Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (2 page)

Chapter Four

The sun sparkled off Lake Michigan. The drive from Chicago up Sheridan Road meandered through forest preserves bordered with giant old-growth poplars and evergreens. Each turn through the winding road gave a peek at the beautiful great lake.

CC and Anne talked of daily events, of pleasantries that good friends often share. But Anne’s mind drifted. She thought about what she might find at the estate sale they were heading to in the prestigious North Shore suburb of Kenilworth. Old money, old homes and lots of old treasure.

“What was that?” Anne asked coming out of her trance.

“You didn’t hear a word I said, did you, Anne?” CC said with a giggle. She knew her friend well enough to know that her thoughts were elsewhere. “Have you heard from the Glencoe police?” CC repeated.

“I haven’t heard anything. I took over a list of what I knew was missing last week. They have no new information or at least that’s what they said,” Anne said.

“Do they believe it was a robbery that went bad?”

“You know as much as I do. There were no fingerprints or evidence. And, there have been no other break ins in the area.” Anne’s mood had dampened.

“I’m sorry, Anne. I didn’t mean to upset you.” CC patted Anne’s leg.

They arrived at the mansion at eight a.m.––an hour before the sale was scheduled to begin. The iron gates at the end of the road were open, and the circle drive in front was already packed with cars. CC parked on the shoulder, narrowly missing the bumper of a white Cadillac Escalade. The home was modeled after an English country estate with its brick exterior clad in green ivy. The center of the circle driveway featured a water fountain with a six-foot tall statue of Neptune, who bore a striking resemblance to the owner of the estate, Tim Whitmore.

Getting out of the car, Anne recognized the periwinkle blue Aston Martin coupe that held the pole position. It belonged to Betsy Buttersworth, no relation to the syrup, but still a sticky problem for Anne. She was Anne’s Professor Moriarty, her long-time estate sale nemesis. Betsy was a skilled antique hunter and had the money to back up her bids.

Anne ran to the front of the line to grab numbers for herself and CC. She hoped they’d be in the first wave of the assault. They waited for the massive 500-year-old monastery double doors to open. She saw Betsy clutching her Hermès purse,
last year’s model
, she thought. Both women wore their battle faces. For Betsy, antique hunting was a distraction in what was just another boring day. For Anne, it was a chance to touch history.

The doors opened wide, and Mr. Ripley stepped out calling numbers. As always, he conducted himself with an old world manner and introduced himself as Alexander Ripley of Ripley Antiquities. Quite tall and handsome, Anne often wondered if some of the ladies came for him as much as for the sale. His pencil-thin mustache reminded Anne of Douglas Fairbanks. He always dressed in vintage Armani and always wore a white carnation in his lapel.

Walking single file, Anne and CC handed him their numbers. Mr. Ripley paused for a moment and held Anne’s hand. “Thank you for coming. I was so sad to hear about your aunt. She was a good friend for many years. I’ll personally handle the sale,” he said.

“Thank you. That means a lot to the family,” Anne said, removing her hand, anxious to get into the house. Anne and CC entered the majestic hallway, which soared three stories encompassing the double winding marble staircase. A Swarovski crystal chandelier hung from the high ceiling. It glittered in the morning sunlight that was crashing through palladium windows. The late Tim Whitmore, owner of this beautiful estate, had been dirt poor until he won the Illinois Powerball.
Apparently money could buy good taste,
Anne thought.

“I’m so excited,” she said. “This is going to be good. Look at this, CC.” Anne picked up a moonglow-glazed Van Briggle art pottery vase from a console table in the hallway. A hallmark of the arts and crafts era, the vase was a signed piece by artist Van Briggle, the “Lorelei” vase was an excellent example of the Colorado studio’s work. She looked at the hefty price tag and set it down immediately. It was too rich for her wallet. She’d recently seen one appraised in the tens of thousands of dollars.

Anne followed CC into the living room. She stopped to inspect and pick up each item, oohing and ahhing as she went. She was in her element. Entering the dining room, she was transfixed by a place setting of china. She sat in a Hitchcock chair by the table and picked up the plate to confirm the name on the bottom. English bone china, she was correct. She’d never seen this pattern, which depicted a hummingbird on a pink and gray background. Anne could hear the one-way strains of Betsy’s phone conversation as she walked by, her arms overflowing with crystal candlesticks, a Lladro, and a small pale pink vase.

