Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (6 page)

Chapter Eleven

After dropping Anne off, CC headed home. She walked Bandit around the block. The dog wasn’t really good in the heat but needed the exercise. When they came back, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat in front of her computer. She uploaded the pictures she’d taken at the flea market from her iPhone.

She started typing, “Dear Friends, Anne and I had a pretty successful day at the Wisconsin flea market. It was our first time venturing north. It was a mixture of some very nice antiques, but a lot of junk. Like with everything, you have to pick and choose. I’ve posted some pictures of some of the items we found. We had a delightful lunch at a little pancake house along Route 12. I also posted pictures of the omelet I had with a side of homemade blueberry pancakes. Yum Yum. Anne was very helpful with helping me find this lovely French provincial cabinet for my living room. She also saved a woman from buying a fake Roseville vase. Once again, it’s very important to know what you’re buying before you buy it.” CC sat back, gulped her wine and pondered the day’s events. She then went back to typing, “The important thing as always is not so much what I found as who I found it with. The best find is an old friend.”

As she stopped for another sip of wine, she noticed a comment from a reader. “Dear Friend, my name is Ida. I live in New Buffalo, Michigan. One of my girlfriends from Bingo told me about your blog, and I’m so glad she did. I’ve really enjoyed reading about you and Anne and your adventures. I feel like I know you both. Because of you, I was inspired to buy something that I’ve always wanted. When I was a little girl, my mother gave me a Steiff bear. We didn’t have a lot of money, and they really couldn’t afford it. It meant so much for her to give it to me. Somewhere over the fifty years that passed, I lost that bear. My daughter is having my first grandchild now. As you might imagine, we are all very excited and I feel very blessed. I wanted to have a special gift for her, so I bought an antique Steiff bear that looks similar to the one I had when I was a little girl. It cost me most of my savings but it’s worth every penny to pass this tradition on to my grandchild. I’ve attached a picture of it. I wanted to thank you so much for inspiring me. Your friend, Ida from New Buffalo, Michigan.”

CC opened the picture. It appeared to be a vintage Steiff bear in very good condition; however, there were some signs that had her questioning its authenticity. She zoomed in on the picture, but couldn’t see clearly enough to tell if her suspicions were correct. It made her feel bad for Ida and angry at whoever’d deceived her.

She quickly clicked
reply
and typed, “Dear Ida, Thank you so much for the lovely message. You seem like a wonderful woman, and I’m very happy that you are able to pass this tradition to your grandchild. I would love to meet you in person and see the bear. Please let me know if I can pay you a visit. Your friend, CC.”

Chapter Twelve

Anne ducked out of work early. She wanted to get to the pawnshop before rush hour. The intersection at Western and Division was lined with currency exchanges, Laundromats, taco stands and several pawnshops. It was a neighborhood transitioning from low-income housing to upscale condo development.
Still best to travel there during daylight hours
, Anne thought, looking for the sign that said Metro Sales.

She found it on a dingy storefront with blacked out windows. Iron bars encased the windows and the front door. She circled the block several times, looking for a parking space and finally found one a half block down. Clutching her purse closely, she scurried down the sidewalk, avoiding eye contact. As she stepped off the curb to cross the alleyway, a homeless man in tattered jeans with a toothless smile jumped in front of her. Anne gasped and stopped in her tracks.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Can you help me out? You see my shoes.” He glanced at his feet. Anne gazed down to see his torn and tattered gym shoes. “I just got out of the 51st station jail and I could use some help with some shoes.”

His sincerity surprised her. From the smell of alcohol on his breath, she’d expected him to ask for the money for something else. She moved her purse in front of her and dug into her jeans, pulling out a five-dollar bill. She handed it to him. “God bless you,” he said, stepping out of her way.

Anne hurried past him and the three remaining storefronts. She rang the buzzer to enter the pawnshop, keeping watch around her. The buzzer sounded and she pushed open the heavy door. Inside, was a small narrow aisle with glass display cases on each side, overflowing with broken dreams.

Behind the bulletproof glass, sat a large man sitting on a much too small metal stool, with an unlit cigar dangling from his mouth. His dark eyes twinkled under the furry caterpillar that crawled across his brow. His head was free of hair. His thick black moustache danced as he spoke. “Can I help you?”

Anne dug into her large orange Prada bag and retrieved the gold band. She placed it in the exchange slot under the glass. “Can you tell me about this ring?”

He picked it up and examined it closely with his loupe. “It’s a very old ring.” He paused and nodded. “I remember this now. It’s a Viking wedding band from about 800 AD. I sold it to Marvin, another dealer.”

“Yes, I know. I bought it from him at the flea market,” Anne said impatiently. “I want to know where you got it.”

