Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (3 page)

Chapter Six

Anne drove down Green Bay Road on the way to Great-Aunt Sybil’s house. Anne was the only one she would tolerate.

She passed Walker Brothers’ Pancake House and saw the long line outside the door. She fought the urge to stop for some of their fresh Lingon berry pancakes. Lingon berries reminded her of her childhood, and she could taste the sticky sweetness.

She counted the carbs in her head and admitted to herself that pancakes wouldn’t be a good choice for her diet. Fighting the urge, she continued on. As she drove, a whirling dervish of upscale coffee houses, exotic car dealerships and middle-aged bottle blonde women wearing crisp white tennis skirts flew past her, making her a little dizzy. All these North Shore towns and the people who lived in them shared the same pretentious façade.

Arriving at the five-way intersection in downtown Glencoe, she struggled to remember which way to go.

Anne chose a tree-lined side street. The multi-million dollar homes were hidden behind manicured hedges. Seeing a gnome resting against a mailbox, she stopped the car. Lilac bushes that lined both sides of the long driveway were just starting to bud, releasing subtle whiffs of sweet perfume. Anne stepped out of her car, careful to avoid hitting the concrete lion on the edge of the driveway. The lawn was overgrown and weeds were sprouting everywhere. A spiny sow thistle twisted its way through a rusty wagon that Anne had played with as a child. The planters inside the wagon were bare. It wasn’t like Sybil to excuse an empty flower pot. Sybil just probably never had had a chance to fill them. An early spring breeze lofting off Lake Michigan spun the wooden windmill, making a slow clacking noise like a reluctant clog dancer. Anne felt uneasy as she climbed up the front stairs of the hundred-year-old farmhouse. Two white wicker Victorian rocking chairs furnished the long, welcoming porch. Anne remembered sitting here on rainy days listening to Sybil tell tales of the North Woods while sipping Swedish Soderblandining tea. She stepped carefully as one of the floor boards sagged beneath her weight. The railing was loose, and it wobbled. This was not the house that Sybil had kept.

The leaded glass window on the chestnut door was boarded over with a piece of plywood. Even though the police had finished with the house, Anne couldn’t bring herself to go inside. She sat down on one of the wicker rockers and waited for her cousin Suzanne.              

Anne heard the squeal of car tires and a moment later, Suzanne was running up the walkway. “Sorry, I’m late,” Suzanne said breathlessly. She was wearing dark sunglasses and a Minnesota Twins baseball cap.

Not the typical way that Anne remembered her cousin dressing.

Anne jumped up, met her cousin halfway down the stairs and gave her a big hug. “Thanks so much for coming. I really didn’t want to go back inside by myself.”

“I understand. I still can’t believe you found her like that,” Suzanne said. “Have the police found out anything?”

“There’s been no update. I’ve been calling them. No one’s gotten back to me.”

“This is such a good, safe neighborhood. You don’t expect anything like this to happen on the North Shore,” Suzanne said.

Anne didn’t answer.

Arm in arm, they walked into the house, cautiously stepping over the broken glass. “I’ll get a broom,” Suzanne said, walking toward the kitchen.

The Majolica umbrella stand lay on its side. Anne placed it upright, checking its rim to make sure it hadn’t chipped. Its cobalt blue glaze appeared intact as were the yellow water lilies decorating its rim. She returned the collection of gold-handled walking sticks.

After cleaning the living and entry rooms, they went into Sybil’s office where they encountered piles and piles of papers. Anne and Suzanne sorted through them, separating them into bills, old financial records and personal papers. Amidst the papers were scrapbooks and family photos, which they put into a large cardboard box.

The whole time they were looking at the papers, Suzanne kept her sunglasses on. “What’s with the sunglasses?” Anne asked.

“I’m looking at doing Lasik and I had some testing. My eyes are sensitive to light because of the drops,” Suzanne replied.

Anne shrugged it off and continued.

“I don’t think we’re going to finish the house today.” Suzanne stood in the center of the room, holding empty cardboard banker boxes.

