"Would you?"

"Sell a b.u.t.ton with that sort of historical significance?" Nev nodded, and again, I paused to think over the question. "If the b.u.t.ton Box was about to go under and that money was the only thing that could save it. Or if some friend or relative was in need of an operation or something. Yeah, maybe. Who knows?" I lifted my shoulders. "Maybe something like that was going on. Maybe Thad was desperate. I just can't imagine it though..." Not that they would tell me anything, but I lifted the evidence bags, one after the other, feeling the heft of the ten thousand dollars inside each.

"I can't imagine he'd have anything else of this kind of value to sell. I mean, other than big chunks of his b.u.t.ton collection, and if that was the case, we would have found b.u.t.tons here in his room. I can't imagine there is much of anything else worth that much. Certainly not cavalry b.u.t.tons, and that was one of Thad's specialties. Unless he had a b.u.t.ton personally worn by Custer at the Little Big Horn or something." I dismissed the very idea with a shake of my head. "There would be no way to prove it, no way to authenticate a b.u.t.ton like that." I dropped the bag I was holding back on the table. "Maybe we've got this all wrong. Maybe Wyant was a drug dealer. Or a money launderer. Or-"

"We're checking into every possibility," Nev a.s.sured me. "But b.u.t.tons make the most sense."

Thinking, I tapped my fingers on the table. "It would explain why he suddenly showed up at a b.u.t.ton conference when he's never come to one before. If Thad had something to sell-"

"And he knew b.u.t.ton collectors were the only ones who'd be interested enough to buy-"

"He might make an exception and come to a conference. It would be worth coming out of his hermit sh.e.l.l if there was enough money to be made."

"And forty thousand bucks isn't exactly chump change."

"But why..." We'd been going along pretty well, and I hated to interrupt the flow, but really, we had to consider all the possibilities and all the pitfalls. This was a pretty big pitfall.

"But if the killer bought something from Thad and already gave Thad his money, why kill him?" I asked.

"Buyer's remorse?" Nev was guessing and he knew it, but he threw out possibilities. "The buyer found out Thad had something even more valuable and was going to sell it to someone else? The Geronimo b.u.t.ton was a fake?"

"It didn't look like one."

"I know. I know." I guess my jumpiness was contagious, because Nev rapped the table with his knuckles. "I'm grasping at straws, but hey, brainstorming is a tried-and-true method for thinking through a problem. Maybe we'll hit on something that actually makes sense."

"OK, so let's walk through it again." I pulled in a breath. "Thad Wyant has something to sell. He contacts collectors he knows might be interested, gets ten thousand bucks from each of them, then arranges a meet. I think we can safely say that at the meet, that's where the buyer is supposed to get the product."

Nev didn't say I was right. He didn't say I was wrong, either, so I went on.

"Apparently, the meet on Sunday night goes well. So does the one on Monday morning. So whatever Thad was selling, the buyers must have been pleased. Unless, of course, one of those buyers bought the Geronimo b.u.t.ton and then, for some weird reason, decided he-or she-didn't want it anymore. Then it's time for the meet on Monday evening, right before the banquet."

"And something goes terribly wrong." Nev took over the conjecture. "Langston Whitman says that the murder weapon is the awl Thad took from his booth in the vendor room, so we can a.s.sume that Thad had it with him. Maybe in his pocket or something. Or maybe he took it along for protection because he wasn't sure about this particular buyer and he didn't feel comfortable. They make the exchange-"

"And we know that, because we know there weren't any b.u.t.tons found with Thad's body. Whatever he was selling, the killer took it with him. Or her."

"Exactly." Nev pursed his lips, thinking through the rest of the puzzle. "They make the exchange and something goes wrong. The buyer questions Thad. They argue."

"Thad pulls out the awl."

"And somehow, our killer gets ahold of it."

"The rest..." The rest made my stomach queasy, so I didn't want to spell it out. "It makes sense," I said.

"It does."

"But it still doesn't explain who killed Thad Wyant."

Understatement, but before Nev could point it out, his cell rang. From what he said by way of greeting, I figured out he was talking to the police in Santa Fe, and I figured they'd tell him what they'd been telling him for the last twenty-four hours: that they hadn't had any luck locating Thad's brother.

Which was why my heart b.u.mped to a stop when Nev's eyes popped open. "What?" he asked into the phone.

I couldn't hear a word the person on the other end of it said, but that wasn't from lack of trying. I leaned nearer.

"Of course," Nev told the caller. "I understand this changes everything. We've got a lot to discuss, Detective Martinez. Yes." Nev listened for a moment. "Yeah, let's say tomorrow morning, eleven my time. That will give you time to get the scene secured and looked over. Yeah. Right. Until then."

