I stepped away from the podium and headed right into the service entrance just as the waitstaff was coming the other way, carrying dessert. It was that, or get swallowed up in the crowd that surged forward to ask questions.

I didn't need questions, I needed answers.

And at four o'clock, I intended to find them.

GREAT PLAN, RIGHT?.

Too bad four o'clock came and went-and n.o.body showed up in the ballroom but me and Nev.

I held out hope. Honest, I did. At least until four thirty. That's when I leaned back in my chair and groaned, "Is police work always this discouraging?"

"Hey, at least we've got nice, comfy chairs to sit in. And iced tea!" The catering manager had brought up a pitcher when we got to the ballroom, and Nev poured himself another gla.s.s and topped off mine. "You should see some of the stakeouts I get involved in. Long hours sitting in a police car tend to make me crabby."

I have seen Nev crabby. Which means he's also short-tempered, abrupt, and bristly. I was grateful for the ballroom and the comfy chairs, too.

Except...

"Iced tea or no iced tea, we're not getting anywhere." Any more iced tea and I'd burst. I had another sip, anyway.

"After that offer we made to get them their money back, I thought your collectors would come running," Nev commented. "b.u.t.ton people never do what I expect them to do."

"That's because a lot of collectors care more about their b.u.t.tons than they do about the money. And yes," I added when I knew he was going to tell me that was just crazy, "it does sound odd. But a collector's reputation... Well, that might be more important to that person than getting his or her money back."

He c.o.c.ked his head, considering this. "Who?" he asked.

I shrugged and let out a laugh. "Everybody. I've told you that before. Everybody who comes to a conference-"

"But who fits that bill and had the opportunity to kill Brad Wyant?"

I knew what he was getting at and considered the possibilities. "Donovan Tucker and his mother were out in the lobby at the right time," I said. "And Helen was late for the banquet, and Langston was in the vendor room. I know that, because I ran into him when I went after Helen. Chase was in the ballroom, and talk about somebody who would care more about his reputation than about money!"

"Anybody else?"

"Well..." Something had been niggling at the back of my mind since lunchtime, and I'd hesitated to mention it because it seemed so silly. "It's probably nothing," I told Nev.

"It could be something."

"But it doesn't have anything to do with Brad's murder."

"Anything that we know of."

I gave in with a sigh. "It's the contest. And Gloria's ivory b.u.t.tons. She got a measle, see." Nev's eyebrows rose, and I explained how Gloria had been disqualified and why. "So how did that b.u.t.ton get changed on her tray?" I asked.

"And why?"

I waved away Nev's question. "The why is the easy part. If Gloria's the one who did it."

His eyes lit. "We could ask her."

Apparently, b.u.t.ton dealers aren't made for stakeouts, even ones that include comfy chairs and iced tea. Just the thought of getting out of the ballroom and on to something where we were actually doing something other than just sitting around and waiting cheered me no end. I jumped out of my chair at the same time Nev stood. "It's the last full day of the conference, and like all serious collectors, I'd bet Gloria is in the vendor room."

We got there in record time, and I glanced around at the three dozen or so vendor tables and the hustle and bustle going on all around us. The last day of any b.u.t.ton show is always busy with people wheeling and dealing and hoping the b.u.t.tons they've been coveting since early in the week are still there, and maybe available now at a better price.

Before I had a chance to spot Gloria Winston, Langston caught my eye. He gave Elliot instructions before he walked away from his booth and strolled over. "Any luck?" he asked.

"With getting people in to get their money back?" Of course it was what he was talking about. Langston is one of the most intelligent people I know, and that means he's naturally curious. "You'd think it was an offer they couldn't refuse," I said.

He lifted his shoulders in an elegant gesture. "You'd think."

"Have you seen Gloria?"

Langston is taller than me, and he glanced around the room. "A while ago. She was at the booth next to mine, saying something to the dealer there about getting more ivory b.u.t.tons. But I don't think he was interested in dealing. Not for the price she wanted to pay."

