Panic Button (12 page)

“Of course I do.” He didn’t so much set his plate on the hearth as he dropped it.
Good thing lunch was being served off plastic. “Charles always understands.” His voice
was singsong. “Charles is Mr. Nice Guy.”

I wondered what I’d gotten myself into and glanced around, hoping there would be someone
nearby who I could draw into what was quickly turning into an uncomfortable conversation.
No such luck. Apparently, there were reasons Charles was sitting there alone. Just
as apparently, I was the only one in town who did not know those reasons. At least
until now. That would explain why I’d gotten enmeshed in trying to chat with a man
who could have been taught a thing or two about congeniality by Ebenezer Scrooge.

But then, his cousin had just been murdered.

The thought touched a chord, and I decided my initial impression of Charles may have
been rash. He was grieving, poor man. I owed it to Angela’s memory to be patient.

“You and Angela,” I said, making the attempt, “you must have been close.”

“Well, that’s one thing that would explain why I
forked out the bucks for this little shindig. Oh sure, the garden club helped out.
But do you have any idea how much a couple cases of beer costs? And all this plasticware?
Not to mention the cost of the funeral itself. Kind of funny, don’t you think, when
we both know that if I was the one who’d been whacked, Angela wouldn’t have opened
a package of Oreos and passed them around the funeral home in my honor.”

“But you did what you did because you’re Mr. Nice Guy.”

I was going for funny.

Charles didn’t laugh.

I, too, set aside my plate. If ever there was a moment to get down to business, this
was it. “What you’re telling me is that Angela wasn’t very generous.”

Charles grunted. “That’s putting it mildly. All that stuff Aunt Evelyn left her? I
guess that’s all the proof anyone needs.”

“You mean the charm string.”

Charles leaned to his right, closer to me. “Aunt Evelyn was loaded. And not just with
money. The old girl had been collecting antiques for years.”

“And Angela—”

“Got it all.”

“But you were her nephew, just like Angela was her niece.”

One corner of Charles’s mouth pulled into what was almost a smile. “I knew I liked
you,” he said.

I wasn’t sure I took that as a compliment.

“So you can see why I’m curious, right? About the charm string?” Charles gave me a
wink.

I didn’t like that, either.

“If I could get a hold of some of those buttons and pawn ’em off to some collector,
at least I could recoup some of my losses. And before you think you can get away with
anything…” This time, he looked me right in the eye. “I’ve done my homework. I know
the black glass and the mother of pearl aren’t worth all that much. But that enameled
button, the one with the fish on it, that ought to bring in a pretty penny.”

It was a good thing I stopped eating. I would have choked on my lunch. “You know something
about buttons?”

“I make it my business to know about things that can affect my bottom line.”

I tried to sound casual when I asked, “How much of a bottom line are we talking?”

“For the charm string? You tell me. I do know that last week on eBay, a button almost
just like that fish button sold for nearly four hundred dollars.”

I watched the auctions, and I’d seen that button. I didn’t have the heart to tell
him it was nowhere near the quality, or that in my experience, there were few buttons
like the enameled one on Angela’s charm string. I also didn’t bother to mention that
if I was selling the buttons off the charm string—or buying it for that matter—four
hundred wouldn’t even come close. Not for the enameled button.

“I’ve already called the cops in Chicago,” Charles added. “I’ve informed them that
I’m Angela’s only living relative. I’ve told them when they’re ready to release
those buttons, I’m the one who gets them. Hey, you could put in a good word for me.”

I was about to tell him I didn’t have that kind of influence with the police or with
anyone else.

Charles didn’t give me a chance.

He scooted his chair a little closer. “I knew you’d understand,” he said. “I could
tell yesterday. Right when we met. I knew you weren’t like these mindless morons who
were fooled by Angela’s act. All that crazy talk about curses and astro-signs. All
she wanted was for people to think that she was this harmless, scatterbrained lady.”

“When she was really…”

“Conniving,” Charles said, and nodded to emphasize the point. “Selfish and conniving.
You want proof?”

I did, though I didn’t expect him to offer it right then and there.

Charles popped out of his chair, and reaching for my hand, he pulled me up to stand
beside him.

“We’ll go over to Angela’s,” he said, quietly enough so no one else heard. “And I’ll
show you.”

I’m a big girl. A professional. A business owner.

And I’d already investigated a couple murders on my own.

Of course I knew it wasn’t wise to up and leave with a man I barely knew, especially
when he’d just come right out and told me that he was jealous of the favoritism ol’
Aunt Evelyn had shown Angela, and angry that Angela never shared the wealth.

Charles had motive.

And that meant one of two things:

Either he was as innocent as the driven snow and, thus, didn’t care about revealing
his true feelings about Angela.

Or he was one devious—and deviously clever—murderer.

A
NGELA LIVED IN THE HEART OF
A
RDENT
L
AKE, JUST
a block from the park where I’d met Marci Steiner the night before. Her house was
one of the big Victorians, this one painted white with touches of purple, gold, and
flamingo pink that livened up the curlicue woodwork on the front porch, the gables,
and the framing around the tall, pointed windows.

The inside of the house was surprisingly modern.

And incredibly cluttered.

“Wow.” Charles and I stepped in the front door and I got my first look at the avocado
green shag carpet, the sleek leather oxblood-colored couch, the oak end tables, and
what looked to be a lifetime’s worth of…

Stuff.

Afraid to move and not sure where I’d go if I did, I tried to take it all in.

There were dozens of paintings in all shapes and sizes leaning against the couch,
and hundreds of pieces of glassware—from pink Depression glass serving platters to
elaborate china vases—on every flat surface.

“Wow.” I couldn’t help myself. It seemed the only reasonable response.

