by Vicki Vass
“Aren’t you going to tell me who that was?” Anne said.
“It was my friend, a former colleague, Ted Nobokiv. He’s an investigative reporter for the LA Times. If Jeremiah Riddle lives in California and is still alive, Ted will track him down.”
“Where to now?”
“Nashville coroner’s office.” CC put the address in the GPS and started driving.
Anne had no response for that. She sat back and sipped on her Diet Coke. She wished she’d asked Bradley to pack her a snack. She was getting hungry.
It was late afternoon, and there was no parking around city hall. CC was tired of paying for parking everywhere. It wasn’t just the parking; it was the valet, and the tips for the valet. It went against her grain as a frugal German pragmatist. She circled the block for twenty minutes until she found some street metered parking. Anne took out her change bag and fed quarters to the hungry machine.
Entering the building, they paused to eye the office listing board; the coroner’s office was located on the ninth floor. Both elevators had yellow “out of service” signs on them. Anne’s heart stopped at the sight. “Come on; we have to take the stairs,” CC said, opening the door to the stairwell.
“You’re kidding. It’s nine floors. You can do that. I’ll wait here.” Anne pointed to a bench along the wall.
“You’re coming with me,” CC said, pulling her into the stairwell.
By the time, they reached the third flight of stairs, Anne was mumbling, “treadmill.” When they reached the seventh floor, she said something about Bradley under her breath. CC couldn’t make it out. They finally reached the ninth floor in time to hear the ding of the elevator door opening. It had been fixed. Anne took a lace handkerchief out of her bag and wiped her dripping brow. She leaned against the door and panted.
The glass door was etched with the words Nashville City Coroner. They went inside and a young woman behind the counter, greeted them. “May I help you?”
CC showed her press pass. “I want some information on a Mr. Walters. He passed away two days ago.”
The young woman clicked something on her computer. “This is a police investigation. We’re not allowed to release any information.”
By the stern look that the young woman gave CC, she knew not to ask any further. “I understand. I’ll contact the police department. Thank you.”
They walked back out into the hall. “Anne, you’re going to have to call Nigel.”
“CC, I can’t,” Anne protested.
“What do you mean you can’t?”
“You’re the one who urged me to have the talk with Nigel to tell him how I really felt, so I did. He left town. I haven’t spoken with him since.”
“Anne, this is business. It’s important. It’s the only way we’re going to get information about Walters.”
Reluctantly, Anne agreed. She took out her iPhone but there was no service in the building. She pressed the button for the elevator. It did not light up. She pressed it again with the same result. “Oh, great; you gotta be kidding me.”
They took the stairs––CC two at a time; Anne holding the railing, huffing and puffing. They reached the lobby in time to hear the ding of the elevator doors open as people got on.
Anne tried the phone again as she walked outside the building. A gentle mist started. “Nigel, can you hear me? I’m sorry to bother you but I could use your help.” She put her hand over the phone. “CC, what am I supposed to be asking him?”
“Tell him we want a copy of Walters’ autopsy report,” CC said.
Anne relayed the information to Nigel. She thanked him and hung up.
“Is he going to do it?”
“Yes,” Anne replied. “Can we go eat now?”
They walked the five blocks back to the VW. Anne was sweating in the humid air. She wasn’t used to this much humidity in the fall.
CC started the bus. “We’re heading to see a man about Demonbreun.”
Chapter Twenty-six
They arrived at the country home of one of Tennessee’s largest collectors of Nashborough history, Pierre Robertson. The large country estate was located 20 minutes outside of Nashville, near the Cumberland River––the original site of the founding of Nashville by Timothy Demonbreun. “You know, Anne,” CC said. “Timothy Demonbreun was French-Canadian and was the first white settler here in 1769. He established a fur trading post that he could use for his trapping expeditions.”
Anne wasn’t terribly excited. These weren’t going to be pretty antiques. She liked shiny things. “How did you find out about this collector?”
“From Bradley.”