Like a guy who'd just been whacked over the head with a baseball bat, Nev's eyes were fixed, and his expression was dumbfounded. He set his phone on the table, shook himself out of the stupor, and looked at me.

"Well, that settles that," he said. Only not in a way that said anything was settled. "We don't have to worry if someone killed Thad Wyant because of b.u.t.tons."

This sounded like good news to me. "We don't? Does that mean-"

Nev's face was pale. His sandy brows were low over his eyes. "The Santa Fe police just found Thad Wyant's body," he said. "It was in the bas.e.m.e.nt of his home, stuffed in the freezer."

Chapter Twelve.

LIKE ANYONE COULD BLAME ME FOR NOT BEING ABLE TO get a wink of sleep that night?

Thad Wyant was dead.

Only Thad Wyant wasn't Thad Wyant.

Because Thad Wyant was dead.

See what I'm getting at here? It was enough to make anyone's head spin!

And the next morning, it was enough to make me station myself at the door to the room where the panel on molded-gla.s.s b.u.t.tons was taking place, just so I could keep an eye on the hotel lobby. The second I saw Nev walk in, I ducked out of what was an interesting conversation about the differences between the gla.s.s b.u.t.tons made in Czechoslovakia in the 1940s and those made today and intercepted Nev outside the dealer room.

"So?"

He gave me a quick look out of the corner of his eye. "So what?"

"So who is he? Or I should say, who was he? If Thad Wyant wasn't Thad Wyant-"

"We really shouldn't talk here." With a quick look around to make sure we hadn't been overheard, he took my arm and steered me away from the lobby and into a quiet corridor. "The longer we can keep this under wraps, the better."

He was right. And I was embarra.s.sed. By now, I should have known enough about murder investigations to keep my mouth shut. What I was not, however, was sorry when Nev kept his hand on my arm-even after we were tucked between a vending machine that featured plastic bottles of c.o.ke and Mountain Dew for two dollars each and an ice maker.

When Nev realized he still had ahold of my arm, he stepped back, but he didn't let go.

"It was Brad," he said.

"Brad?" I didn't think something as small as the touch of Nev's hand could throw my equilibrium completely off balance, but it must have because I wasn't exactly following. I raised my voice over the chunky, clunky sound of the ice machine doing its thing. "Brad who?"

"Brad Wyant."

"No, Thad. Thad Wyant. He's the b.u.t.ton expert."

"He is." Nev nodded. "But he's not our dead guy. Well..." He scrubbed a hand over his face. "He is our dead guy. Only he's our dead guy out in Santa Fe. Our dead guy here is-"

"Brad Wyant." It was starting to make sense. A little. The ice machine finished replenishing its supply, and we were suddenly hemmed in by a silence punctuated by the hum of the vending machine and the thump of my heart. "And Brad is-"

"Thad's brother. You know, the actor."

"Which explains..." I shuffled through what I remembered, which wasn't as easy as it sounds. If there was one thing I'd found out in the course of the murder investigation I'd been part of earlier that summer, it was that the information just keeps on comin'. There are times it's hard to tell the good guys from the bad guys without a scorecard, and times when the info piles up and my brain feels like it's in overdrive.

"That explains why you couldn't get in touch with Brad to tell him Thad was dead," I said to Nev. "Because Brad was dead here in Chicago, and Thad was-"

"According to the Santa Fe police, the real Thad Wyant's been dead at least a couple of months. It's kind of hard to tell because of-"

"The freezer. Yeah." Guilt by a.s.sociation. I stepped away from the ice machine. It was horrible to think of Thad Wyant-the real Thad Wyant-stuffed in there and... I gulped. "Please tell me he was dead before he was put in that freezer."

The pressure of Nev's hand on my arm increased just enough to rea.s.sure me. "It looks that way."

"And you think he was murdered, and that the killer-"

"Well, we don't know for sure yet, but my gut says it must have been Brad." Rolling his shoulders, Nev leaned back against the wall. "Thad's neighbors say Brad went to visit his brother last summer. They remembered because Brad didn't come around very often. After he left, they don't remember seeing Thad. I guess that didn't cause them to be too suspicious because, as you know, Thad was something of a hermit, but hey, he did leave his house once in a while. But n.o.body saw him come or go after Brad left, not that they can remember, anyway. That was a couple months ago; the timeline is right. And Thad's credit cards have been used steadily since then. It doesn't take a leap of logic to figure out that Brad scooped them up and has been living high off the hog. The stuff he's been charging went way beyond Thad's credit limit."

