Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (10 page)

Chapter Twenty

CC’s trip to New York to cover the steel shipbuilding conference had exhausted her. She didn’t even have time to blog. She’d returned home on Friday and had sat down at her computer. There were hundreds of comments awaiting her. She sifted through them and added their requests to her list. One comment was from Ida. She paused to open it. It was a picture of Ida holding her new granddaughter and the Steiff bear. “Thank you,” Ida had written. CC sat back and smiled.

Then she started writing her next blog post, “Dear Friends, last week, Anne and I went to a sale in Sauganash, which is a neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. Old oak trees line both sides of the streets, draping over the middle. Jumbo brick bungalows are beautifully restored, ” she wrote as the phone rang.

CC picked it up. “Hello?”

“CC, it’s Anne,” the voice said.

“What’s up, Anne? I just got back.”

“I was at the police station with Nigel who was questioning the homeless guy who pawned my ring,” Anne said. “He said the guy he got it from was wearing a Minnesota Vikings jersey.”

“And?”

“Jack. Jack was wearing a Vikings jersey at Aunt Sharon’s anniversary party.”

“You think Jack stole your ring?”

“Nigel’s going to look for him. Oh, and Mr. Ripley is having another sale tomorrow in Highland Park. I think we should go. The pictures look fantastic,” Anne said, barely containing her enthusiasm.

CC gazed at the growing list in front of her. “Sure; what time do you want to go?”

“It starts at 9 a.m., and I want to get there first thing. Should I come to your house and we can go from there?”

“Sounds good.” CC hung up the phone She emailed the reporter with the address of the sale, in case she wanted to send a photographer to the Packwall estate sale as she’d indicated.

Then she went back to writing her blog. Before closing her computer, she scanned her list of requests. Most of them were pretty ordinary items. One item stood out. A friend of Ida’s, Tony Tedesco, was looking for a 1929 Baglietto ship bell. “Baglietto,” she mused. “I’ve never heard of that.”

She Googled
Baglietto
and read out loud to Bandit. “Baglietto is a shipyard that builds fine mega-yachts, motor yachts and speedboats in its home country of Italy. The company was founded as a boat builder in 1854. They relocated to a waterfront wood boat building plant around 1890. During the 1920s, they mostly made government boats and seaplanes. By the 1950s, they were known for their speedboats as well as motor yachts and sailboats. Baglietto uses mahogany, iroko and teak for their wood boats,” she finished reading. “Interesting.” She shut down the computer and headed outside with Bandit.

Chapter Twenty-One

The next morning after stopping for Starbuck’s to fuel CC’s caffeine habit, they headed to Highland Park, a quaint little upscale community surrounded by large forest preserves.

“Martha, that reporter from the
Tribune
who I told you about, is going to meet us. She wants to talk to you and take our picture,” CC said.

“Why is that?” Anne asked.

“It’s for that story she’s doing on the blog. They wanted to get a photo of us at a sale. I emailed her with the information about today’s sale.”

CC turned down a long side street that ended at Lake Michigan. The homes here were palatial and situated on large lots. This particular home was a white Colonial with green shutters. Parked in the driveway in front of the house was a vintage Rolls Royce Silver Cloud with a
For Sale
sticker on the windshield. Large purple Jackmannii clematis wrapped around the marble pillars supporting the wraparound porch. Massive pink clusters of hydrangea flower balls outlined the elevated deck. CC stopped to examine them––not a single hole in the leaf. Whatever Nancy Packwall had been using had kept the caterpillars and other creepy crawlers off the plant. She admired the Sarah Bernhardt peonies, soaking in their aroma.

Anne darted past CC to jump in the line that extended from the front door and was winding into the driveway. “I love this house,” Anne said to CC.

“It’s built in the Greek revival style that was very popular in the antebellum south,” CC said. “Architects in the area started copying the design after soldiers came back from the Civil War.”

The history lesson flew past Anne. CC had a tendency to tell people much more than what they wanted to hear. Once again, Anne saw Betsy Buttersworth at the front of the line. Just once, she wanted to get to a sale before her.

At exactly the stroke of 9 a.m., the green front door opened. Mr. Ripley came out and counted, as people started filing in. As Anne and CC moved to the front of the line, Ripley held out his hand, blocking them. “That’s it for now. You’ll have to wait until some people leave,” he said.

Anne wanted to argue, but she knew it was futile. She tapped her foot impatiently. She didn’t like waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, several people filed out, carrying bags. Anne tried to peek in their bags as they walked by. Anne gave Mr. Ripley a perturbed look. He smiled and let them in.