Anne smiled and said, “Ahhh, Bradley.” She wished she had that sandwich now.
They were greeted at the wrought-iron double doors by a butler. He led them into the two-story foyer, which was comprised of beautiful antiques dating back to the 1700s. Anne marveled at the exquisite décor. She couldn’t have done better herself. She wondered if any of this collection was for sale.
The butler walked the ladies into the sitting room where Mr. Robertson was waiting. He was wearing a fringed, deerskin Daniel Boone jacket and matching boots. Probably original, Anne thought.
“Welcome to my home.” He put down the instrument in his lap and stood up to greet them. “My friend, Bradley, contacted me and said you wanted to see my collection. Are you interested in Tennessee history?”
“In particular, Nashville,” CC said.
Anne interrupted. “We’re antique hunters.” She handed him a card.
CC stopped her and said, “We have a client who is decorating her house for her fiancé. He’s a very influential businessman in Nashville. We’ve been commissioned to find pieces for his collection. Bradley spoke highly of you and said you had an amazing collection. Specifically, we’re looking for anything related to Timothy Demonbruen.”
“You’re familiar with our local history. He was a very interesting pioneer,” Mr. Robertson said. “He lived in a cave just downstream from here for months while he was building his home.”
“I heard that. Is his original homestead still around?” CC asked.
“Not much of it. I can show you the site,” Robertson said.
“You know, Anne, Demonbreun served as lieutenant governor at Fort Kaskaskia in Illinois. He had a family there,” CC said.
“And he had a second one here in Nashville. He had five children with his Illinois wife and four with his Nashville mistress,” Mr. Robertson said. “He established a mercantile and fur trading business and had 17 employees.” He led them into a back room. “Here is one of the early advertisements for his store.”
The cluttered, framed newspaper ad announced a business location on Public Square and listed window glass, paper, cured deer hides and buffalo tongues. “Later on, he opened a tavern,” Mr. Robertson said. “He loved music. This is his original hurdy gurdy.” Robertson held up an instrument that was lying on a wood table. He demonstrated how to play it.
“You know, Anne, the crank on a hurdy gurdy makes a sound just like a bow on a violin,” CC said. “Would you consider selling any of these items?”
“Oh, no, this collection is dear to me. I could never part with any of it.”
“You know, the gentleman we’re buying for works in the music industry. Not only has his family been in Nashville for generations, but he also works with famous musicians. I think he’d appreciate the history of the hurdy gurdy and perhaps use it on recordings that would be heard by millions of country fans.”
Mr. Robertson thought. “I enjoy beautiful things. I cherish them. I want others to appreciate the history and the beauty also. If this hurdy gurdy can be shared with other enthusiasts, I would part with it.”
While Mr. Robertson and CC were talking, Anne was mesmerized by an ormolu music box. She opened it and cranked it. Its tinkling tune filled the room. Both Mr. Robertson and CC turned to look at her. “That was a gift to my grandmother from my grandfather when he came back from France in 1922. It was he
r engagement present,” Mr. Robertson said.
Anne set the music box back down carefully. Even she couldn’t ask him to give up a family heirloom.
They paid for the hurdy gurdy and an early map of Nashville. “Thank you, Mr. Robertson.”
“If you’re interested in music antiques, you should come to the reception that I’m hosting tomorrow for the Nashville Historical Society at Andrew Jackson’s Hermitage plantation,” Mr. Robertson said, as he escorted them to the front door. “Colonel Anderson will be attending. He was very influential in the early days of Nashville music. I’m sure you would find him fascinating.”
Anne and CC looked at each other.
“It’s a period ball celebrating Andrew Jackson’s legacy. I will let Bradley know to add you to the guest list.”
“Is Bradley part of the historical society?” Anne asked.
“Everyone in Nashville knows Bradley. When you need something, you ask Bradley.”