“I appreciate your helping me,” Anne said, squatting down to fill the boxes. “I need to get all this done before the estate sale. I didn’t want to be alone in the house.”

Suzanne shivered and set a box down next to Anne. “It does feel creepy, doesn’t it?”

Anne nodded. “Jack doesn’t mind watching the kids?”

“He doesn’t have the kids. They’re with his parents.” Suzanne sat down next to Anne. “Jack dropped me here and then went to meet some old friends at a bar in Chicago.”

“Really?” Anne asked, sorting through a handful of papers and uncovering a stack of old black and white photos. “Look at all these pictures,” Anne said.

“The pictures are nice, but I don’t understand why she’s leaving all her valuables to the Field Museum,” Suzanne said.

Sybil had been a long-time patron of the Field Museum, sponsoring many exhibits. Her collection of Viking swords and jewelry were now part of its permanent collection. She had left the family memorabilia, which was priceless in both monetary and sentimental value.

“Obviously she felt they would benefit the most. Let’s face it: none of us have really been around in a while,” Anne said.

“She was kind of hard to be around. She wasn’t really nice the past few years,” Suzanne replied.

“I lived closer to her than any of the rest of the family, and I rarely made it up here. I was busy with my life and I forgot about hers.”

Under a stack of papers, Anne found the family bible encased in reindeer skin. Inside it was the history of the Hillstrom family. Her eyes watered as she thought about the day not long ago when she came to the house for this bible and found Great-Aunt Sybil dead.

Anne held the wedding photo of Grandpa Booty and Grandma Lillian Hillstrom, Sybil’s parents. Stan Hillstrom, or “Booty” as everyone knew him because he always wore heavy work boots, was the first of the Hillstroms to come to America. He worked as a bricklayer, saving his money to bring his wife and seven daughters to America.

Sybil often spoke of her father while she and Anne sat on her front porch. To Anne, he was a mythical figure, a new age Viking. She loved hearing stories about him. She held his picture, waiting for it to come alive, waiting for one of his smiling eyes to wink back at her.

“I don’t think Sybil was in her right mind. She had gotten really forgetful, and Jack thinks she was crazy.” Suzanne paused. “And a lot of the family think we should talk to an attorney about contesting the will.”

“Like who?”

“Everyone. They’ve been calling us.”

“No one’s called me.” Anne put the photo of Booty down. “How is Jack anyway? Has he found work yet?” Sybil wasn’t the only one who hadn’t liked Jack. He was a Jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Anne had hired him to do some handyman work around her bungalow. He’d charged her by the day and got very little done after his two-hour liquid lunches. His workmanship was worse than sloppy; it was criminal. Anne had to have everything he fixed, refixed after Suzanne and Jack moved to Minnesota to live with Jack’s parents.

“Jack is fine. He’s doing odd jobs here and there. With the economy the way it is, people can’t afford custom renovations,” Suzanne said.

Lucky for them
, Anne thought to herself. “And the kids?” she asked.

“Kids are fine. They’re in school,” Suzanne said. “Jack and I were talking on the way here. You know we’ve been at his parent’s house for a couple years now. We’d love to move back to Chicago. I could spend more time with you, and there are more opportunities for Jack here. We were thinking since the house is paid for, maybe we could make an offer to the family instead of selling it through an agent.”

“How much were you thinking?” Anne asked.

“Whatever the family thought would be fair. We’d subtract our inheritance portion.”

Anne breathed deeply and sighed. Family or no family––she had to ensure that Sybil’s wishes were honored. “There is no inheritance. Everything is going to the Field Museum.”

“If we can work things out with the attorney, maybe Jack and I could get the house and the rest of the family could split the furniture and antiques. Of course, we’d want to make some kind of donation to the Field Museum. But to just give away our family inheritance is crazy,” Suzanne said.

Anne put the pictures carefully into the moving box, not wanting to respond to Suzanne. She counted to ten in her head. She turned to Suzanne. “Are you going to want any of these photos?”

“Gosh, no, you can have them all.” Suzanne waved her off.