"And now?"

Langston looked around again. "It's too crowded in here to see clearly, but you could try near the far doors. There are a couple big women standing over there." He craned his neck. "I can't tell if one of them is Gloria."

I thanked him and headed that way. I'd just dodged around a woman carrying two shopping bags when I b.u.mped into Helen and nearly bowled her over.

"I'm so sorry." When she jumped back and swayed, I put a hand on her shoulder to steady her. "I was looking for Gloria and-"

"No problem. Really." Helen glanced away. She'd been digging through a poke box, and she tucked her hands in the pockets of her white jacket. Definition time: at shows, vendors usually put out a box of miscellaneous odds and ends of inexpensive b.u.t.tons for collectors to poke through. Poke-box b.u.t.tons usually sell for less than a dollar each and are generally worth about that much or less. Sure, it's fun to poke, especially for a new collector, who isn't sure yet which b.u.t.tons to specialize in. For experienced collectors like Helen- I couldn't help myself. I took a long, hard look at the top layer of the b.u.t.tons in that poke box. If Helen was looking through it, she might have heard a rumor about some valuable b.u.t.ton having inadvertently been dropped in there. Like b.u.t.ton collectors everywhere, it was hard for me to ignore the siren's call of an overlooked treasure.

"You're holding out on me." I was teasing-and fishing for information just in case there was something in that box I would love to get my hands on. "What are you up to, Helen?"

"Nothing. Really. Just looking around one last time. I really need to get back to my room and pack and... and I'll see you later, Josie."

Who would have thought a senior citizen could walk away that fast?

"What?" I asked a couple minutes later when Nev found me looking through that poke box.

He leaned over my shoulder. "You're supposed to be looking for Gloria Winston."

It was my turn to look as mortified as Helen had when I found her midpoke. "Oh, yeah, Gloria..." There was nothing unusual in the box after all-a whole lot of MOPs, some black-gla.s.s b.u.t.tons that were pretty but hardly valuable, a couple realistics that I knew I already owned-nothing I could turn around and sell at the b.u.t.ton Box, and nothing I couldn't live without in my own collection, so I walked away.

That was when my phone rang.

I checked caller ID and gave Nev a questioning look. "Daryl? I mean Donovan. Why isn't he-"

"Out on bail," Nev said, just as I answered and listened to the words that rushed out of Daryl.

"Now?" I said in response. "You need me to come up to your room now?"

"I think it's important," Donovan said. "I caught something one day when I was filming, and I don't know if it's important or not, but I think you should see it. Of course..." Now that he was out of police custody, the edge of c.o.c.kiness was back in his words. "If you're not comfortable coming here, I could always come to your room."

Yeah, like that was going to help.

Or make me forget that this was the same guy who'd whacked me over the head with a broom handle.

What was that about a siren's call?

I guess the chance of learning more about the mystery that had all our brains in a muddle was just as strong as b.u.t.ton desire.

I signaled to Nev that he needed to come along with me and told Donovan I'd be right there.

Chapter Nineteen.

I WANTED ALL THE ANSWERS, AND BY THE TIME WE WERE done in Donovan's room, I still didn't have them. Oh, I had another piece of the puzzle, all right. But the picture still wasn't in focus.

There was only one way I could think to make things come clear.

I made some phone calls and issued a few special invitations. That evening at the b.u.t.ton Box, I said. Seven o'clock. I told my guests I wanted to thank each of them personally for helping me out at the conference.

I was there at six thirty, and though Stan had already closed the shop for the day, I'd called to tell him what I was up to, and he insisted on staying around. Just in case Nev needed backup, he said. I invited Kaz, too, and yes, it was against my better judgment, but he had just about as much stake in the results of this investigation as I did. After all, he'd picked up the slack as my a.s.sistant when I'd been forced to concentrate on the case.

