them was a mystery to me.
Honestly, I was relieved when I stepped into the hospitality suite, where in addition to rolls and coffee and bagels, Grace Popovich, a nice lady from Baltimore, was scheduled to serve up a helping of button knowledge and a short talk on clear-glass buttons.
I hadn’t expected a full room, but after just a couple minutes, we were packed in like sardines, and I figured it was time to introduce Grace. I did that and would have stepped aside and let her take the floor if a man at the back of the room hadn’t raised his hand.
“Is it true?” he asked. “You’re the one who found Thad Wyant’s body?”
“And he was stabbed! Forty times!” A woman near the front of the room fanned her face with her conference booklet. “Should we be worried, Josie? Is someone out to get button collectors?”
Apparently, this was a new thought for most of the folks in the room, and not a good one. A murmur started and grew, like the sound of a bee swarm.
Since I’m not tall, I wasn’t exactly a commanding presence. But I’d been a theater major, remember, and though I was a lousy actress, I knew a thing or two about projecting.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I bellowed; then, because I was embarrassed at bellowing, I cringed. The crowd quieted. “The police are confident Thad’s death is an isolated incident.”
“But it must have something to do with buttons. Good gravy!” A heavyset woman in the front row slapped a hand to her heart. “What if I’m next?”
Another steady buzzing started, and again, I was obliged to raise my voice. “The police are here in the hotel,” I said. “And between them and the hotel’s regular security staff, we’re all perfectly safe.” If they knew Ralph, they might know this was not necessarily true, but I wasn’t about to spill the beans. “So just relax, and let’s let Grace Popovich—”
“But what about the Geronimo button?” someone called out. “Does this mean we’re not going to get to see it?”
“I came a long way to get a look at that button,” another voice grumbled. “If a conference promises something, it should follow through.”
“Hey, look at this!” This time, it was Kaz who did the yelling. He stepped back from the door and waved his arm in that direction just as a member of the waitstaff carried in a spectacular arrangement of fresh fruit. Two waiters followed behind: one with a supply of orange juice, the otherwith champagne. “The least we can do is toast Thad Wyant,” Kaz said, and gave me a wink. “Line up right here,” he waved people into a neat line. “And once we all have our mimosas, we’ll drink to his memory.”
I leaned in close to him. “I suppose I’m paying for this.”
“Call it the price of a little peace of mind,” he mumbled back.
And I suppose I would have if Daryl Tucker hadn’t come shuffling up at that very moment.
“Josie,” he said. His eye twitched. “I need to talk to you.”
I was standing near the front of the mimosa line, debating between greeting each attendee with a warm smile and words of assurance and grabbing one of the bottles of champagne and downing it. “Talk,” I told Daryl.
His cheeks turned the color of Kaz’s sweater. “I mean…” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “I mean in private.”
This was hardly the time for one of Daryl’s half-baked come-ons. I hoped the smile I gave him didn’t say that as much as it did that I was busy and maybe later…
“Maybe later,” I said out loud, just in case he didn’t get it. “I’m kind of busy and—”
“But Josie…” Daryl bounced up on the balls of his feet, as nervous as a Chihuahua. “But Josie…” He moved close, and since I had nowhere to go, it was really close. Daryl was a half a head taller than me and he bent to whisper in my ear. “I need to talk to you, Josie,” he hissed. “Because… because I think I know who killed Thad Wyant.”
Chapter Seven
Y ES , I SAID I
Honestly, I was relieved when I stepped into the hospitality suite, where in addition to rolls and coffee and bagels, Grace Popovich, a nice lady from Baltimore, was scheduled to serve up a helping of button knowledge and a short talk on clear-glass buttons.
I hadn’t expected a full room, but after just a couple minutes, we were packed in like sardines, and I figured it was time to introduce Grace. I did that and would have stepped aside and let her take the floor if a man at the back of the room hadn’t raised his hand.
“Is it true?” he asked. “You’re the one who found Thad Wyant’s body?”
“And he was stabbed! Forty times!” A woman near the front of the room fanned her face with her conference booklet. “Should we be worried, Josie? Is someone out to get button collectors?”
Apparently, this was a new thought for most of the folks in the room, and not a good one. A murmur started and grew, like the sound of a bee swarm.
Since I’m not tall, I wasn’t exactly a commanding presence. But I’d been a theater major, remember, and though I was a lousy actress, I knew a thing or two about projecting.
“There’s nothing to be worried about,” I bellowed; then, because I was embarrassed at bellowing, I cringed. The crowd quieted. “The police are confident Thad’s death is an isolated incident.”
“But it must have something to do with buttons. Good gravy!” A heavyset woman in the front row slapped a hand to her heart. “What if I’m next?”
Another steady buzzing started, and again, I was obliged to raise my voice. “The police are here in the hotel,” I said. “And between them and the hotel’s regular security staff, we’re all perfectly safe.” If they knew Ralph, they might know this was not necessarily true, but I wasn’t about to spill the beans. “So just relax, and let’s let Grace Popovich—”
“But what about the Geronimo button?” someone called out. “Does this mean we’re not going to get to see it?”
“I came a long way to get a look at that button,” another voice grumbled. “If a conference promises something, it should follow through.”
“Hey, look at this!” This time, it was Kaz who did the yelling. He stepped back from the door and waved his arm in that direction just as a member of the waitstaff carried in a spectacular arrangement of fresh fruit. Two waiters followed behind: one with a supply of orange juice, the otherwith champagne. “The least we can do is toast Thad Wyant,” Kaz said, and gave me a wink. “Line up right here,” he waved people into a neat line. “And once we all have our mimosas, we’ll drink to his memory.”
I leaned in close to him. “I suppose I’m paying for this.”
“Call it the price of a little peace of mind,” he mumbled back.
And I suppose I would have if Daryl Tucker hadn’t come shuffling up at that very moment.
“Josie,” he said. His eye twitched. “I need to talk to you.”
I was standing near the front of the mimosa line, debating between greeting each attendee with a warm smile and words of assurance and grabbing one of the bottles of champagne and downing it. “Talk,” I told Daryl.
His cheeks turned the color of Kaz’s sweater. “I mean…” He lowered his voice and leaned closer. “I mean in private.”
This was hardly the time for one of Daryl’s half-baked come-ons. I hoped the smile I gave him didn’t say that as much as it did that I was busy and maybe later…
“Maybe later,” I said out loud, just in case he didn’t get it. “I’m kind of busy and—”
“But Josie…” Daryl bounced up on the balls of his feet, as nervous as a Chihuahua. “But Josie…” He moved close, and since I had nowhere to go, it was really close. Daryl was a half a head taller than me and he bent to whisper in my ear. “I need to talk to you, Josie,” he hissed. “Because… because I think I know who killed Thad Wyant.”
Chapter Seven
Y ES , I SAID I
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