"Which is why Thad's charge was declined when Brad tried to use it at Langston's booth in the dealer room." This made a whole bunch of sense. "And no doubt, Brad wasn't paying the charges-"

"Because he knew there was nothing anyone could do to him. If they were going to come after anyone for the payments, it would be Thad. And Thad was-" The ice machine made another clunky sound and even Nev-seasoned cop that he was-caught the symbolism and made a face. "Obviously, Thad wasn't able to make the payments. Brad's plan was probably to float by as long as possible."

"And Thad really being Brad... I mean, the Thad who was here really being Brad... That explains it!" Honestly, I would have slapped my forehead if I wasn't afraid I'd leave an ugly mark. "When I was reading through Thad's articles about the Geronimo b.u.t.ton, his bio said he was a vegan. And yet on the dinner cruise..." I remembered the scene about the meat that had been too overcooked for Thad's... er, Brad's... liking. "It explains why he didn't seem to know very much about b.u.t.tons. I mean, on the dinner cruise, when Langston said he specialized in supplies, Thad... er, Brad... thought that was some kind of b.u.t.ton. It also explains why he didn't act the way I thought a Western b.u.t.ton expert would act, either. I expected a man who was academic and quiet. And I got-"

"Brad Wyant, pretending to be his brother and acting the way he thought a Western b.u.t.ton expert would act. According to the neighbors, Brad didn't come around unless he needed something. And their phone records don't show any calls between the brothers. Brad was playing a role, and since he didn't know Thad all that well, he didn't realize he was playing it all wrong. Anyone heartless enough to kill his brother and stuff the body in a freezer wouldn't realize that a man can be an expert at something and not have to wear his ego on his sleeve."

Something told me Nev knew a lot about this. He was an expert, too. An expert at crime and investigation and getting people to talk, even when they didn't always want to. He was an expert at handling the bad guys, and that meant the good people of Chicago could live their lives securely. Nev wasn't flashy or loud. He wasn't showy or pushy. Like Thad Wyant-the real Thad Wyant-he didn't wear his ego on his sleeve.

There were usually too many wrinkles on Nev's sleeves to accommodate it, anyway.

In spite of the fact that we were discussing murder, I found myself smiling. But then, it was hard not to when a sudden thread of warmth tangled around my heart.

Nev, of course, was completely unaware of what I was thinking. Thank goodness!

"I got an e-mail this morning," he said. "Pictures from the state coroner's office in New Mexico, and I have to say, Thad and Brad, they looked enough alike to be twins even though they were born a year apart. Thad was so reclusive, Brad just naturally thought he could get away with impersonating his brother. He was an actor, remember. Even if he wasn't a very good one."

"Good enough to fool all of us." I hated to admit it. "He would have gone right on fooling us, too, if he hadn't been murdered. I guess that was something he never figured on when he came up with his scheme. Whatever it was. It's crazy, isn't it? I mean the whole ident.i.ty thing and..." I gave Nev a look. "You're sure?"

"That our Thad is really Brad and that the real Thad is..." Even Nev was having trouble keeping it straight. He wrinkled his nose. "Between us and the police in Santa Fe, we've checked fingerprints, and everything matches up. Of course, the people from the medical examiner's office have taken DNA samples from our victim, but I'm willing to bet-"

I didn't know Nev well enough to go into details when it came to discussing what my life had been like with Kaz, but-duh!-he was good at picking up on clues. At that last word, his cheeks got dusky. At least he didn't patronize me by apologizing. Instead, he went right on.

"After seeing those pictures from Santa Fe," he said, "I'm sure of it, and I bet that speck of blood we found in his suite will confirm it. It was Brad Wyant, all right, and he killed his brother and a.s.sumed his ident.i.ty. Whatever he was up to, whatever he was doing with all that cash we found in his room, he figured he could come here to Chicago where n.o.body knew him and get away with it."

I groaned, and because even that wasn't enough to convey my frustration, I threw up my hands. "It was staring us in the face this whole time, and we never saw it. The way he was acting, it should have sent up a huge red flag. All that hokey talk about varmints and heck; he even called me little lady. n.o.body talks like that. Not for real. n.o.body but somebody who's read too many bad scripts for B Westerns."

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Josie. n.o.body suspected."

"But we should have." I was so sure of this that a muscle jumped at the base of my jaw. "He was a cartoon. The dusty cowboy boots and the hat and those embroidered shirts. He was an actor portraying a b.u.t.ton collector. The only question is, why?"

Nev looked at me hard and that made the pieces click.

