Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (9 page)

CC hadn’t expected this level of interest, but she was interested. She wrote back, “I work close to Tribune Tower. Could we meet for lunch somewhere on Michigan Avenue?”

She was tired, but she’d promised herself she would write five pages every night of her novel-in-progress. It had been ten years in the making now. She’d started writing it while she was still married. She found it a good release from reality. It had started out as a mystery about a journalist who solved murders and towards the end it became more of a romance novel. Romance was what she’d been missing in her marriage and in her life.

Chapter Seventeen

The phone rang, startling Anne from her thoughts. Looking at caller ID, she didn’t recognize the number but decided to answer it anyway. “Hello,” she said tentatively.

“Hello, Miss Hillstrom. This is Detective Towers,” the British voice said on the other end.

“Oh, Detective Towers, how are you? You can call me Anne.” She sat up in her chair. “What did you find out about my ring?”

“I went to Metro Sales and talked to the owner, Seth. He claims he bought the ring from a homeless man who said he found it on the street. He couldn’t remember what the guy looked like, and he didn’t have an ID,” Towers said.

“There must be something you can do,” Anne said.

“I spoke with the Glencoe police. The ring wasn’t reported stolen, and without a bill of sale, there’s no way to prove that it belonged to your aunt.”

Anne was quiet for a moment. “Can I have my ring back?”

“Of course, Miss Hillstrom.” He paused, and then said, “It’s at the station. You can come sign for it. Or, it’s my day off; I could meet you somewhere.”

Anne half listened to Detective Towers. She was thinking about her aunt and the day she’d found her dead on the floor. She was thinking about the ring. She wasn’t going to let this go. She owed it to Sybil. “Excuse me?” Anne asked, her train of thought screeching to a stop.

“I said, Anne, would you like to meet me for lunch? I can bring your ring.”

“That would be fine.”

As Detective Towers was talking, Anne’s call waiting clicked. She saw CC’s face. “I have to go. I have another call.”

The line for Paradise Pup was long as always. It was well worth it. No one in line complained about waiting. They made the best charbroiled half-pound burgers in the Chicago area. The trick was grilled onions, Merkt’s sharp cheddar cheese, German rye bread and an owner addicted to quality. Anne stood next to Detective Towers. Their difference in stature was almost comedic, yet they seemed very comfortable next to each other. Anne was surprised to see Detective Towers in his day-off clothes––white linen shorts and a salmon-colored polo shirt. For the first time, Anne thought,
this guy is kind of cute.

When it came her turn to order, she ordered a half-pound cheeseburger with extra grilled onions and the loaded fries topped with Merkt’s cheese, bacon and sour cream. Detective Towers smiled and ordered the same. Anne pulled out her wallet. “Put that away. I’ve got this,” Detective Towers said.

They gathered their food and sat at a metal table outside the small building. A red and white umbrella provided coverage from the afternoon sun.

“How’d you find this place?” Anne asked.

“About two years ago, I was doing security at the Allstate Arena Theater. Oasis concert.”

“Really? I like them. What ever happened to them? They were quite good,” Anne said.

“Yes, they were quite good. One of the Rosemont officers working security told me about this place. Since then, I’ve come here at least once a week.” Detective Towers unwrapped his steaming burger. He took a bite and continued, “I’m sorry about the ring. I wish I could have found more information about it.” He took the ring out of his pocket and handed it to her.

Anne watched a little dollop of ketchup on his cheek bounce as he talked. She found it rather charming. “You know,” she said, “after we got off the phone, I remembered that on the way to the pawnshop, a homeless guy came up to me asking for money. He said he was trying to buy some shoes. His shoes were tattered up. He said he’d just been released from the 51st street station.”

“Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

“Yes, he made an impression on me.” Anne dipped her fry in the cheese. Anne described the homeless man to Nigel Towers, right down to the color of his shoelaces. Her eye for detail had been honed by years of antique hunting.

“I’ll check to see if anyone matches his description,” Detective Towers accented his sentence by sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth and catching the ketchup dollop.

“I have to know about the accent. Obviously you’re British. How’d you wind up as a Chicago cop?”

“I was born in Liverpool. My father was a lieutenant in Scotland Yard. He wasn’t around a lot growing up,” Detective Towers said. “I spent more time with my mum. She loved American movies. We spent a lot of weekends at the cinema. Many black and white classics––
Casablanca
and
Bringing up Baby
. Our favorite movie was
The Maltese Falcon
.”

“I love that movie,” Anne interjected, sipping her Oreo cookie shake.

“It’s ironic. My father was in one of the world’s most famous detective departments, but I learned everything about police work from watching American films.”

“Is that why you came to America?”

“Oh, no. My father was killed in the line of duty when I was twelve. My mum’s sister married an American living in Chicago. As you might imagine, my mum had a pretty rough go of it after my dad died. We came here to live with them.” He paused. “What about you? Tell me about Anne Hillstrom.”

