the keys and use them to get back into the church after we were all gone.”
    Reverend Truman dropped his chin onto his chest and squeezed his eyes shut. “And kill that poor artist. God forgive him.”
    “Except he would have had to get Forbis back here to the church to begin with.” I wasn’t sure anyone wanted to hear this bit of theorizing on my part, but I felt it was only fair to bring it up. “Forbis left. So how did the killer get him to come back to kill him?”
    “Unless he wasn’t killed here. He could have been killed somewhere else,” Nev suggested and I knew he was right.
    “But if he was, it would have been a heck of a lot easier to leave the body wherever that somewhere was.” Nev didn’t argue so I went right on. “Which means there was a very particular reason the killer wanted Forbis found where he was, and the way he was. I mean, with those buttons on his eyes and mouth. It’s like he was sending a message.”
    One corner of Nev’s mouth twitched. “Maybe he was an art critic.”

Chapter Four

    One of the crime-scene techs came in and asked Nev to come into the gallery, and this time I knew better than to poke my nose where it clearly didn’t belong. It was one thing working alongside Nev to think our way through an investigation. It would be another altogether if the techs, uniformed cops, and other detectives there to do their jobs thought I was an interfering buttinski.
    Rather than stand there with nothing to do, calling attention to the fact that I was hanging around where I didn’t belong, I stepped back into the church. Nev was taking a look at the body. Me, I went in the other direction.
    Just like I had the night before, I walked down the main aisle of the church, stopping now and again to imagine all that had happened after Forbis dropped his champagne glass and ran. As long as I was at it, I looked around and wondered what Forbis had seen when he raced by.
    Pews.
    Nothing but row after row of pews.
    Though if someone had decided to duck into one . . .
    The thought struck, and I stopped and thought back to the scene. Though the art installation was brightly lit, it was pitch dark here in the body of the church, and even if I’d bothered to look around as I raced outside, I doubt I would have seen Forbis if he’d sidestepped into one of the pews and scrunched up to hide.
    But why?
    I took another look around the church. From here, about halfway down the aisle, there was a clear shot to the old altar area and the box where Congo Savanne lurked. If Forbis really had run away from the exhibit just as a stunt designed to attract attention to himself and his artwork, this would have been an ideal place to watch the show. From here, he could see the stunned expressions on