“Why do you need to know that?”

“I collect Viking jewelry,” Anne said. “Do you have any more pieces like this?”

“No.” He shook his head and put the ring back under the glass exchange slot.

Anne grabbed the ring and slid it back in her purse. “How about the person you got this from? Do they have more?”

“I don’t recall off the top of my head.”

“You must have a record of the sale.”

He chewed his cigar and ran his hand over his smooth scalp. The metal chair creaked as he shifted his weight. “Look, lady, I get a lot of people in here. I don’t need to know their stories. I don’t have any Viking jewelry. Do you want to see something else?”

“Thank you, you’ve been helpful.” She turned and walked out of the store. She rushed back to her car and clicked the locks. She found the nearest police station on the map app on her phone and drove to it. Walking to the front desk, she said to the sergeant on duty, “My name is Anne Hillstrom. I’d like to see a detective.”

“What’s it about?” he asked.

“It’s about stolen property,” she said.

“Have a seat,” he said, pointing to a line of wooden benches against the wall. “I’ll call someone down.”

A short while later, a very tall, thin man stood before Anne. “Miss Hillstrom,” he said. “I’m Detective Towers.” At six foot seven, his name was appropriate. He hunched over to speak with her eye-to-eye. Anne thought he resembled a question mark. She was surprised to hear the British accent coming out of a Chicago police detective. He didn’t look anything like a Chicago cop. His sunflower tie seemed out of place for such a serious job.

He noticed her staring at his tie. “A bit of whimsy helps put people at ease and keeps a smile on my face.”

Anne smiled.

“Why don’t we go to my desk? We can have a chat,” Detective Towers said.

Anne followed him up the stairs. By the second flight, Anne thought,
Ok, I’m going to plug in the damn treadmill when I get home
.

Detective Towers held a chair out for Anne and then sat behind a metal desk in a large open office. The room was noisy and crowded with other detectives. “May I get you something to drink?” he asked.

“No, thank you.”

“Right then. Sergeant Wilkins said something about stolen property?”

Anne pulled the ring out of her purse. “I bought this ring at a flea market in Wisconsin. When I looked inside, I saw what I thought was my family crest, the Hillstrom crest. I know it’s a Viking wedding band. My aunt had a large collection of Viking jewelry.” She paused. “Anyway, my aunt Sybil––actually she was my great aunt––she was killed a few weeks ago. Someone broke in and robbed her and killed her.”

“I’m very sorry to hear about your Great Aunt,” Detective Towers said with a genuine sincerity. “Was this one of the items taken?” He looked up from his notebook where he’d been scribbling.

“I don’t know. I hadn’t seen the ring before but it sure looks like the Hillstrom crest.”

“Do you have a list of what was taken?”

“Not really.” Anne paused. “I hadn’t seen my aunt in years. None of the family had. I don’t exactly know all the items that were taken. What I knew I gave to the Glencoe police.”

“She lived in Glencoe?”

“Yes.”

“You should speak with them if it’s an ongoing investigation.”

“The guy at the flea market bought it from a pawn store at Western and Division. I asked the owner there about it, and he couldn’t remember where he got it. But doesn’t the law require him to keep a record?”

Detective Towers stopped writing. “Miss Hillstrom, I’m sorry about your aunt. I’ll call the Glencoe police, and I’ll stop by the pawnshop. May I keep the ring?” he asked. “I’ll write you a receipt for it.”

Anne hesitated. “Is that really necessary?”

Detective Towers smiled. “I promise I’ll get it back to you personally.”

Chapter Thirteen

It was another early weekend morning. Anne was sitting shotgun while CC drove. They were heading across the border to visit Ida in person. Even at this time of the morning, there was bumper-to-bumper traffic at the merge of 294/94. This route headed them right through Gary, Indiana, a trip CC knew well from frequent visits to Gary Works, the Midwest outpost of US Steel. Chicagoans frowned on Gary, Indiana. It was Chicago’s New Jersey. From the thick smoke bellowing out of the steel plant to the abundance of bail bondsmen along the main drag, Gary had a bad reputation as “Murder Capital of the United States.”

CC was a hardened journalist. She went where the steel was. She had spent time in all the tough blue-collar towns in the Midwest––Detroit, Cleveland, and Gary. Location didn’t bother her. She felt at ease in a hard hat or drinking a beer with the boys from the mill. 

As they drove, she explained to Anne about the inner workings of the Gary plant. “You wouldn’t believe it, Anne, it’s so hot in the furnace room. The temperature from the blast reaches up to 2300 degrees. I was behind the scenes on the catwalk, but you can take a similar tour. It’s open to the public. You can see them make steel for automotive and appliance manufacturers. It’s very impressive,” CC said. “If you want, maybe we can stop on our way back.”

