by Vicki Vass
“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.”
Chapter Six
Anne drove down Green Bay Road on the way to Great-Aunt Sybil’s house. Anne was the only one she would tolerate.
She passed Walker Brothers’ Pancake House and saw the long line outside the door. She fought the urge to stop for some of their fresh Lingon berry pancakes. Lingon berries reminded her of her childhood, and she could taste the sticky sweetness.
She counted the carbs in her head and admitted to herself that pancakes wouldn’t be a good choice for her diet. Fighting the urge, she continued on. As she drove, a whirling dervish of upscale coffee houses, exotic car dealerships and middle-aged bottle blonde women wearing crisp white tennis skirts flew past her, making her a little dizzy. All these North Shore towns and the people who lived in them shared the same pretentious façade.
Arriving at the five-way intersection in downtown Glencoe, she struggled to remember which way to go.
Anne chose a tree-lined side street. The multi-million dollar homes were hidden behind manicured hedges. Seeing a gnome resting against a mailbox, she stopped the car. Lilac bushes that lined both sides of the long driveway were just starting to bud, releasing subtle whiffs of sweet perfume. Anne stepped out of her car, careful to avoid hitting the concrete lion on the edge of the driveway. The lawn was overgrown and weeds were sprouting everywhere. A spiny sow thistle twisted its way through a rusty wagon that Anne had played with as a child. The planters inside the wagon were bare. It wasn’t like Sybil to excuse an empty flower pot. Sybil just probably never had had a chance to fill them. An early spring breeze lofting off Lake Michigan spun the wooden windmill, making a slow clacking noise like a reluctant clog dancer. Anne felt uneasy as she climbed up the front stairs of the hundred-year-old farmhouse. Two white wicker Victorian rocking chairs furnished the long, welcoming porch. Anne remembered sitting here on rainy days listening to Sybil tell tales of the North Woods while sipping Swedish Soderblandining tea. She stepped carefully as one of the floor boards sagged beneath her weight. The railing was loose, and it wobbled. This was not the house that Sybil had kept.
The leaded glass window on the chestnut door was boarded over with a piece of plywood. Even though the police had finished with the house, Anne couldn’t bring herself to go inside. She sat down on one of the wicker rockers and waited for her cousin Suzanne.
Anne heard the squeal of car tires and a moment later, Suzanne was running up the walkway. “Sorry, I’m late,” Suzanne said breathlessly. She was wearing dark sunglasses and a Minnesota Twins baseball cap.
Not the typical way that Anne remembered her cousin dressing.
Anne jumped up, met her cousin halfway down the stairs and gave her a big hug. “Thanks so much for coming. I really didn’t want to go back inside by myself.”
“I understand. I still can’t believe you found her like that,” Suzanne said. “Have the police found out anything?”
“There’s been no update. I’ve been calling them. No one’s gotten back to me.”
“This is such a good, safe neighborhood. You don’t expect anything like this to happen on the North Shore,” Suzanne said.
Anne didn’t answer.
Arm in arm, they walked into the house, cautiously stepping over the broken glass. “I’ll get a broom,” Suzanne said, walking toward the kitchen.
The Majolica umbrella stand lay on its side. Anne placed it upright, checking its rim to make sure it hadn’t chipped. Its cobalt blue glaze appeared intact as were the yellow water lilies decorating its rim. She returned the collection of gold-handled walking sticks.
After cleaning the living and entry rooms, they went into Sybil’s office where they encountered piles and piles of papers. Anne and Suzanne sorted through them, separating them into bills, old financial records and personal papers. Amidst the papers were scrapbooks and family photos, which they put into a large cardboard box.
The whole time they were looking at the papers, Suzanne kept her sunglasses on. “What’s with the sunglasses?” Anne asked.
“I’m looking at doing Lasik and I had some testing. My eyes are sensitive to light because of the drops,” Suzanne replied.
Anne shrugged it off and continued.
“I don’t think we’re going to finish the house today.” Suzanne stood in the center of the room, holding empty cardboard banker boxes.
“I appreciate your helping me,” Anne said, squatting down to fill the boxes. “I need to get all this done before the estate sale. I didn’t want to be alone in the house.”
Suzanne shivered and set a box down next to Anne. “It does feel creepy, doesn’t it?”
Anne nodded. “Jack doesn’t mind watching the kids?”
“He doesn’t have the kids. They’re with his parents.” Suzanne sat down next to Anne. “Jack dropped me here and then went to meet some old friends at a bar in Chicago.”
“Really?” Anne asked, sorting through a handful of papers and uncovering a stack of old black and white photos. “Look at all these pictures,” Anne said.
“The pictures are nice, but I don’t understand why she’s leaving all her valuables to the Field Museum,” Suzanne said.
Sybil had been a long-time patron of the Field Museum, sponsoring many exhibits. Her collection of Viking swords and jewelry were now part of its permanent collection. She had left the family memorabilia, which was priceless in both monetary and sentimental value.
“Obviously she felt they would
benefit the most. Let’s face it: none of us have really been around in a while,” Anne said.
“She was kind of hard to be around. She wasn’t really nice the past few years,” Suzanne replied.
“I lived closer to her than any of the rest of the family, and I rarely made it up here. I was busy with my life and I forgot about hers.”
Under a stack of papers, Anne found the family bible encased in reindeer skin. Inside it was the history of the Hillstrom family. Her eyes watered as she thought about the day not long ago when she came to the house for this bible and found Great-Aunt Sybil dead.
Anne held the wedding photo of Grandpa Booty and Grandma Lillian Hillstrom, Sybil’s parents. Stan Hillstrom, or “Booty” as everyone knew him because he always wore heavy work boots, was the first of the Hillstroms to come to America. He worked as a bricklayer, saving his money to bring his wife and seven daughters to America.
Sybil often spoke of her father while she and Anne sat on her front porch. To Anne, he was a mythical figure, a new age Viking. She loved hearing stories about him. She held his picture, waiting for it to come alive, waiting for one of his smiling eyes to wink back at her.
“I don’t think Sybil was in her right mind. She had gotten really forgetful, and Jack thinks she was crazy.” Suzanne paused. “And a lot of the family think we should talk to an attorney about contesting the will.”
“Like who?”
“Everyone. They’ve been calling us.”
“No one’s called me.” Anne put the photo of Booty down. “How is Jack anyway? Has he found work yet?” Sybil wasn’t the only one who hadn’t liked Jack. He was a Jack-of-all-trades, master of none. Anne had hired him to do some handyman work around her bungalow. He’d charged her by the day and got very little done after his two-hour liquid lunches. His workmanship was worse than sloppy; it was criminal. Anne had to have everything he fixed, refixed after Suzanne and Jack moved to Minnesota to live with Jack’s parents.
