Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (4 page)

When they were back in the entryway, Mr. Ripley paused and nodded. “I think this shall be a very good sale. We’ll make sure each piece is given a good home. Your aunt would have wanted it that way,” he said. “The Viking swords and jewelry will bring the most money. I have some buyers in mind already. I didn’t see them today. I trust you have them put away for safekeeping.”

“You know they’re on loan to the Field Museum,” Anne said.

“I was surprised that your aunt would have let them out of her sight. They are beautiful family pieces worth a fortune.”

“I talked to her attorney and according to her will, she’s leaving them to the Field Museum for their permanent collection.”

Mr. Ripley’s charming smile vanished. “This is very bad news. I’m upset for you. You could have made a lot of money from those. What about the brooch? That’s the star of the collection.”

“Sybil requested that it be buried with her.”

Mr. Ripley’s vanished smile was really gone now and not coming back. The two stood for a moment in silence. “We will make do with what we have,” he said with a polished European air. “I will contact you with the final date. Is it OK if my team comes in this week to start cataloging?”

“Of course,” Anne said, handing him a spare set of keys.

Mr. Ripley took Anne’s hand in his. He gave her his most charming smile and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

Anne closed the door behind him to finish her cleaning.

Chapter Seven

Anne was running late as always. It was something she meant to work on. CC was constantly reprimanding her about her time management skills. Yes, she had many issues or as CC called them
Anne-syncrasies
. Nevertheless, she was looking forward to seeing Aunt Sharon and Uncle Dick. It was their fortieth wedding anniversary. She wished that Sybil could have been there. Sybil always liked parties, even family parties.

Anne pulled up into the driveway at Allgauer’s in the Northbrook Hilton and waited for the valet. Two cars in front of her was the gray Dodge pickup. Through the back window, she could see Suzanne and Jack arguing. They were facing each other, waving their animated hands like a silent puppet show. Anne wasn’t surprised to see them fighting again. Jack jumped out of the truck, slamming the door behind him. Suzanne sat with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking like she was sobbing. Anne wanted to go over and console Suzanne but she didn’t want to embarrass her. Over the past ten years, Suzanne had changed. All the life seemed to have gone out of her. Life had beaten her down, and, Anne was afraid, life wasn’t the only one doing the beating.

Anne waited until Suzanne went inside and then got out of the car, handing her keys to the valet. She’d lost another two pounds on her low-carb diet and she was feeling good about the way she looked. She was wearing her brand-new purple satin dress with her vintage amethyst brooch.

All the Hillstroms were clustered at the bar.
Not too surprising,
Anne thought. Nodding at a few relatives, she walked to the bar and ordered a diet coke with lemon. She watched as Suzanne came out of the ladies’ room, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She saw Anne and put a smile on her face. Suzanne came over and sat down on the bar stool next to Anne.

“This is the most Hillstroms I’ve seen in one place since my wedding,” Suzanne said.

“Yes. An open bar at both events.” Anne raised her glass of Coke. Down the bar, an already drunk Hillstrom lifted his glass back, shouting, “Skol.” Other relatives echoed his toast, raising their glasses.

Suzanne’s husband, Jack, sat by himself at a table with a half-empty bottle of Absolut.
Wearing a Minnesota Vikings jersey,
Anne thought he was dressed inappropriately for such an important occasion. In contrast, Suzanne was dressed elegantly in a black silk dress with matching heels and Aunt Sybil’s rhinestone jewelry. Sybil had bestowed it on Suzanne for her wedding.

The Hillstrom clan filed into the banquet hall, which was stuffed with twelve tables, each with ten chairs. Large red and yellow parrot tulips held the center at each table along with a forty-year-old wedding picture of Dick and Sharon Hillstrom. An accordion player, or as most Hillstroms called him, “Uncle Ernie,” strolled from table to table, playing Swedish folk songs.

Speaking loudly over the accordion music, Anne said to Suzanne, “After you left, I found something I think that Sybil would want you to have for the kids. I have it out in my car. Maybe after the party, you can take it.” As she spoke, Anne put her hand on Suzanne’s forearm.

Suzanne quickly retracted it with a wince.

“What’s wrong?” Anne asked.

“Nothing, just my carpal tunnel has been acting up.”

For the first time, Anne noticed a wrist brace peeking out from under Suzanne’s cardigan. “I’m so sorry. I’ve heard that’s really painful.”

The microphone squealed. Uncle Dick tapped on it. “Hello. Is this working? Hello? I want to thank everyone for coming out for our anniversary party. Some of you were at the wedding forty years ago and some of you weren’t.”