They walked around the first floor. The 90-year-old woman, Nancy Packwall, who’d lived in the house, was a retired costume designer for campy B-grade horror movies from the 1950s and 60s. She’d moved back to Highland Park in the 70s. There were a lot of movie posters and memorabilia scattered throughout the main floor. In the living room, two locked glass cases held her collection of vintage jewelry, including a Harry Winston diamond necklace, some Tiffany chains and a Cartier emerald bracelet. Most of Mrs. Packwall’s money had been made by outliving four husbands.

CC drifted to the jewelry case. She was always looking for unusual pieces to add to her collection. She especially admired Mexican and American Indian silver pieces. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a sterling silver bracelet decorated with a large turquoise stone. After asking the woman guarding the jewelry case to see it, CC held it in her hand. She could see worn engraving that appeared to be a medical warning, but she couldn’t make it out. To her, it made the bracelet even more interesting. She negotiated a price with the woman and asked her to hold it while she continued to shop.

She stepped out the sliding glass door that led onto a tumbled cobblestone patio, surrounded by daylilies, David Austin roses, and creeping phlox. She went over to smell a double delight hybrid tea rose with a pale pink center with a white exterior. At the edge of the patio, a curved wooden bridge traversed a koi pond. A rough cobblestone path, lined with native prairie tickseed and meadow sage, led to the back yard where there was a large glass greenhouse. She strolled over to take a look. The door was locked. She was able to peek in and see the beautiful orchids inside. CC sat on the green granite bench in front of the greenhouse. There was no
For Sale
sticker or price on the bench. It would look wonderful in her garden. She ran her hand along the cool, beveled edge. The foxglove and cone flowers would be blooming soon. It was very quiet and peaceful in this garden. The only scent that would make it even better would be French roast coffee and a smoldering Gitane. It had been years since she’d had her last cigarette. She’d smoked a lot when she was married; it had helped with the stress. There was something about coffee and a cigarette. She could almost smell the sickly sweet scent of tobacco now. She inhaled deeply. She did smell tobacco.

Standing up, she walked back up the path. From behind the large weeping willow tree, she saw Mr. Ripley smoking. She ducked behind the tree and made herself very small. She stood very still. She really shouldn’t be in the backyard. She inhaled again and the scent was gone. CC waited a couple minutes before heading back to the house. As she turned around, she stepped out from behind the tree and bumped into Mr. Ripley.

He was standing very still. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said.

CC gave him an uneasy smile and ran past him into the house.

Moving upstairs to the master bedroom, Anne thought it fitting for a Hollywood designer. Decorated in pink chintz, it had white French impressionist furniture. A silk dressing gown hung over the fainting chair. Putting the back of her hand to her forehead, Anne said to no one in particular, “Really, Rhett Butler, I do declare you overwhelm me. You’re giving me the vapors.” She fanned herself and swooned onto the chair. From this perch, she saw the opening to what appeared to be a closet.

She strolled into a massive walk-in closet. One wall held shelves of shoes, purses and hatboxes. Clothing hung from the rods on the other three walls. Anne rifled through the racks. She stopped and held her breath for a second. She recognized the pants immediately. The colorful pansy-festooned pants were from Nancy’s last movie––the 1967 cult classic,
Bikini Blood Beach
. The Capri pants had been worn by a young Stevie Vann before she’d become a star. As Anne admired the craftsmanship, a hand flew past her grabbing them off the hanger.

She turned to see Betsy admiring her prize. “Okay, that’s it, Buttersworth. I’ve had just about enough of you. You saw me looking at the pants. I found them first.” Anne placed a hand on the pants.

Betsy interrupted her. “You hesitated and you lost. They’re mine!”

“Not this time, Buttersworth!” Anne grabbed one of the pants legs and tugged. The tug of war didn’t last long.

“Ladies, ladies! We could hear you arguing all the way downstairs,” Mr. Ripley said, walking into the room. “What’s going on here?”

“I was looking at these pants, planning to buy them. And she grabbed them right out of my hands,” Anne said, maintaining her hold on the pants leg.

“That’s not true. She wasn’t holding them. They were on the hanger. The pants are mine,” Betsy said, clutching her end.

“Ladies, we have to come up with a civil way to decide who can buy the pants. I wasn’t here to see what happened, and, by the looks of it, I don’t see either one of you are giving them up,” Mr. Ripley said, staring at them sternly.

Both women stood fast, each holding a pants leg. After reflection, Mr. Ripley said, “I can’t decide this for you. By the end of the day, whoever is holding the pants can have them.”

Anne and Betsy gave each other a determined look and started out of the bedroom, each retaining their grip on the precious pants. The newly formed Siamese twins moved cautiously down the stairs into the foyer.

“I’m not letting go,” Anne hissed.

Betsy muttered under her breath. “I’ve got all day. I’ve got no place to be.”

For the next three hours, the two wandered around the house, picking up items with one hand while holding onto the pants with the other.