Anne cleared her throat and put down her tourist guide. “You know, I was just looking in this book and was hoping we could stop in Nappanee on the way back. It’s not that far from New Buffalo.”

“Nappanee?”

“That’s where Amish Acres is. I thought we could eat dinner at the restaurant and visit the little shops. The restaurant received phenomenal reviews on Yelp. You can watch them make candles, soap and their own jam. It’s the original farm to table. These Amish don’t fool around,” Anne said.

“Let’s see how much time we have after we meet with Ida,” CC said, but she knew Anne had already made up her mind.

“I meant to tell you about the ring I bought in Elkhart,” Anne said. “I didn’t want to say anything because I was afraid you’d think I was being dramatic. The ring was engraved with what I thought was the Hillstrom family crest.”

CC cocked her head sideways to look at Anne for a clearer understanding of what she was saying. “Was it?”

“The markings are pretty worn, but I know that crest. I’ve seen it on other family heirlooms that Sybil had,” Anne said. “I actually found out where the flea market dealer bought it from. It was a pawnshop in Chicago. I went and talked to the owner.”

“Do you think it was stolen from Sybil? Is that why?”

“Of course,” Anne said. “The owner wasn’t very helpful so I went to the police. I talked to a detective about the ring. His name is Nigel Towers. He’s British,” Anne said enthusiastically.

“What do you mean he’s British?”

“Originally he’s from England. He lives here now, of course. And, he’s really tall.”

“What about the ring? What did he find out?” CC interrupted her.

“Yeah, the ring, Nigel. . .”

“Nigel?” CC interrupted again.

“Yes, Nigel; that’s his name. I told you, he’s going to talk to the pawnshop owner.”

“I hope they find who took the ring. It may lead them to Sybil’s killer,” CC said.  

The short ride took a long time because of the traffic and construction curving around the heel of Lake Michigan. They stopped for breakfast in New Buffalo. CC had heard from colleagues about a fantastic cafe called Nani’s on Red Arrow Highway.

The parking lot was crowded. Its reputation kept the seats full. “Smells good. Let’s see if we can get a table,” Anne said.

After a short wait, the girls were seated at a table overlooking the highway, which was really more of a two-lane country road. The harbor area, as New Buffalo was known, was the weekend playground of Chicago’s wealthier residents. It boasted lots of upscale little boutiques and bistros situated on the shores of Lake Michigan. Both Anne and CC felt at home in such a quaint town.

Looking at the menu, CC said, “This maple bacon muffin sound delish. Anything with bacon in it, I’m on board.” She closed her menu decisively. CC picked up her coffee cup and cradled it in her hands, blowing away the steam.

Anne had not looked at her menu yet. She was busy admiring the local artwork that adorned the walls. It was a cozy little spot with a beachfront flavor. It was early June, and the summer crowd was just starting to arrive. The waitress brought over their food. Anne had ordered the lemon rosemary muffin and a raspberry spice tea. CC stuck with her original plan and had the maple bacon muffin.

They enjoyed their muffins in silence. Anne browsed through a local shop paper, reading occasionally aloud to CC.

CC half listened as she stared out the window. She watched a white Ford F100 pickup pull into the parking lot. It seemed out of place amidst the Range Rovers and Lexuses. She was losing interest until the driver stepped out. She recognized him almost immediately––he was the man from the train. He had lost the sports jacket and was wearing a t-shirt and was wearing it well. She reached in her purse and reapplied her lipstick.

Anne looked up, her nose above the brochure. “What are you doing?”

“My lips are dry.”

Anne ignored her friend’s answer, sticking her nose back in the glossy paper, trying to determine if they would have time to visit the farmer’s market she’d seen advertised.

CC adjusted herself and fluffed her hair. Picking up a butter knife, she tried to catch her reflection to make sure that everything was the best it could be. It was a very good move on her part as she caught the little piece of bacon stuck between her front teeth. She suddenly wished she wasn’t in her plaid Bermuda shorts and tank top. It wasn’t her best look.
What am I doing?
she thought.
I don’t even know this guy. It was a glance on the train. He’s probably here meeting his wife or fiancé or even his boyfriend
.

The man from the train sat down at a stool at the counter. CC overheard him ordering a black coffee and a bacon maple muffin.

Okay; he’s got good taste,
she thought.

The waitress came over. “Anything else?”

“No, we’re fine,” Anne said, looking up. “Just the check.”

While CC glanced over her shoulder to glimpse the man from the train, Anne figured out the bill. “Your share comes to $8, CC,” Anne said.