It was apparent to Anne that Uncle Dick had imbibed a little too freely. “Before we start the party, I want to raise a glass to my beautiful bride.” Aunt Sharon stood next to Uncle Dick. He put his arm around her waist. They looked like a couple of Hummels, round with rosy noses and cheeks. “Here’s to our first forty years together; may the next forty be as full of love and adventure. Skol!” He raised his glass.

The whole room echoed, “Skol!” And then they attacked the family smorgasbord, heaped with Swedish meatballs, potato dumplings and pickled herring. A carving station held trays of roast beef and turkey. The dancing, the feasting and the drinking continued long into the night. Sharon and Dick danced to their wedding song, “When I Fall in Love.” As they were dancing, Uncle Dick grabbed the microphone and sang along with Nat King Cole, half in English and half in Swedish.

Anne and Suzanne wandered out to the car so Anne could give her the rocking horse she’d found. The bright red horse had been ridden hard by generations of Hillstroms. “I remember that rocking horse,” Suzanne said. “We had to be, what? Four? Or five?”

Anne just smiled.

“The kids will. . .”

“There you are,” Jack interrupted them.  “Let’s go.” He grabbed Suzanne’s arm. She moaned.

“Listen,” Anne said to him, “I don’t think you’re in any shape to drive. I haven’t been drinking. I’d be glad to drive you two back to your hotel.” She stepped in between them.

Jack laughed and guzzled out of the bottle in his hand. “I’m fine to drive,” he slurred his words. He grabbed Suzanne’s arm again, intentionally knowing it would hurt. Suzanne pulled away and stood by Anne. Jack put the bottle down this time. “So that’s how it is, is it? You know she’s the one causing all the problems, Suzanne. Your cousin there. She wants to keep all the old lady’s money for herself, doesn’t she?”

“Jack, stop it. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying,” Suzanne said.

“The hell I don’t. That old lady owed me. I fixed her porch and she never paid me.”

“When did you fix her porch?” Anne asked.

“We’re going now.” He grabbed Suzanne, who was clutching the rocking horse. Jack grabbed the horse and smashed it to the ground. He pulled Suzanne toward their pickup.

Anne was terrified when she saw Suzanne turn around and look over her shoulder. Her eyes were empty. Whatever fight she’d once had in her was long gone.

Chapter Eight

Anne and CC arrived early at Sybil’s house. Mr. Ripley was just pushing the yellow estate sale sign into the lawn. “Good morning, ladies,” he nodded at them.

“We came to help,” Anne said as they got out of the car. CC was carrying a cooler with sandwiches and drinks prepared for a long day and carrying the Rolleiflex 3.5F.

Mr. Ripley stopped her to admire the camera. “An early 1950s Rolleiflex. That’s quite a nice camera. Where’d you find that?”

“Actually, it was at one of your sales. The Whitmore sale,” CC said.

“Very nice.” Mr. Ripley handed it back to CC with a smile.

“Do you need us to help set up anywhere?” Anne asked him.

“No, my staff has everything under control,” Mr. Ripley said.

“We’ll just look around then,” Anne said.

“Is Suzanne coming later?” CC asked Anne as they walked into the house.

“She called me last night. They went back to Minnesota. She said something about one of the girls being sick,” Anne said.

“That’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing her again. How are things with her and Jack?” CC asked, already knowing the answer.

“I think they’ve gotten worse. Jack’s drinking is out of control and I know he’s been taking it out on Suzanne. And there’s something else, CC.”

CC stared at her.

“Jack did some work on Aunt Sybil’s house a couple weeks before she was murdered.”

“What are you trying to say?”

“I’m not saying anything. Sybil never liked or trusted Jack. I’m sure she let Jack do the work to help Suzanne. Wait!” Anne called out to one of the workers who was setting up a table with her aunt’s collection of Russian nesting dolls. The young employee halted in his tracks. “I was planning on keeping that one.” Anne grabbed the four-piece set depicting the “Snow Queen” fairy tale.

CC followed in Anne’s tracks, holding the items that Anne was gathering from the various rooms. “Anne, I thought you went through the house already.”

“I couldn’t see everything. There was so much scattered around.” Anne walked over to a 1928 Max LeVerrier life-size statue light. The nude female holding a round illuminated ball symbolized the goddess of light. “NFS!” she called out urgently.

CC walked over. “Is this an original Clarte?”

“Yes, this was here when I was a child. Sybil spent a month in Europe and brought it home with her. It’s a beautiful representation of art deco, isn’t it?” Anne looked around. “NFS, right now, NFS!”

CC saw that Anne was losing control. She was breathing heavily, a sure sign that she would start hyperventilating at any minute. CC took her by the hand and dragged her into the bathroom which had its original white subway tile and porcelain lion-pawed bathtub.