Anne took another sip of her Oreo cookie shake. “Not much to tell. I was born in the Midwest and went to school. I became a research chemist at Ebbort Labs. I’ve been working there for 25 years now.”

“Chemist. That must be fascinating work.”

Anne looked up, wearing a bit of a Hitler Oreo shake moustache. “Not so much. Not so much.”

Nigel motioned to his lip, hoping she’d catch the gentle reference.

“I mostly test like pesticides, insecticides,” she continued. “A lot of compound chemicals.”

“Does that make you happy?”

Anne stopped gnawing on her French fry. It had been a while since someone had asked her that question. She couldn’t remember ever being asked that question. In fact, it had been many years since she’d asked herself that question. She wiped the shake off the top of her lip with her napkin. “It’s not what I started out wanting to do with my life.”

“What did you want to do?”

“Don’t laugh at me but when I was little I used to pretend I was Nancy Drew or Miss Marple in search of clues to solve mysteries. I always liked putting puzzles together.” She stopped and thought before continuing, “The only puzzles I solve now involve emulsions and chemical reactions. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.”

“I’m sure you’re quite good at what you do,” Nigel said.

“Thank you,” replied Anne.

She cleared off the pile of napkins and their empty food on the table, disposing of it in the nearby garbage can. “Thanks for lunch. It was really good,” Anne said.

Bumping his head on the umbrella, Towers struggled to get his praying mantis legs out from under the table. It made Anne laugh and the detective blushed. The awkward goodbye turned into a pleasant one.

Chapter Eighteen

CC was on deadline but she didn’t want to cancel her lunch interview with Martha. She wrapped up the story she was working on. She ran the few short blocks to Boston Blackie’s, a well-known Chicago hamburger joint. Scanning the lunchtime crowd, she recognized Martha, based on her description, sitting in a booth. CC gave her a quick wave and hurried over to the table, sitting down and catching her breath.

“CC, thank you so much for meeting me,” Martha said, introducing herself.

“Thanks for your interest in my blog.”

Martha pulled out a reporter’s notebook. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

“No, not at all.” CC shifted in her seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable being on the opposite side of the notepad.

“I wanted to find out about your blog. It’s called ‘From the Estate’?”

“Yes, it’s about me and my friend, Anne; we travel around to estate sales and share our experiences with our readers.”

“Anne?” Martha questioned.

“Anne Hillstrom. We’ve been friends forever. Anne and I love treasure hunting.”

“Tell me more about the treasure hunting.” Martha scribbled notes furiously.

“When we were in college and didn’t have any money, we started going to flea markets, rummage sales and then learned about estate sales. We were quickly hooked.”

“What is it about estate sales that you enjoy?”

“For me, it’s the thrill of the hunt. You never know what you’re going to find, and I especially like handling antiques.”

“What is it about old things?”

“It’s really about the craftsmanship. The quality of the pieces. You don’t see that today because everything is machine made. The people who crafted these items took pride in their work. They started as apprentices and took years to hone their skills. These pieces were crafted by human hands, not a machine. It gives them a soul.” CC paused and thought. “It’s a way to go back in time. You’re touching history, and if you’re really lucky, you might find something so rare, even one of a kind, that might have been lost.”

“What’s the most interesting thing you’ve found?”

“That’s a really interesting question.” CC paused again. “Every item has its own personality. One that was dear to my heart reminded me of my father. We came to America from Germany when I was quite young, and I’ve been back to Germany several times. On one trip, I found a cuckoo clock in the village where my dad was born.” CC looked at her watch. “I have to get back to work.”

“Thank you so much. I’d like to get some photos of you and Anne for the article. Would it be possible to take them at an estate sale?”

“Sure; I’ll send the address of the next sale we’re going to go to.” After shaking hands, CC got up and headed back to work.

Chapter Nineteen

Anne dreaded Monday mornings, Tuesday mornings, and Wednesday mornings. Thursdays weren’t so bad; Fridays pretty good. She walked into the large multi-complex Ebbort Building. She passed through the security checkpoint, waving to the security guard, heading down the corridor to the sealed doors that housed her weekday home. With a swipe of her ID badge, the double stainless doors swooshed open.

She entered the clean room and donned her lab coat before going to her station. This week she was testing organic compounds for mosquito repellent. She shared the lab with two other chemists. Ebbort Labs’ interest in mosquito abatement had increased as the threat of West Nile Virus had grown. Her part was just the first in a series of independent tests to validate preliminary research results. She really hoped it would work because she was tired of being bitten. The DEET and citronella candles were proving no match for these aggressive mosquitos. With all the flooding in the Midwest, it had been a really bad year. On her left arm alone, she had over five bites.

For the first time in a long while, she was actually interested in work. After working in silence for a few hours, she was interrupted by Sharon, her fellow chemist––a younger girl recently graduated from college. “Hey, how’s the repellent going?”