“Okay, this is getting really silly. Let me have the pants. Pick out any item you want and I’ll pay for it,” Betsy said.

“I don’t want your charity. This isn’t about the money. It’s not even about the pants anymore. It’s the principle,” Anne said.

“For goodness’ sake. I have to use the bathroom,” Betsy said.

“No one’s stopping you,” Anne said.

Betsy shrugged it off. The two walked into the gourmet kitchen which had a rooster theme despite the contemporary stainless appliances. Roosters adorned the wall; ceramic roosters filled the shelf above the window; and the backsplash had roosters in the tiles.

Anne walked to the faucet and turned it on.

Betsy danced a little. “Turn that off,” she said.

Anne sat down at the kitchen table.

“What are you doing?” demanded Betsy

“It’s been a long day,” said Anne calmly. “I’m going to rest here.”

Betsy danced and fidgeted around behind Anne’s chair. “Fine, they’re yours!” Betsy said, letting go of the pants and stomping off.

Anne clutched the pants to her breast, caressing them. Looking out the garden window, she saw Mr. Ripley talking loudly to a well-dressed man. They seemed to be arguing. Anne walked to the back door and opened it slightly to hear.

“What happened to the spoon? Mr. Whitmore’s nephew has been calling me everyday since the estate sale,” the man said to Mr. Ripley.

“Like I told you on the phone, Banning, every item at the sale was marked either with a price or NFS. I’ve looked on my tally sheet. There were lots of silver spoons. I’m not sure which one he’s talking about,” Mr. Ripley said.

“Jared says it had some sentimental value––family heirloom or something. It wasn’t supposed to be for sale, and now it’s missing,” Banning said.

“Ill check with my assistant and let you know. “Thank you for putting me in touch with Mrs. Kirby. I’ll send you your usual finder’s fee after we tally the proceeds from the sale.”

“Call me when you find the spoon.” Banning turned on his heel and walked across the lawn to a black Mercedes.

Spoon, huh?
Anne thought to herself. She closed the door quietly. A tap on her shoulder made Anne nearly jump out of her skin. “Anne, Martha from the
Tribune
is here,” CC said. Standing behind CC was a woman about their age, carrying a reporter’s notebook and camera.

“Hi,” Anne said, shaking the reporter’s hand while maintaining her hold on the pants.

“You must be Anne. CC told me quite a bit about you when we talked the other day,” Martha said. “Perhaps we can sit here and talk.” The reporter pointed to the kitchen table. Anne sank back down on one of the chairs, and Martha sat across from her.

“I’ll just stay here and listen if you don’t mind.” CC hovered in the background, leaning against the wall.

“CC says you are antique hunters. How’d you get interested in antiques?”

Anne thought for a moment. “My interest in antiques started early on. I used to spend the summers at my Great-Aunt Sybil’s house. She was a collector of many things from stamps to jewelry to spoons. She would take me to sales with her. She taught me how to identify and authenticate antiques.”

“Are there certain antiques you look for?”

“Of course––the more rare the better. Right now, we’ve been concentrating on a list.”

“CC touched briefly on that. Tell me more about the list.”

“People have been writing in to our blog, asking us to find things that they’re looking for. Some are harder than others to find. We have a pretty good network of antique dealers, estate sale managers and so on that we’ve connected with over the years,” Anne said.

“What are some of the items on the list?”

“They really vary. One woman is looking for a Rosenthal plate that matches the service her grandmother had. A guy is looking for a pre-World War I Martin guitar. Someone else wants a Mystery Date game. It runs the whole gamut,” Anne said. “Get the list out, CC,” Anne continued, looking over at CC who was still holding up the wall.

“That’s not necessary,” said Martha. “How about you personally? What catches your eye in an antique?”

Anne held up the pants. “I wouldn’t call them antique, more vintage, but take these pants. They were worn by Stevie Vann, a starlet from the 1960s, and now they will be mine.” From the corner of her eye, Anne saw Betsy Buttersworth watching the whole travesty. She did not look pleased.

“What would you say is the most unique item you’ve ever found?”

“Every item is unique in its own way. Touching something from the past connects you with history. It could be something as simple as a Victorian thimble to my Aunt Sybil’s collection of Viking swords and jewelry,” Anne said.

“That’s an interesting way to look at antiques,” Martha said, scribbling in her notepad.

Anne nodded. “Oh, yes, holding an antique in your hand brings you in touch with its history.”

Martha checked her watch. “I have to get going, but I’d like to get a picture of you and CC. Maybe in front of the dining room table where all the crystal is displayed.”

“Wait, I have to do something first.” Anne ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. She paid the woman who was tallying purchases at the card table by the front door. Anne wrote out a check, hoping it wouldn’t bounce.