A quick glance around and CC understood Anne’s frustration. Sybil had so many beautiful antiques. It was hard to give any of them up––especially for Anne. “You can’t keep everything,” CC said. “Take a deep breath.”

Anne took deep breaths. “CC, look, I can get another storage unit. They’re not that much. I can make it work. Maybe two units.”

CC smiled and gave her friend a hug. Over her shoulder, Anne caught the glint of an original Tiffany tulip vase. “NFS!” she called out. “NFS, NFS!” She pointed at the vase. CC saw a wild look in Anne’s eyes, like she’d jumped into the abyss. “Take a breath, Anne; we’ll work all this out, I promise.”

Anne just shut her eyes and repeated, “NFS, NFS,” her new mantra. A tap on the door broke Anne’s meditation. “Ladies, is everything okay?” Mr. Ripley asked through the closed door.

“Yes, Mr. Ripley, we’ll be right out. Everything’s fine,” replied CC.

The bathroom door opened and the two women emerged, just as the front door swung open and people started filing into the house. Sipping her coffee, CC settled herself at a perch in the kitchen. Anne wandered behind customers, trying to talk them out of items, showcasing flaws and mismarkings with a gleeful enthusiasm. CC shook her head. For the most part, CC was proud of her friend. She had the key to the candy store, but she wasn’t eating all the candy.

After many hours, the sale was winding down. CC thought Anne would make it, until Betsy Buttersworth walked in. CC had hoped, no, she’d prayed, that Buttersworth didn’t know about the sale. When she hadn’t seen Betsy first thing in the morning, she’d thought they had been lucky. It turned out they were not so lucky.

Mr. Ripley hurried over to greet Betsy, one of his best customers. He did his European hand kiss that he apparently reserved for very special clients, CC thought. Betsy had brought her entourage, or as she referred to them, “the ladies.” Supposedly they were a book club, but there was little reading involved.

Anne had not seen them yet. She was arguing with a customer over a Lalique vase in the sitting room. All of a sudden, the vase crashed to the floor when Anne spotted Buttersworth. All eyes turned to look at Anne. CC could see the letters “NFS” forming on Anne’s lips but it was too late. Betsy was holding the silver Tiffany pine-needle-pattern letter holder and its accompanying inkwell.

Betsy handed it to one of Mr. Ripley’s assistants and continued onto the Majolica umbrella stand. “This would be perfect in the lake house,” she chortled to her gang.

The Betsy clones all nodded in unison. Anne was terrified. She’d thought she’d put a sticker on it. She ran over. “Oh, Buttersworth, thank you for coming.” Anne wrapped her arms around the umbrella stand.

“Hillstrom, so sorry for your loss,” Betsy said. “Your aunt had very good taste.”

Anne held onto the umbrella stand with a vice-like grip. “Yes, she did. Very good taste. The NFS sticker must have fallen off the umbrella stand. I’ll get another one.”

“Don’t bother. I’ve already told Mr. Ripley I’m taking it,” Betsy said.

Anne was at a loss for words. She couldn’t go against estate sale protocol. She released her grip, still smiling and backed away slowly. But not without removing the gold-handled canes from the umbrella stand, clutching them tightly to her chest. “These don’t come with the umbrella stand.”

Betsy reneged on this battle, but her onslaught continued as she walked through the house and pointed at items. Mr. Ripley’s assistant stuck sold stickers on them. It was like Sherman marching through Atlanta to the sea. CC covered Anne’s eyes and took her to the backyard. “You don’t need to see this. Remember, all the proceeds are going to the museum. It was Sybil’s wish.”

“Yes, I know.” Anne cleared her eyes, took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m okay. Sybil left me her most precious possessions. I’ve got all the family photos and the family bible. Those are really the most important things, right? Right, CC?”

“Yes, it is,” CC reassured her.

Mr. Ripley showed the last customer out at 4:15 p.m. and closed the door behind him. His assistants scurried around, making notes about items that were to be shipped or picked up later. Mr. Ripley counted the receipts for the day. He motioned for Anne to come to him. “I don’t have a complete tally yet, but from what we sold today and from what buyers I have lined up for the piano and larger items, I estimate about $350,000. Of course, that’s after my twenty-five percent commission,” he said. “And, if you’d consider letting other items go, we could potentially make closer to $500,000.”

The numbers filtered through Anne’s head. She wasn’t concerned about the money so much, but rather preserving the precious memories. Except for Buttersworth, Anne knew in her heart that the items had gone to good, loving homes. She had interviewed each recipient carefully.