“Honestly, DEET is still the best repellent but who wants to spray that on.” Anne took off her safety glasses and looked at Sharon and said, “What works for me pretty well is a dryer sheet. It has to be scented. Just rub it all over your skin. It keeps off all but the most aggressive mosquitoes.”

“Very interesting,” said Sharon. “How was your weekend?”

“It was good,” replied Anne. “I went to a sale. I found a beautiful Steiff bear. It was on my list.”

“What list is that?” Sharon looked quizzically at her.

“Oh, my friend CC and I––you’ve met her––have a blog about our finds at estate sales. A lot of our fans have been writing to us looking for help finding items.”

“Really? That’s pretty cool. Maybe you can help me out,” Sharon said.

“What are you looking for?” Anne asked, getting enthusiastic.

“My boyfriend and I are buying a loft off of Madison and Racine, not too far from the United Center. He wants to bring over all his furniture. Let me clarify that––his junk.” Sharon leaned against Anne’s table. “I’m trying to be fair about it. I told him he could pick three of his favorite possessions, but I get to okay them. Anne, you should see his taste. It’s like he’s still in a college dorm room.”

Anne rubbed her chin and looked thoughtful. “Let me see. What’s your style? What do you like?”

Sharon sat on the stool next to her. “I really love 1960s mod. I’d love to find an Andy Warhol, a real one. I inherited a couple Eames chairs and I’d like to decorate the whole loft around them.”

“Eames chairs. Those are really valuable,” Anne said. “I’ll put you at the head of the list. I’ve got some ideas in mind for 1960s décor.” Anne thought for a moment. “I might just have a few things in my garage. Give me a day or two.” She had to decide if she was willing to part with one of her Formica kitchen tables or her avocado green stove.

“Thanks, Anne.” Sharon stood up. “We’re heading out to lunch. Do you want to join us?”

“Not today. I brought lunch,” Anne said. She watched her coworkers walk out. Anne sat at her desk, nibbling her chicken salad sandwich, browsing through her eBay watch list. Anne took a couple bites and reached into her drawer, pulling out a Reese’s peanut butter cup. “If I eat half the sandwich, I can eat the whole candy bar,” she said to herself.  She scrolled down her eBay watch list. The silver tea service that had started at $25 was now up over $100. Too bad; she couldn’t spend that much right now. She had overextended herself again and was struggling to pay her monthly bills. She didn’t tell CC because she didn’t want a lecture.

After work, Anne headed to the police station to meet Nigel Towers. She sat in the viewing room as Nigel spoke with the homeless man who matched her description. It was definitely him. She watched through the glass and listened intently.

“Tell me, Mr. Findle, you say that some guy came up to you and asked you to hock this ring?” Nigel put the ring on the table.

The homeless man touched the ring and said, “Yep, yep; that’s it. That’s the ring.”

“What did this man look like?”

“I don’t know––just a middle-aged white guy, kind of greasy.” The homeless man’s leg bounced up and down with a nervous energy.

“What do you mean by
greasy
?”

“He seemed kind of off. He didn’t seem right, you know what I mean?”

“Did he say why he wanted you to pawn the ring?”

“He said that he’d lost a lot of money at the track and he wanted to sell his wedding ring. He’d told his wife that he lost it. He didn’t want her to find out. That’s why he wanted me to go inside the pawnshop. He said he’d split the money with me whatever I got from the pawn shop guy.”

“What happened after you pawned the ring?”

“I got $50 for it. I thought that was pretty good. The pawn shop guy thought it was fair, but the guy in the alley was mad. He said the ring was worth much more than that, and he roughed me up a little bit and stiffed me. He didn’t give me a dime. You know, I shouldn’t have trusted him; he was wearing a Vikings jersey in Chicago. Who wears a Vikings jersey in Chicago?”

Anne jumped out of her seat. Nigel finished up with Mr. Findle and walked into the viewing room where Anne was dancing around. “Nigel, the Vikings jersey! I know who it is! My cousin Suzanne’s husband, Jack, was wearing a Vikings jersey last time I saw him. He did some work for my Aunt Sybil. I bet you he stole the ring when he was at her house. I just know he did. He’s that kind of guy.”

“Greasy?”

“Yes, greasy; that’s a good way to describe cousin Jack.”

“Do you have an address for him?”

“No; he and Suzanne split up recently, and he took off. I don’t know where he is now. He’s from Minnesota. His parents live in St. Paul; maybe you could check there.”

Nigel smiled at Anne. He appeared to feel good that there was something he could do to help her.

By the time she got home, it was after 8 p.m., and Sassy was not pleased. “Okay, Sassy, I know you’re starving.”

Sassy paid no attention and headed to the kitchen. She waited on the shelf above the kitchen table. Anne reached up, pulling Sassy off the shelf. “We’ve talked about this. I don’t want you knocking anything over.” Anne placed Sassy on the floor next to her food dish.

After Sassy was fed, Anne called her bank to check on her balance. The news wasn’t good as she’d suspected.