Anne nodded in agreement. “Thank you so much, Mr. Robertson,” Anne said. “We will definitely see you tomorrow evening.” Anne got in the car and pondered about her costume. Now she wished she’d borrowed Aunt Sybil’s brooch from her cousin, Susan. “This is great. I wanted to tour the estate anyway. Now we can do it for free. I’ll call Bradley.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
The black Lincoln town car pulled up in front of Monique’s, a vintage clothier located off a side street, one block away from Broadway. Bradley jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the door for Anne and CC. “Ladies, do you want to me to come in with you? I know the owner.”
“Of course, Bradley,” Anne said. She definitely was getting used to this service. All CC saw was dollar signs.
Walking ahead of them, Bradley opened the door that led into the small storefront. The window display contained stage costumes from different decades. “Monique’s is mostly known for its country stage costumes, but the owner also deals in high-end vintage clothing in her Charleston store. I contacted her yesterday. She had ball gowns overnighted that she thinks will work for you.”
As they spoke, a beautiful woman floated into the room wearing a classic Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and pearls. Her jewels were vintage Harry Winston. Anne could tell they were not imitation. She was pleased to be in such elegant company and wondered if she could try the necklace on. Anne thought Monique resembled Helen Mirren.
Bradley kissed Monique on both cheeks and spoke rapidly in French. Anne and CC watched in amazement at being exposed to another one of Bradley’s talents. “This is Monique. Monique, may I introduce Ms. Hillstrom and Ms. Muller. They are antique hunters,” Bradley explained with a flourish.
Anne curtseyed as if she were in the royal court. CC shook Monique’s hand. With a lilting French accent, Monique spoke, “I understand you ladies have been invited to tomorrow’s charity ball at the Hermitage plantation. You will need the right attire for the costume ball. I have the perfect gowns for you both. I believe Bradley was correct in estimating your measurements. For you, Miss Hillstrom.” Monique held up a royal purple silk gown with a bustle and layers and layers of flounces.
Anne smiled approvingly and reached out a hand to touch the silk. Her fairy godmother had picked the perfect gown. She already felt like Cinderella.
“And, for you, Miss Muller, a more practical gown.” Monique held up a severe high-necked teal satin ball gown.
Reaching for the hanger of the purple dress, Anne could feel the history emanating from it. “Are these authentic dresses from the era?”
“Of course. That dress you’re holding was worn by General Nash’s wife at a similar ball at Mr. Jackson’s house. And, the one you hold, Ms. Muller, was worn by a French countess––Dubuque––who was a mistress of Mr. Jackson’s, or so the story goes. Quite scandalous, wouldn’t you agree?”
Before Monique could finish, Anne was in the dressing room changing. She was a bit worried since she had been off her South Beach, low carb, paleo, Weight Watchers diets. Oh, what the heck! She was off all her diets, but she wore her Fitbit faithfully everyday and tried to reach her 10,000––more like 2,000––step quota. This vacation––no correction, Anne thought, antique hunting trip, had not been kind to any of her diets, and she could see a slight difference in her waistline.
She slid the gown on and felt the smooth silk slide over her. It fit perfectly. Bradley was amazing. She twirled around and watched the silk float like an exuberant butterfly around her ankles. This was her destiny. She had found her time machine and this evening would be set for 1820.
CC stared at the full-length gold-gilded mirror. She wouldn’t say it out loud and she was embarrassed to think it, but she looked beautiful. She had felt beautiful ever since the night at Brent’s house. She no longer thought about Tony or Italy or her ex-husband. She felt like Mata Hari using her feminine wiles to spy on the enemy. But who was the enemy?
Bradley kissed both Monique’s cheeks, spoke again for several minutes in French as the two laughed. Anne looked around the shop, admiring the sequined jackets, short leather skirts and bandana tie-dyed halter tops––all fitting for a stage performance. “Monique will have the gowns pressed and then delivered to the hotel,” Bradley said.
As they left Monique’s, Anne received a text message on her iPhone from Nigel. It read “glad to help.” She opened the attachment. Anne downloaded the police report. She skimmed it, stopping at the sentence that read, “Victim had tattoo of blue quarter note on his arm.” They looked at each other. The police report confirmed what they already knew. Walters had the same tattoo as Roger.
