Morningside’s murder?”
“I wish I knew.” I looked through the bags of buttons, too, carefully setting each
one aside as I did. If this was where the techs wanted to stage their evidence, they’d
need a whole lot more room.
“You took pictures of the buttons, right?” Nev looked at the individually packaged
buttons, too. “That’s what you said the other night. You said you photographed each
of the charm string buttons.”
I nodded. “You’re welcome to look through the pictures if you like.”
Nev’s smile was sheepish. “I was kind of hoping you’d do that for me.”
I felt the familiar protest ride in my throat. “I’m not—” I was going to say
a detective,
but I swallowed the words. I might not be a trained crime fighter like Nev, but I
was a button expert. And when it came to buttons, Nev needed all the help he could
get.
Chapter Five
“N INE HUNDRED AND NINETY-FIVE, NINE HUNDRED AND ninety-six, nine hundred and ninety-seven.”
It was the second time I’d counted—out loud—all the evidence bags and the buttons
in them, and my mouth felt as if it were filled with sand. I ducked into the workroom
to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and took a long drink before I walked
back into the shop and dared a look in Nev’s direction. He was standing near my desk,
and just as I feared, he didn’t look any happier at the end of this count than he
had the last time I finished counting.
“I told you, Nev…” I drained the last of the water out of the bottle. “There are three
buttons missing.”
“You’re sure?”
I bit my lower lip. It was the best way I could remindmyself that it had been a long day. For both of us. It was after dark, and while the
crime-scene techs had been busy working out in the courtyard, Nev had left to do whatever
it is homicide detectives do when they’re newly assigned to a case. Now he was back
from doing that whatever he’d been doing, and his white shirt was crumpled. His shirt
collar was unbuttoned. He hadn’t bothered to take off his trench coat when he walked
into the shop nearly an hour earlier, and the belt on it hung cockeyed. That little
vee between those blue eyes of his told me he thought he’d hear better news after
this count than he’d heard the first time around.
As a way of reminding him that my day hadn’t been any easier, I waved a hand around
the shop, silently indicating the folding tables the crime-scene techs had arranged
against the walls. Even before they asked (nicely) if I would help out, I’d already
decided this was the only way to make sense of the sea of buttons they’d rescued from
the courtyard. Yeah, it was a little anal. OK, so it was a lot anal. But it made sense.
And right about then—with images of Angela’s dead body etched in my mind and memories
of how, just twenty-four hours earlier, she’d stood right there in my shop talking
to me—bringing order to a world that was suddenly upside down calmed me and helped
me feel useful.
Under the watchful eye of a crime-scene tech named Jason, who was still at the shop
to assure what he called “the chain of evidence,” I’d carefully arranged each evidence
bag on top of a copy of the picture I’d taken the day before of the button inside
it. Little plastic bagsgleamed all around us and I looked over them all before I turned to Nev. “You want
to count them?”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to second-guess you.” He ran a hand over
a tie that was a shade of blue too green to look good with his gray suit. “I’m just
wondering what we do next.”
Had he not been so tired, I’m sure he would have thought of this himself, but for
now, I had the chance to work a little button magic and I wasn’t above gloating about
it. I whisked three photos off my desk. “We have nine hundred and ninety-seven buttons.
Plus”—I waved the photos in his direction—“we know which
“I wish I knew.” I looked through the bags of buttons, too, carefully setting each
one aside as I did. If this was where the techs wanted to stage their evidence, they’d
need a whole lot more room.
“You took pictures of the buttons, right?” Nev looked at the individually packaged
buttons, too. “That’s what you said the other night. You said you photographed each
of the charm string buttons.”
I nodded. “You’re welcome to look through the pictures if you like.”
Nev’s smile was sheepish. “I was kind of hoping you’d do that for me.”
I felt the familiar protest ride in my throat. “I’m not—” I was going to say
a detective,
but I swallowed the words. I might not be a trained crime fighter like Nev, but I
was a button expert. And when it came to buttons, Nev needed all the help he could
get.
Chapter Five
“N INE HUNDRED AND NINETY-FIVE, NINE HUNDRED AND ninety-six, nine hundred and ninety-seven.”
It was the second time I’d counted—out loud—all the evidence bags and the buttons
in them, and my mouth felt as if it were filled with sand. I ducked into the workroom
to grab a bottle of water out of the fridge and took a long drink before I walked
back into the shop and dared a look in Nev’s direction. He was standing near my desk,
and just as I feared, he didn’t look any happier at the end of this count than he
had the last time I finished counting.
“I told you, Nev…” I drained the last of the water out of the bottle. “There are three
buttons missing.”
“You’re sure?”
I bit my lower lip. It was the best way I could remindmyself that it had been a long day. For both of us. It was after dark, and while the
crime-scene techs had been busy working out in the courtyard, Nev had left to do whatever
it is homicide detectives do when they’re newly assigned to a case. Now he was back
from doing that whatever he’d been doing, and his white shirt was crumpled. His shirt
collar was unbuttoned. He hadn’t bothered to take off his trench coat when he walked
into the shop nearly an hour earlier, and the belt on it hung cockeyed. That little
vee between those blue eyes of his told me he thought he’d hear better news after
this count than he’d heard the first time around.
As a way of reminding him that my day hadn’t been any easier, I waved a hand around
the shop, silently indicating the folding tables the crime-scene techs had arranged
against the walls. Even before they asked (nicely) if I would help out, I’d already
decided this was the only way to make sense of the sea of buttons they’d rescued from
the courtyard. Yeah, it was a little anal. OK, so it was a lot anal. But it made sense.
And right about then—with images of Angela’s dead body etched in my mind and memories
of how, just twenty-four hours earlier, she’d stood right there in my shop talking
to me—bringing order to a world that was suddenly upside down calmed me and helped
me feel useful.
Under the watchful eye of a crime-scene tech named Jason, who was still at the shop
to assure what he called “the chain of evidence,” I’d carefully arranged each evidence
bag on top of a copy of the picture I’d taken the day before of the button inside
it. Little plastic bagsgleamed all around us and I looked over them all before I turned to Nev. “You want
to count them?”
“Of course not. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to second-guess you.” He ran a hand over
a tie that was a shade of blue too green to look good with his gray suit. “I’m just
wondering what we do next.”
Had he not been so tired, I’m sure he would have thought of this himself, but for
now, I had the chance to work a little button magic and I wasn’t above gloating about
it. I whisked three photos off my desk. “We have nine hundred and ninety-seven buttons.
Plus”—I waved the photos in his direction—“we know which
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