Panic Button by Kylie Logan Page B

change from the cordial way she’d been looking at me, I
     couldn’t help wondering what was up.
    Reminding myself I needed to be as inconspicuous as possible, I turned around to look
     where Susan was looking at.
    The three newcomers were all younger than Susan and more stylishly dressed. The one
     in the middle, a petite woman with spiky red hair and wearing tall stilettos and big
     jewelry, made such an effort to keep her eyes on her companions and not look at the
     line ahead of her, I had no doubt she was the one Susan wasn’t happy to see.
    Apparently, the feeling was mutual.
    Interesting, I told myself, turning back around and keeping my expression blank.
    Interesting, and probably completely irrelevant.
    Susan wadded her tissue into a ball and shoved it in her purse.
    “You were the one who was doing the appraisal for Angela, right?” she asked. “In Chicago?
     I wonder…Do you think…I mean, do you have any idea if they’ll still let us have it?”
    Oh, how I hate it when I feel I’m out of the loop! Right about then, I not only was
     out of it, I wasn’t even sure where the loop was.
    Apparently Susan realized it because after we inched forward and closer to the door
     to the room where Angela’s coffin was displayed, she offered a small smile.
    “I mean the police, of course,” she explained. “Do you think they’ll still let us
     have the charm string?”
    “I can’t say what the police might do.” I congratulated myself, spoken in true mole
     fashion. “But why—”
    “I’m being such an airhead!” Susan riffled through her purse, then handed me a business
     card. “I’m the curator,” she explained before I’d even had a chance to read the ecru
     card tastefully printed with sepia ink. “Of the Ardent Lake Historical Museum.”
    Now it all made sense! I tucked the card in my own purse for future reference, and
     considered what I could—and couldn’t—tell Susan. I decided to start with the basics.
     That is, the information that had been included in all the newspaper and TV accounts
     of Angela’s murder in the first place.
    “I’m afraid the charm string was seriously damaged when Angela was attacked,” I said.
    Susan gulped. “Then it’s true? What I heard on TV? About Angela being…choked…with
     it?”
    “I’m afraid so.”
    She slid me a look. “And the buttons?”
    “I can just imagine how anxious you were to put the charm string on display.” How’s
     that for a slick way to sidestep a direct question? “Angela said so many wonderful
     things about your museum, I’m hoping I have a chance to stop there before I have to
     get back to Chicago. What other kinds of buttons do you have on display?”
    “Buttons?” Top lip curled ever so slightly, Susan backed up and gave me a look. “As
     a matter of fact, we don’t have any. I know buttons are your business, but the fact
     is, our visitors aren’t exactly interested in things like buttons. Or in much of anything
     else of historical value for that matter. My goodness, I don’t think there would be
     a museum here in Ardent Lake at all if it wasn’t for Ben.”
    I don’t think I was making much of an impression. I mean, what with looking confused
     all the time. Lucky for me, Susan was a kind woman. She didn’t hold it against me.
     Or if she did, at least she didn’t let on.
    In fact, she laughed, then realized it wasn’t an appropriate sound in a place like
     that, and pressed her fingers to her lips.
    We inched forward in line before we stopped to wait some more. “Thunderin’ Ben Moran,”
     she explained. “I should have remembered you’re not from around here so you might
     not know. Why, Ben’s the closest thing we have to a celebrity in these parts. But
     then, pirates have that whole wild and crazy persona going for them.”
    I had never associated northern Illinois—or any other part of the state—with pirates,
     and I told Susan so.
    “Well, you’re just going to have to stop by the