“See? It’s just like I said.” Charles carefully picked his way down a foot-wide path
between a pile of antique quilts and a life-size marble statue of some Greek god with
a harp in one hand and an apple in the other and very little in the way of clothing.
“I told you Angela got it all.”

“You mean…” Panic flashed through me when I watched Charles turn a corner and pictured
losing him in the maze and never finding my way outside again. I hurried after him,
sidling between the statue and a curio cabinet filled to bursting with Royal Doulton
figurines. “This all once belonged to Aunt Evelyn?”

Charles nodded. At least I think he nodded. It was kind of hard to tell because he
was on the other side of a mahogany buffet heaped with Limoges. Yes, buttons are my
first love. But that doesn’t mean I don’t appreciate other beautiful old things. I
took a closer look at a fabulous china punch bowl beautifully hand-painted with bunches
of red and purple grapes.

“This stuff is amazing,” I said. “Aunt Evelyn had good taste.”

I heard Charles tsk. “Except when it came to her niece.”

I had no time for family drama. There was too much to see. My attention was caught
by the colored glass balls hanging in each of the room’s three windows.

Charles had been there before and had apparently developed the talent of seeing over
and through the heaps of antiques. “Witch balls,” he said, looking where I was looking.
After he looked at me from between two gigantic Limoges urns, that is. “And they’re
not antique. Angela bought them new, another one every few months. You’ll see them
hanging in all the windows. They have something to do with some old New England fishing
tradition. I don’t remember the details though, believe me, Angela told me plenty
of times. What it comes down to is that a witch ball is supposed to trap any evil
that tries to get into your home. There’s other weird stuff around here, too.”

From behind the mountain of porcelain, I saw Charles point to the French doors that
separated the living room from the dining room. There was a fabric bag hanging from
the knob of each door.

“Some kind of herbs,” he said, wrinkling his nose. “They’re supposed to ward off evil.
At least that’s what Angela always said. All I know is that when she got fresh ones,
they smelled terrible.”

“Too bad none of these good luck charms worked in her case.” I carefully made my way
over to where he was standing. Through the French doors, I could see into the dining
room, and the kitchen beyond that. Every bit of space in the house was crammed with
more stuff.

There was a life-size wooden cigar store Indian standing next to the dining room table
and the table itself was jam-packed with antique clocks. There were old hatboxes
stacked on the floor, and in the kitchen, all but one square foot of counter space
was piled with more glassware. In fact, the only thing that was perfectly clear in
there was the table, and that had a singe mark the color of ebony piano keys in the
center of it, a remnant of that fire Angela told me about.

“How could she live like this?” I asked no one in particular. “And why would she want
to? Angela seemed so organized, so together.”

“Well, she was. Or at least she used to be.” Charles crossed his arms over his chest.
“Until all this stuff got delivered from Aunt Evelyn’s.”

“And Angela never put it away? Never gave it away?”

I might have known this last question would have elicited a sour look from Charles.
“She never had much of a chance. Aunt Evelyn died only four months ago. At first,
Angela bragged that she’d have everything under control and organized lickety-split,
but when she realized there was so much…well, it just goes to show, she wasn’t as
perfect as she thought she was. Not even Angela could decide what to do with Evelyn’s
collections. Of course, she could have shared a little with me.”

Rather than deal with his bitterness, I glanced around. “Have the cops been here?”
I asked Charles.

He grunted an affirmative.

“Then if we looked around a little more…” I was already doing that; I had my hand
on one of the French doors.

Charles shrugged. “I can’t imagine it would hurt anything. And hey, poetic justice—it
will all be mine one of these days, including the house, I imagine.”

“It’s not what I expected,” I admitted, referring to the house, not Angela’s will
and what might, or might not, be coming to Charles. “I mean, the house is so over-the-top
Victorian on the outside and in here…”

We were both in the dining room now, and there was a very un-Victorian-like sleek
ceiling fan above the glass and chrome table, more shag carpeting, more clutter. “Not
so much. You’d think with all the time and effort everyone here in Ardent Lake puts
into restoring their homes—”

“You’re kidding me, right?” Shaking his head—I wasn’t sure if it was because he felt
sorry for me or if he was just disgusted—Charles led the way around the corner. Between
the dining room and the kitchen was a stairway that led to the second floor. “If you
want to know more about Angela, her bedroom is upstairs. While you’re up there looking
around, maybe you could start to get a handle on what you think all this stuff might
be worth. Obviously, I don’t have room for it all, and even if I did, I wouldn’t want
to keep half of it. I’m going to unload this junk and cash in, fast.”

I didn’t tell him I was qualified to appraise absolutely nothing except for buttons.
Why take a chance? No way was I going to miss out on the golden opportunity to get
a look into Angela’s private life.

I took the steps two at a time. Not the best plan since I was wearing black pumps.
My calves screaming in pain, I paused on the landing at the top of the steps. Angela’s
bedroom was straight ahead at the end of the hallway, and I promised myself I’d have
a good look around in there after I checked out the room directly to my left, one
she obviously used as an office.

There was no clutter up here, thank goodness, and I imagined it was because Angela
knew she could never work crowded by the flotsam and jetsam of Aunt Evelyn’s life.
The glass and metal computer desk was spotless except for a couple small piles of
paper. No date book, and that’s what I’d hoped to find. Then again, I knew Nev had
been there before me, and he was a thorough sort of guy. I glanced through the papers,
notes about work, one about calling a repairman to look at the air conditioner and
another reminding herself to get her best suit from the dry cleaners for the ceremony
at the historical museum. There was a small pile of receipts, too, and when I shuffled
through them, Charles waved in my direction.