A few minutes before seven, we were ready. As we'd done at the end of the last case I'd helped Nev investigate, we arranged chairs in a loose circle in the center of the shop. Nev and I talked about the things I was going to tell my guests-including the huge surprise I hadn't revealed at the luncheon that day-and he took up his position in the back room, the better to let the folks I'd invited think they could speak freely, without a law-enforcement official there to listen. Or slap on the cuffs.

Deep breaths.

One last look to make sure everything was in order.

And my guests arrived.

Donovan and Jenny Tucker showed up first, and I hoped that when the b.u.t.ton collectors got there and realized who he was, I could keep them from wringing Donovan's neck. Then again, if he opened his mouth and said stupid things about film and honesty and how he was immortalizing b.u.t.ton collectors so people could laugh at us, I decided he was on his own.

Langston, Chase, Helen, and Gloria shared a cab and showed up together.

As one, they stopped just inside the door and aimed death looks at Donovan. How did they know Mr. Hunk was the nerd from our convention? It was that same, d.a.m.ned sport coat, of course. Apparently, good looks and a sense of style do not go hand in hand.

"You can deal with him later," I promised, ushering them to their seats. "After I'm done talking to all of you."

"Talking?" Helen glanced around the shop. Stan had done a great job of getting everything cleaned up from the c.o.c.ktail party the night before. The shelves and displays were back in order and back in place. The appetizer tables and the makeshift bar were gone.

"But I thought this was a kind of party," Helen said. "When you called, you said you wanted to-"

"Thank you. Yes. That's exactly what I said, and it's what I want to do." I took my place at the portion of the circle nearest the front door. It wasn't like I expected them to make a break for it, and I certainly didn't think I could stop them if they tried. It just seemed like the best place to stand.

There was no use beating around the bush, so I got right down to business. "I want to thank you by offering you the truth," I said. "And the truth begins with the fact that you're all suspects in Brad Wyant's death."

"Don't be ridiculous!" Gloria sniffed.

"You're plum out of yer mind," Chase hollered.

"I didn't do it." Jenny Tucker clutched her hands over her heart. "I wish I did. I swear, I wish I'd had the nerve. But I didn't kill him."

I shushed them by holding out my hands. "I kind of figured you'd all say that. But if we look at this thing objectively... well... there's been a whole lot happening this week, and it's taken me a while to figure out that some of it is related to Brad's death and some of it isn't. The trick has been getting everything sorted out. What it comes down to, of course, are those phony Geronimo b.u.t.tons."

"Told you the guy was a no-good snake in the gra.s.s," Chase rumbled.

"You did," I admitted. "But let's not forget that the man who tried to swindle people here at the conference wasn't Thad Wyant. I didn't know him, but I've been rereading everything he ever wrote about the Geronimo b.u.t.ton, and I think I can say this-Thad loved that b.u.t.ton too much to ever part with it. No, it was Brad's idea to sell phony b.u.t.tons, start to finish. What I couldn't figure out, though, is why no one who paid him would come forward to ask for their money back. It didn't click right away. Not until..." I swung around to face Gloria. "Not until this afternoon, when you accepted the first-place prize in the ivory-b.u.t.ton category."

Gloria's shoulders shot back. "I don't see what that has to do with-"

"Everything," I said, interrupting because I was in no mood for more deception and lies. "You said it yourself, Gloria, that afternoon when you were so upset about getting a measle on your tray. You said if people found out you'd been careless, that you hadn't done your research and you weren't the expert you pretended to be, you said they'd think less of you, that they'd stop inviting you to speak at meetings and conferences. That's why you did it, Gloria. That's why you stole the trays from the contest."

Her jaw dropped. Her mouth opened and closed. "You can't possibly know-" Gloria bit off the rest of what she was going to say.

But that was enough to confirm my suspicion. "You did it so you could switch out the bone b.u.t.ton on your tray for an ivory b.u.t.ton, so you wouldn't be disqualified. You couldn't stand the thought that anyone would see a measle on your tray."

"Honestly!" This was Helen, so filled with outrage that her voice was shrill. "Cheating in a b.u.t.ton contest. It's unheard of!"