“What? Okay,” CC said, looking back at Anne. She pulled out $10 and threw it on the table. Her journalist’s instinct kicked in. There was a story here, and she wanted to get to it. However, now was not the time.

As she walked out to the parking lot, she glanced into the bed of his truck. She saw woodworking tools and paintbrushes. They left Nani’s, and the man from the train in the rearview mirror.

A short while later, they pulled up in front of Ida’s two bedroom, white clapboard cottage. They could tell she wasn’t a woman of means. Getting out of the car, CC pulled open the white picket fence that encircled the house. The sweet perfume of the old English roses floated up as she walked past them. Lined along the front steps, the potted Gerbera daisies greeted a cheerful hello. Ida waved from the front picture window. For an older woman using a walker, she made it to the front door quickly. “CC, Anne, I’m so glad you came,” Ida said, opening the screen door to let them in. “You look just like your pictures. I’m Ida. Come on in.” Ida walked slowly back to the living room, her arthritic hands clutching the walker.

The living room was crowded with furniture, including comfortable wingback chairs, a drum table and a curio cabinet. Family photographs in assorted frames and sizes cluttered the room from the walls to the table. Anne paused to admire the older frames particularly a large Eastlake frame. She wondered if Ida would consider selling it.

Ida picked up a photograph from the table next to her chair. It was a wedding photo of a young couple. “That’s my daughter, Rose, and her husband, Marco. This was taken two years ago. She’s expecting my first grandchild.” Ida sank down into a worn out recliner. Next she picked up another photo––this time a black and white wedding photo. “That’s my Charles. Everyone called him Charlie.” She lovingly traced the frame with her index finger. “He was a school teacher. He taught history at the middle school in New Buffalo. He passed 20 years ago.”

CC stood over Ida’s shoulder, admiring the photos. “You and your daughter were both beautiful brides.”

“Thank you,” Ida said. “I made us some lemonade. Please come into the kitchen.”

She led the way into a small, cozy kitchen with a round oak table. She went over to the refrigerator, struggling to lift out a pitcher while holding onto her walker.

CC walked over, grabbing the pitcher. “Let me help you with that.”

“Thank you, dear.” Ida sat down at the table. “There’s glasses up there, dear.” She pointed to a cabinet over the sink.

CC poured them all a glass of homemade lemonade. She looked out the kitchen window and saw the rose bushes in the backyard. “Your roses are beautiful.”

“I’m having a difficult time this year. The flowers aren’t as full as they’ve been. It seems like the petals are wilting before they even flower,” Ida said.

“Do you have a pail?” CC asked.

“Sure, dear; there’s one outside by the back door.”

Standing by the sink, CC took the dish soap and went into the backyard. She filled the pail with water and soap. She walked to the roses and one by one picked the Japanese beetles off the bush, dropping them into the water. Anne and Ida stood watching CC from the kitchen window.

When CC had disposed of the unwanted intruders, she joined the two women back in the kitchen. “Ida, your problem was Japanese beetles. I didn’t think they were in Michigan. We’ve seen a lot in Illinois the last couple years.”

“Oh, my word.”

“They won’t kill your plants. They just eat the petals from the inside out. The best thing is to pick them off and throw them in soapy water. You can plant tansy and chives around the roses to keep them out,” CC said.

“Thank you, dear. I haven’t been out in the garden a lot this year. Excuse me for a moment.” She walked out of the kitchen. A few minutes later, she came back carrying a teddy bear. “This is it. This is the bear I was telling you about. It looks remarkably similar to the one I had as a child in the 1950s.” She handed the bear to CC who carefully looked it over. CC gave it to Anne who examined it closely. CC and Anne looked at each other. They were in agreement.

“Ida, I noticed from the pictures you sent me of the bear,” CC said, “that something might not be quite right. I didn’t want to say anything until I could see the bear in person to see its serial number. You can see that the ear is missing the button that Steiff bears should have. This bear’s serial number ends with 22. The last number represents the centimeter of the bear. This bear is much smaller than 22 centimeters. Somebody tried hard to pass this off as an authentic Steiff bear. I’m sorry to say, Ida, it’s not.”

Ida started to cry. Anne put her arm around her. “I’m such a foolish woman. The man at the store seemed so nice. He assured me this bear was real. He said it was the same year as my original childhood bear. I paid him $1,200. That was everything I had.”

Anne reached into her purse and pulled out a lacy monogrammed handkerchief. She handed it to Ida.

“Ida, Anne and I will take the bear and go talk to the shop owner. Maybe he made a mistake,” CC said.

Ida looked up. “You would do that for me?”

“Of course, we will.” Anne said.