A horn blasted from the end of the driveway. Suzanne jumped up off the floor. “That must be Jack. We’re staying at the Motel 6 in Evanston if you need to reach me.” She hugged Anne. “Listen, Anne, I know you were closer to Sybil than the rest of us but I think the fair thing to do is to split everything up among the cousins.” The horn blasted again. Suzanne glanced nervously toward the sound. “I’ve got to go. Jack doesn’t like to wait. We’ll see you tonight at Aunt Sharon’s party.”

Anne kissed her cousin goodbye and watched Suzanne run out the door and down the path to the waiting Jack in the gray Dodge Ram. As the couple drove off, Anne wondered if that’s why Suzanne was wearing sunglasses, because Jack didn’t like to wait.

Anne went back into the house to finish sorting through Sybil’s massive paper files. She was covered in dust and cobwebs. Sybil had always been particular about keeping her house in perfect condition. Everyone took their shoes off at the front door, coasters under every drink. Maybe Suzanne was right. Maybe Sybil had gotten worse since Anne had seen her last. Either way, it didn’t matter now. Anne went to the car and got a bucket, cleaning supplies, rubber gloves and a mop. She wanted to ready the house for the estate sale. Even more so, she didn’t want any of the relatives seeing it in this condition.

A silver Bentley pulled into the driveway. Anne saw Mr. Ripley get out. “Miss Hillstrom,” he said, walking up to her. He took both her hands in his. “Once again, I’m so sorry about your aunt, and I’m sorry I missed her service. I was on a buying trip that couldn’t be rescheduled.”

Noticing his elegant appearance, Anne looked down at her grimy clothes and wiped the cobwebs off her hair and some of the dirt smudged on her nose. “Thank you. The flowers you sent were beautiful,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me here. Please come in.”

Mr. Ripley followed Anne over the threshold. “You don’t have to clean. My crew will handle that when they prepare the house for the sale.”

“I wanted to sort through her private papers and family photos to make sure they stay in the family,” Anne said, setting the bucket down in the hall.

“Of course, Anne. Any items you don’t want to be sold, we will mark NFS. Make sure you tell me before the sale.” Mr. Ripley looked around. Anne had removed the broken glass and tattered remains that the burglars had left behind. There were still many good antiques left.

Mr. Ripley studied the series of James Tissot framed catalog paintings hanging in the living room. Not as well known as Monet or Degas, Tissot had made a living illustrating women’s clothing catalogs in the late 1800s. “The burglars must not have known the value of these Tissots. We’ll get you a very good price on those,” he said.

Anne stared over his shoulder, admiring the way the impressionist had captured the fashions of the Victorian ladies. His skill was evident in the way he depicted his models in their tableaux. It would be a shame to part with them. “I was actually thinking of maybe keeping those,” she said.

Mr. Ripley turned and smiled at her. He strolled into the parlor and sat at the grand Steinway that filled the space. He played a Schubert piece, its lilting sound resounding throughout the room. “Your great-aunt loved Schubert,” he said over his shoulder just a whisper louder than the beautiful chiming of the ancient piano.

Once again, Anne wondered if she could fit the piano into her house but the math escaped her. She might have to settle for the paintings.

Mr. Ripley stopped playing and turned around on the bench to face Anne. “I found this piano for your aunt in a small village in France called Saint-Anton-Noble-Val. I was on holiday there, sitting at an outdoor café having a delicious beef bourguignon. I heard this ethereal music drifting over the hill into the town. I followed the music to this small chateau. The man playing was a music teacher from Paris. He was living out his retirement in his family home where the piano had been for over a hundred years. He welcomed me in, and I sat and listened to him play until the sun came up. I had to have the piano. He saw how much it meant to me and being the good heart he was, he couldn’t refuse me. Playing it again brings back such wonderful memories.”

Listening intently, Anne felt herself sitting in that café and enjoying her crêpes. “Mmm, crêpes.”

Mr. Ripley stood up. He cupped his hands behind his back as he strolled around the house, examining various items. He gave her his most charming smile and filled her ears with stories of how he came to find the items for Sybil. An old English pitcher, an Italian tapestry, a Spanish paella dish. Anne longed to accompany him on a buying trip.