“I’m going into the basement,” CC said from behind her. Anne knew she hoped to discover a collection of tools. Whitmore had been a mechanic before he was a millionaire.

“I’ll meet you down there,” Anne said. “I’m going to look upstairs first.” She stood and headed up the winding marble staircase, passing under the watchful eyes of Degas ballerinas. She paused, eyeing them. They were excellent examples of the Impressionist’s work. They were all marked “NFS,” meaning not for sale.
Figures
, Anne thought, even though she knew she could never afford one. “NFS” was her least favorite acronym.

She wandered through the upstairs hallway, pausing to look at a pile of plush towels in the guest bathroom, stopping in a bedroom to peruse the books on the shelf. She peeked in what appeared to be the master bedroom. A sign on the door said “Do Not Enter,” which made Anne want to enter even more. Looking over her shoulder, she tiptoed in. The walls were painted dark maroon, the four-poster bed had to be as big as two king-sized beds, but it was the only thing of any value in the room. Over the fireplace, there was an autographed poster of Richard Petty in his NASCAR uniform, and on the mantle was a tower of beer cans including Pabst Blue Ribbon, Old Style, and Colt 45. This room didn’t have the panache or elegance of an interior decorator’s touch as did the rest of the house. It must have been Tim’s refuge. It displayed his southern Illinois roots with its giant-screen TV, Barcalounger and a large faux leopard skin rug. Everything from his pre-millionaire life appeared to have been dumped into this room.
No wonder this is off limits
, Anne thought.
There’s nothing in here but junk. Not worth buying.

Her eyes drifted to the nightstand.
What is that?
she thought, looking at a crystal ashtray. When she bent down to take a better look, she noticed something underneath the bed. She checked behind her, making sure the coast was clear. None of the items in this room had price stickers, but then again none had “NFS” stickers either. She reached under the bed and retrieved what appeared to be a tattered linen pouch.

Looking inside, she found a tarnished ornate teaspoon with some stray tea leaves stuck inside. The scent from the English breakfast blend was overpowering but what really caught her attention was the spoon itself. It was pretty beat up but still worthy of her own collection. Spoons were one of her weaknesses. She knew she had to have it. Taking the spoon out, she returned the pouch to its hiding place.

Back downstairs, she brought the spoon over to the woman who was helping Mr. Ripley. She was busy ringing up purchases, so she looked very quickly at the spoon and said, “$5.”

“Can you please hold it for me while I look around a little more?” Anne asked.

After wandering through the rest of the house, she met up with CC in the basement. CC’s arms were filled with industrial supplies like boxes of bolts, copper wire and a socket set. She was most excited about what she’d found deep in the corner of the basement––a 1950s Rolleiflex 3.5F.

She showed it to Anne and explained, “This is a TLR, a twin-lens reflex camera. It uses two lenses––one at the top to focus. All the best press photographers used it in the 1950s. It’s German precision at its best, Anne.” CC thought of herself as an artist over a vast array of mediums, including photography, oil painting and scrapbooking.

Anne had many of CC’s photographs––most of her subjects were missing the tops of their heads. Anne wasn’t sure if that was a statement or poor photography. She suspected the latter but didn’t want to hurt her friend’s feelings. “That’s great, CC.”

“You know I’ve been wanting to add a darkroom. I have to make room in my craft room. Are you ready to go?” CC asked.

“I think I’m done. I found a spoon; they’re holding it for me.” Anne was also carrying a hand-embroidered tea towel, a white ceramic bulldog and a green Depression-era glass vase. Anne tapped her foot impatiently waiting for the assistant to ring up her items. She was done here and anxious to move on to the next sale.

The woman turned to Anne, jotted down the prices for her purchases on a pad of paper. Anne scrounged in her purse and dug out some wadded up dollar bills. The woman very carefully wrapped her finds in newspaper and plastic bags and waited for CC to pay.

Anne and CC walked out of the house and back to CC’s 10-year-old Pontiac Grand Am and headed into the city.

Feeling satisfied with their day’s purchases, they stopped for lunch at one of their favorite spots. CC and Anne sat in a quaint little French Bistro overlooking Lake Michigan.

When the waiter came over, CC ordered in French while pointing at various items on the menu. The waiter nodded, even though he obviously didn’t speak French.

The two best friends enjoyed a lovely meal on a lovely afternoon––that would change their lives forever.

