By Kylie Logan
Figuring out of her button store in a Chicago brownstone, Josie Giancola has turn into one of many country's best specialists on buttons. Her recognition attracts a Hollywood starlet to the Button field to buy exclusive buttons to beautify her made-to-order marriage ceremony gown.
But after the Button field is ransacked and the actress murdered, Josie's comfortable global is thrown into chaos-and a killer is out to maintain Josie's lips buttoned up...permanently.
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Sample text
Yes, he talked a good game, and I would have been a noble and charitable person had I listened. But I’d heard it all before. Always a sick friend. Or a relative in need. Always a story. Over the years, I’d learned that none of them were ever true. “No,” was all I said. “But that movie you worked on with Hugh Weaver, the one you did the costumes for all those years ago . . it’s hotter than ever. I saw DVDs in a bookstore the other day and—” “No. I sunk all the money I could afford into the shop.
Just better. Another fifteen minutes and I would have been happy. Another thirty and I would have been thrilled. A couple days, a case of Pledge to remove the black dust left behind by the cops and their fingerprinting powder, a couple bottles of Windex to polish things up, and the luxury of having everything finally back in order . . it wasn’t until then that I would be a happy camper. “What about these . ” I had just come out of the back room, and I found Brina standing at the table near the front door where I kept a basket of tasteful business cards, a bowl filled with those red-and-white striped mints, and a book for guests to sign.
No way there can be that much to know about buttons,” she said, as sure of herself as only a twenty-year-old can be. “They’re just buttons, and I’ve worked here two whole weeks, so I gotta already know everything there is to know about buttons. Shit, Josie, it’s just like my grandma said when she told me about this job and made me apply for it. ” This time, Brina’s cheeks didn’t just get pale; they turned a sickly green. Who would have guessed the kid actually had a conscience? “Sorry,” she squeaked.