I nodded. "The money. Sure. Of course. The forty thousand dollars you found. Brad Wyant killed his brother and took his place so he could come to the conference and sell whatever it was he was selling. Then Thad Wyant..." A new thought struck, and my shoulders slumped. "I really have made a mess of this conference. Here I thought getting Thad Wyant to come and give our keynote address was a coup. But Thad never agreed to it at all. It must have been Brad who answered my letters. Which explains..." Just thinking about it made me cringe. "I wrote to Thad Wyant more than a year ago," I explained. "I invited him to the conference. And when I didn't hear in a couple months, I wrote again. Just in case he hadn't gotten the first letter. And again, I didn't hear. Not for months and months, anyway. Then a few months ago, just when I'd pretty much lost all hope, that's when he responded. And the fact that I invited Thad..." I pressed a hand to my stomach. "It's my fault Thad is dead. If I'd never invited him-"

"Oh, no!" Before I could say another word, Nev pulled me into his arms. "I'm not going to let you talk like that," he said, his mouth close to my ear. "It's not your fault, understand?" His hands on my shoulders, he pushed me just far enough away to look into my eyes. "You're not responsible. Not for what Brad Wyant did. He's the only one who has to answer for that. And he did. Somehow, this crazy charade of his resulted in his murder. It has everything to do with him and nothing to do with you. You get that, don't you?"

I did. At least I think I did. It would have been easier to figure out if I wasn't feeling a little dazed and confused by that hug. I reminded myself this wasn't the time or the place and got back on track. But then, that wasn't so hard. A new thought struck, and I sucked in a breath.

"Then on the cruise, when Beth Howell confronted the man she thought was Thad-"

"She was really talking to his brother. And he actually might have been telling the truth when he said he didn't know who she was or what she was angry about."

"Which means if she's our killer..." I hated when the universe thumbed its nose at us mere mortals. Especially when a big dose of irony was involved. "She was angry at Thad, and she may have killed the wrong man."

"But not an innocent man," Nev reminded me. "Don't start feeling sorry for Brad Wyant. There's Thad's body in the freezer, remember."

Like I could ever forget?

"So..." This close to Nev, it was impossible to not think about that hug and lose my train of thought, so I stepped back closer to the ice maker, and realizing it, I sidestepped to stand in front of the vending machine. "Maybe, somehow, Beth really did know Thad. I mean, the real Thad. Maybe she knew him years ago, and maybe Brad fooled even her."

"Just like he fooled everyone else."

"I wonder." I flipped through my mental Rolodex, remembering the last few days and the b.u.t.ton collectors who'd had run-ins with Brad Wyant. "Langston had never met Thad Wyant before," I said. "If he had, he would have noticed the differences between Thad and Brad for sure. Langston is a details kind of guy. And Helen... She's been around for years, but she's never been interested in Western b.u.t.tons. Even if she had crossed paths with Thad, it would have been years ago, and as you said, the brothers looked an awful lot alike."

"That leaves Beth Howell." Nev pushed away from the wall, and I knew what that meant. Although the cops had been looking for Beth all this time, he was about to initiate a full-court press.

"And Chase Cadell," I added. "Let's not forget him. He and Thad have been rivals for years." Again, I felt like giving myself a good swift kick in the pants for missing out on the clues. "The man we thought was Thad didn't blink an eye when he cut in line in front of Chase on Navy Pier before the cruise. They hated each other. You think he would have reacted somehow. And Chase... He and Thad must have met each other in person somewhere along the line. He had plenty of opportunities to see Thad... er, Brad... at this conference. If he noticed anything was off-"

"Then he might have figured out that the Thad who showed up for the conference wasn't the person he was supposed to be."

"And he might have confronted him and-"

I was getting way ahead of myself. I knew it, and of course, Nev did, too. Again, he put a hand on my arm, this time to stop my imagination from running away with me. "That still doesn't explain all that money," he reminded me.

"I know. I know." I marched out toward the lobby and the conference rooms beyond, already scanning the groups of people leaving this hour's scheduled panels, looking for Chase Cadell. "But it might give us a lead, right? Thad and Chase weren't what anybody would call old friends. In fact, they were more like old enemies. And something tells me one old enemy might know a whole lot about the other one. A whole lot he might not want to talk about."

I HAD NO luck finding Chase at any of the panels scheduled in the next hour, or at lunch, either, and by the time our luncheon crowd was breaking up to head into the afternoon sessions and I'd already called Chase's room three times and gotten no answer, I was desperate. I was about to pick up the house phone and try his room one more time when Kaz breezed by. He was dressed in those black pants with the crisp crease in them and a killer black-and-gray houndstooth jacket. White shirt. Black tie. Heck, he looked more like the chair of the conference than I did. But then, he didn't have black smudges of sleeplessness under his eyes, and I did.

Kaz was pushing the wheelchair of Betty Cartwright, a lovely woman and longtime b.u.t.ton collector from Colorado, and he excused himself, asked a nearby conference attendee to take over the Betty duties, and zipped over.

"What's up?"