Chapter Five

CC arrived at her three-bedroom split-level home situated on a large lot in unincorporated Glen Ellyn. After the divorce, she’d done a lot of remodeling. Getting rid of her ex-husband was the first step. The deer heads and pinball machines followed. Thank God for Craig’s List. Opening the door, Bandit, her Australian shepherd, nearly knocked her over.

“Hey, boo boo bear,” she said, petting his soft brown and white fur. “How’s my baby?” She gave him a hug. Bandit’s tailless butt rpm’d at an incredible speed whenever CC was near. “Let’s go for a walkie, and then we’ll figure out dinner.”

Putting on the dog’s leash, they headed the short distance to the Prairie Path, the former site of an electric railway that extended 61 miles from Chicago to far western Elgin and Aurora. It had been transformed into a bike path in the early 1960s. The lilacs released an intoxicating fragrance as they walked down the gravel pathway. CC pondered the day’s events while Bandit caught bees. He wrangled a big fat bumblebee, shaking his head as it stung him. He still looked quite satisfied with his catch.

Daffodils, irises and crocuses were in full bloom. It was one of CC’s and Bandit’s favorite places to walk. It gave her a chance to think about her blog and gave Bandit a chance to take in the smells. It also gave her a chance to test the new camera. She stopped along the way and took photos of the blooming flowers.

After a brisk 30-minute walk, it was time to head back to the house for dinner. She entered the backyard through the tall, cedar gate. It was a large backyard, nearly an acre. Living in unincorporated Glen Ellyn had its benefits. She’d had to give up city water and sewer but it was worth it to have such a large landscape to decorate. She stopped to pull out a few weeds in her vegetable garden.
A couple more weeks
, she thought,
and she should start seeing growth
. Bandit bumped her leg with his head. It was way past dinnertime. “Ok, Bandit, we’ll head in. I promise,” she said.

She opened the sliding door into her sunroom and followed the dog into the house. This was her second favorite room after the kitchen. The large travertine tile floor and wood-beamed ceiling made a cozy place to sit in all four seasons. After John had left, she’d installed a Ben Franklin stove in the corner for winter evenings. She was proud of that stove and her newfound skills. She’d learned how to do a lot in the last five years. She took a last glance out the sunroom window into her garden, pleased with its progress. The harsh winter had killed some of her weeping cherry trees and her favorite butterfly bush, but the rest had fared pretty well. Bandit prodded her again. “Ok, boy, dinner’s coming,” she said, walking into her gourmet kitchen.

This was the first room she’d remodeled. She loved to cook, and she loved to eat. CC was a true foodie. She especially loved French and Creole cuisine. Her parents had emigrated from Germany when she was very young and had settled in La Place, Louisiana, where her dad had worked at the steel mill. That’s where she’d fallen in love with spicy food and the steel industry.

She put a frying pan on the stove, chopped some garlic, onion and rosemary, and put it in the pan with some lemon-infused olive oil. She went to the pantry and took out a Mason jar which contained a spicy blend from last year’s peppers and tossed some in the pan. She took two chicken breasts from the sub-zero and threw them into the pan after dredging them in flour.

In a second pan, she sautéed Brussel sprouts with fettuccine, pine nuts and onions. While the food was cooking, she went down to the basement. In the far corner was a wrought iron wine rack. She scanned the labels and pulled out a nice white Zinfandel to complement the chicken and fettuccine. CC carried her plate and glass of wine to the dining room table. She set another plate onto the floor for Bandit.

Like most of her furniture, the dining room table was 1960s Danish modern––original, not a reproduction. CC liked the straight, no-nonsense lines. It was like her––practical and efficient. After finishing dinner and her second glass of wine, she went to her desk and turned on her 23-inch iMac.

She began writing her weekly blog, called “From the Estate.” It chronicled her and Anne’s experiences at various sales––from estate to garage to barn. She found it a refreshing change from writing about the cold world of stainless steel, rebar and alloys.

CC used to think herself above writing a blog. After all, she was a “serious” journalist, but once she’d started, she found that she really enjoyed the process of detailing her simple weekend outings. She looked forward to sharing treasure hunting experiences with her “fans.”

It wasn’t just about the antiques that they found but also the journey finding them––where they ate, the sights they saw and, of course, the people they met.

“Dear Friends,” CC typed. “Today Anne and I attended the estate sale of Tim Whitmore.”