CC read over her shoulder. They both were silent.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Bradley pulled the 1940s maroon Duesenberg up the long driveway leading to Andrew Jackson’s majestic Hermitage plantation. Its oil lanterns were aglow in the early evening. In the circular driveway, there were limousines, Rolls Royce’s and exotic sports cars. For the occasion, Bradley had borrowed the car from a local collector and had donned full chauffeur attire. The front entrance was a cluster of activity, a rainbow of color from the array of period gowns. Almost everyone stopped to watch as the million-dollar car pulled up by the front steps. All the Nashville elite wanted to see who would step out. Bradley exited the driver’s seat, placed his chauffeur’s cap on his head, opened the back door, clicked his heels and bowed. He reached his hand down to first help Anne out and then CC. As he bowed his head, he gave them a wink.
Around her neck, Anne was wearing a gold and ivory cameo locket; Bradley had borrowed it from a turn-of-the-century jewelry display in the hotel’s lobby. CC was wearing a pearl and emerald choker from the same collection. Apparently, there was no limit to Bradley’s skills.
Anne and CC walked up the steps, nodding at the gawking Nashvillians. From the ballroom, they could hear the opening strains of a waltz. They crossed over the lobby and wandered through the crowd into the ballroom. Anne felt like she had stepped back in time to antebellum days. She imagined Andrew Jackson walking down the marble staircase. The beauty and elegance of the young country, this young city displaying its potential.
Anne strolled around, touching all the antiques. It was a rare opportunity to view history from the other end of the red velvet rope. From behind her, she heard a familiar voice. She turned to see Chief John Blackbear wearing full tribal chieftain dress. “John, what are you doing here?”
He smiled. “I am representing the seven clans of the Cherokee who were allowed to stay in North Carolina. President Jackson enforced the Indian Removal Act but was persuaded to allow our clans to stay in North Carolina.”
Anne was so excited she forgot her decorum and kissed his cheek. John Blackbear’s smile grew. “Anne, I must talk to you. Can we walk out to the veranda?”
The early evening fall air was cool and crisp, but not cold. The wind coming off the rolling hills blew through Anne’s golden hair. Her bare shoulders glistened ivory in the waning moon. Her blue eyes sparkled. John Blackbear to
wered over her like the great mountain of a man he was. His eyes were soft and his voice gentle. “Anne, I met with the leaders of the seven clans. The morning star crystal as you know is invaluable to my people. They wish that I not only thank you for finding it, but that I give you this. I was going to bring it to your hotel, but now please take it.” He handed her an envelope embossed with the casino logo.
“John, what is this? I didn’t do this for any reward. I wanted to help you. I care about you. I understand the importance of preserving history.” She tried to hand the envelope back to him.
“Anne, the casino has been very profitable. Money is not an issue for my people. This is merely our way of thanking you. I insist. Do with it what you wish, but to refuse it would be an insult to the clans.” John’s hand reached over hers, pushing the envelope back toward her.
“Thank you, John.” She placed the envelope in her bag. Anne reached up and put her arms around John Blackbear’s neck and pulled him down. She kissed him once as a thank you. The second kiss was all for her.
While Anne and Chief Blackbear lingered in the moonlight, CC was in a group of history professors from Vanderbilt who were discussing Andrew Jackson’s policy on tobacco reform. “You know, Andrew Jackson was one of the first to introduce a natural tobacco pesticide to fight aphids,” CC broke into their conversation. “He learned the recipe from the Cherokee Indians who used it for their corn crops. It transferred quite nicely to tobacco crops. The Cherokee called it kaola. It was a mixture of burnt chestnut tree bark, tickseed leaves, and sage. I forget the rest, but I can send you the recipe if you’re interested. I’ve actually made it for my garden back home in Glen Ellyn, Illinois. I make a paste that I mix with three to one fertilizer. Then I bury it deep in the roots of my tomato plants and other herbs in early spring. It works quite well.”
