than ever.
“I should have called to explain,” he said. “I meant to. It’s just . . .”
“Yeah, I understand.” That was stretching the truth a tad, too. But then, he didn’t have to know that.
I still wasn’t sure I believed him, I mean, about the phone call and all, but I did have to give him points for at least trying his hand at damage control. I guess that’s why when I went back across the street, where cops still swarmed like bees around a hive and a team from the coroner’s office was just putting Kate’s body onto a stretcher, I might have been smiling, just a little bit.
Chapter Five
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK? DID YOU SEE THEM CHECKING things out over here?”
I knew Stan was standing near the front display window, but I barely looked up when he asked the question. Then again, I was a little busy scooping buttons off the floor, all the while avoiding the spot where, just a few short hours earlier, Kate Franciscus had bled all over my newly sanded and varnished floor. It was the day after the murder, and finally, the cops, the technicians—and Kate—were gone.
Now if only the rest of the world would leave me alone!
As if on cue, the phone rang. Since I’d seen neither hide nor hair of Brina that morning, I cupped the fistful of buttons close to my heart and answered the phone myself. I didn’t wait for the caller to say anything; the words just spilled right out of my mouth. Then again, I’d already gotten six phone calls that morning; I knew what was coming.
“The Button Box,” I answered pleasantly enough; then, practically before the tabloid reporter on the other end of the line had a chance to introduce himself, I said, “No, I’m not interested in selling my story. I don’t have anything to say.”
“Of course you do!” He sounded young and eager. I almost felt guilty about hanging up on him.
Almost.
I looked around, grumbling, and even I wasn’t sure if it was because I was overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the job ahead of me or if it was a comment on the ghoulish obsession of the public in general. Already, news of Kate’s murder had gone viral on the web. It was all over TV, too, and in the newspapers. Kate Franciscus, the hottest thing in Hollywood, was twice as much a star dead than she had ever been when she was alive.
The thoughts pounded through my head, just like my sneakers slapped the floor when I made a trip to the back room to deposit the buttons on the work table. When I came out into the shop, Stan was still stationed near the window. In the morning light, his face looked pale. His eyes, though . . . His eyes were sharp, the fire in them as blinding as the morning sun.
“Did they look upstairs?” he asked, and I knew he was talking about the cops who’d been on the scene the night before. “’Cause I’ll tell you what, Josie . . .” He leaned over to peer up to the second floor of the brownstone. “A good cat burglar with the right tools and a little luck—”
“Would not be able to rappel down from upstairs and not have anyone see him, not on a busy street. Besides, Emilie—she owns the travel agency upstairs—was in her office at the time. I think she would have noticed.” I shouldn’t have had to point this out, but then, it had been a stressful twelve hours for all of us so I cut Stan some slack. What with him insisting on staying at the shop until I left the night before, and me insisting on staying until the cops were done looking over the scene, we hadn’t gotten home until well after midnight. If Stan was thinking more like himself and less like a bored retiree who watched too many movies and who’d gotten too little sleep, I wouldn’t have had to state the obvious. “And even if that was possible, there’s no way to open the front display window, not without breaking it. Which means the killer didn’t need to rappel anywhere. All he had to do was walk in the front door.” I made a vague sort of gesture toward the fine film
“I should have called to explain,” he said. “I meant to. It’s just . . .”
“Yeah, I understand.” That was stretching the truth a tad, too. But then, he didn’t have to know that.
I still wasn’t sure I believed him, I mean, about the phone call and all, but I did have to give him points for at least trying his hand at damage control. I guess that’s why when I went back across the street, where cops still swarmed like bees around a hive and a team from the coroner’s office was just putting Kate’s body onto a stretcher, I might have been smiling, just a little bit.
Chapter Five
“SO WHAT DO YOU THINK? DID YOU SEE THEM CHECKING things out over here?”
I knew Stan was standing near the front display window, but I barely looked up when he asked the question. Then again, I was a little busy scooping buttons off the floor, all the while avoiding the spot where, just a few short hours earlier, Kate Franciscus had bled all over my newly sanded and varnished floor. It was the day after the murder, and finally, the cops, the technicians—and Kate—were gone.
Now if only the rest of the world would leave me alone!
As if on cue, the phone rang. Since I’d seen neither hide nor hair of Brina that morning, I cupped the fistful of buttons close to my heart and answered the phone myself. I didn’t wait for the caller to say anything; the words just spilled right out of my mouth. Then again, I’d already gotten six phone calls that morning; I knew what was coming.
“The Button Box,” I answered pleasantly enough; then, practically before the tabloid reporter on the other end of the line had a chance to introduce himself, I said, “No, I’m not interested in selling my story. I don’t have anything to say.”
“Of course you do!” He sounded young and eager. I almost felt guilty about hanging up on him.
Almost.
I looked around, grumbling, and even I wasn’t sure if it was because I was overwhelmed by the sheer enormity of the job ahead of me or if it was a comment on the ghoulish obsession of the public in general. Already, news of Kate’s murder had gone viral on the web. It was all over TV, too, and in the newspapers. Kate Franciscus, the hottest thing in Hollywood, was twice as much a star dead than she had ever been when she was alive.
The thoughts pounded through my head, just like my sneakers slapped the floor when I made a trip to the back room to deposit the buttons on the work table. When I came out into the shop, Stan was still stationed near the window. In the morning light, his face looked pale. His eyes, though . . . His eyes were sharp, the fire in them as blinding as the morning sun.
“Did they look upstairs?” he asked, and I knew he was talking about the cops who’d been on the scene the night before. “’Cause I’ll tell you what, Josie . . .” He leaned over to peer up to the second floor of the brownstone. “A good cat burglar with the right tools and a little luck—”
“Would not be able to rappel down from upstairs and not have anyone see him, not on a busy street. Besides, Emilie—she owns the travel agency upstairs—was in her office at the time. I think she would have noticed.” I shouldn’t have had to point this out, but then, it had been a stressful twelve hours for all of us so I cut Stan some slack. What with him insisting on staying at the shop until I left the night before, and me insisting on staying until the cops were done looking over the scene, we hadn’t gotten home until well after midnight. If Stan was thinking more like himself and less like a bored retiree who watched too many movies and who’d gotten too little sleep, I wouldn’t have had to state the obvious. “And even if that was possible, there’s no way to open the front display window, not without breaking it. Which means the killer didn’t need to rappel anywhere. All he had to do was walk in the front door.” I made a vague sort of gesture toward the fine film
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