"It's not like I hurt anyone." Gloria folded her beefy arms over her ample chest. Her chins wobbled. "If anyone found out I'd made such a stupid mistake... I couldn't let that happen." She was not an attractive woman, and the gaze she leveled at the people gathered in the b.u.t.ton Box was anything but friendly. "If any one of you opens your mouth and word of this gets out-"

"What are you going to do, Gloria?" Langston demanded. "Kill all of us, just like you killed Brad Wyant?"

"I never did." Gloria leaped from her chair. She was nearly as tall as Langston and had at least a good sixty pounds on him, and I didn't even like to think what would happen if things got to the smackdown stage. Good thing Kaz kept a level head and got up, gently putting a hand on Gloria's arm and guiding her back to where she belonged.

"Well, I certainly didn't kill him." Langston picked a piece of lint from his impeccable gray pants and flicked it away. "Though I will admit..." When he reached into the breast pocket of his houndstooth jacket, his lips were as puckered as if he'd just bit into a lemon. He brought out his checkbook. "I've got the receipt for the bank withdrawal here. I'll admit it, Josie. I was one of the people who agreed to buy the Geronimo b.u.t.ton."

I breathed a silent prayer of thanksgiving. Finally, we were getting somewhere!

Rather than let anyone know how relieved I was that my little scheme was working, I kept my voice even. "I thought so," I said. "But then, that's because I know how smart you are, Langston. You knew a good business deal when you saw one."

"That's exactly what it was." The look Langston threw around the circle wasn't exactly condescending. After all, he depended on b.u.t.ton collectors for his livelihood. It was more perceptive and just a little sympathetic. "I wasn't as enamored of that b.u.t.ton as the rest of you. But then, I don't have b.u.t.tons in my blood. When the man I thought was Thad Wyant contacted me and asked if I was interested, I said I was. I gave him my money, but I never got the b.u.t.ton. He was supposed to show it at the banquet on Monday night, and he didn't want anyone to be suspicious. We were going to meet on Tuesday morning, and he was going to turn the b.u.t.ton over to me then."

"And you were going to sell it to the first person you found who would up the ante."

In response to my comment, Langston gave me one of his sleek smiles. "Like you said, Josie, it was business. I might have been angry at the man for ripping off my booth, but I wasn't going to let that stand in the way of turning a pretty profit." He sat back and crossed one leg over the other. "That doesn't mean I killed him."

"I'm guessing you didn't." Yeah, I was laying my cards on the table. At least some of them. When it comes to strategy, I'm not as hopeless as Stan thinks I am when he beats me at his monthly poker games. Maybe that's why Stan sat up and gave me an eagle-eye look. "Langston wouldn't have killed Brad on Monday," I said, not so much for Stan's benefit (because I was sure he'd already figured it out), but for that of the rest of my guests. "For him, it was all about business, and he wanted the b.u.t.ton. Langston was the buyer Brad had listed as number two, and you heard what he said; he was supposed to meet Brad on Tuesday morning. He wouldn't have killed Brad before he had the b.u.t.ton."

"Can I get my money back now?" Langston asked. "Tonight?"

I put him off with a smile. "We've got a couple more things to take care of first. Like how Jenny here had every reason in the world to hate Thad Wyant."

"Jenny?" Her eyes squinched for a better look at the woman sitting across the circle from her, Helen leaned forward. "You're Beth Howell."

"She was registered for the conference as Beth Howell," I explained. "Her real name is Jenny Tucker. She's Donovan's mother. Thad Wyant was Donovan's father."

Just as I expected, there was a collective gasp from those seated around me. "Jenny was outside the ballroom the night of the banquet because she was following the man she thought was Thad. She wanted him to admit that he was Donovan's father. And Donovan..." I glanced his way. "When he saw his mother out in the lobby, he was curious. Then the next day, he heard the news about the murder, and put two and two together. He thought she actually might be the killer."