Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery

by Vicki Vass

  “Jack is fine. He’s doing odd jobs here and there. With the economy the way it is, people can’t afford custom renovations,” Suzanne said.

  Lucky for them, Anne thought to herself. “And the kids?” she asked.

  “Kids are fine. They’re in school,” Suzanne said. “Jack and I were talking on the way here. You know we’ve been at his parent’s house for a couple years now. We’d love to move back to Chicago. I could spend more time with you, and there are more opportunities for Jack here. We were thinking since the house is paid for, maybe we could make an offer to the family instead of selling it through an agent.”

  “How much were you thinking?” Anne asked.

  “Whatever the family thought would be fair. We’d subtract our inheritance portion.”

  Anne breathed deeply and sighed. Family or no family––she had to ensure that Sybil’s wishes were honored. “There is no inheritance. Everything is going to the Field Museum.”

  “If we can work things out with the attorney, maybe Jack and I could get the house and the rest of the family could split the furniture and antiques. Of course, we’d want to make some kind of donation to the Field Museum. But to just give away our family inheritance is crazy,” Suzanne said.

  Anne put the pictures carefully into the moving box, not wanting to respond to Suzanne. She counted to ten in her head. She turned to Suzanne. “Are you going to want any of these photos?”

  “Gosh, no, you can have them all.” Suzanne waved her off.

  A horn blasted from the end of the driveway. Suzanne jumped up off the floor. “That must be Jack. We’re staying at the Motel 6 in Evanston if you need to reach me.” She hugged Anne. “Listen, Anne, I know you were closer to Sybil than the rest of us but I think the fair thing to do is to split everything up among the cousins.” The horn blasted again. Suzanne glanced nervously toward the sound. “I’ve got to go. Jack doesn’t like to wait. We’ll see you tonight at Aunt Sharon’s party.”

  Anne kissed her cousin goodbye and watched Suzanne run out the door and down the path to the waiting Jack in the gray Dodge Ram. As the couple drove off, Anne wondered if that’s why Suzanne was wearing sunglasses, because Jack didn’t like to wait.

  Anne went back into the house to finish sorting through Sybil’s massive paper files. She was covered in dust and cobwebs. Sybil had always been particular about keeping her house in perfect condition. Everyone took their shoes off at the front door, coasters under every drink. Maybe Suzanne was right. Maybe Sybil had gotten worse since Anne had seen her last. Either way, it didn’t matter now. Anne went to the car and got a bucket, cleaning supplies, rubber gloves and a mop. She wanted to ready the house for the estate sale. Even more so, she didn’t want any of the relatives seeing it in this condition.

  A silver Bentley pulled into the driveway. Anne saw Mr. Ripley get out. “Miss Hillstrom,” he said, walking up to her. He took both her hands in his. “Once again, I’m so sorry about your aunt, and I’m sorry I missed her service. I was on a buying trip that couldn’t be rescheduled.”

  Noticing his elegant appearance, Anne looked down at her grimy clothes and wiped the cobwebs off her hair and some of the dirt smudged on her nose. “Thank you. The flowers you sent were beautiful,” she said. “Thanks for meeting me here. Please come in.”

  Mr. Ripley followed Anne over the threshold. “You don’t have to clean. My crew will handle that when they prepare the house for the sale.”

  “I wanted to sort through her private papers and family photos to make sure they stay in the family,” Anne said, setting the bucket down in the hall.

  “Of course, Anne. Any items you don’t want to be sold, we will mark NFS. Make sure you tell me before the sale.” Mr. Ripley looked around. Anne had removed the broken glass and tattered remains that the burglars had left behind. There were still many good antiques left.

  Mr. Ripley studied the series of James Tissot framed catalog paintings hanging in the living room. Not as well known as Monet or Degas, Tissot had made a living illustrating women’s clothing catalogs in the late 1800s. “The burglars must not have known the value of these Tissots. We’ll get you a very good price on those,” he said.

  Anne stared over his shoulder, admiring the way the impressionist had captured the fashions of the Victorian ladies. His skill was evident in the way he depicted his models in their tableaux. It would be a shame to part with them. “I was actually thinking of maybe keeping those,” she said.

  Mr. Ripley turned and smiled at her. He strolled into the parlor and sat at the grand Steinway that filled the space. He played a Schubert piece, its lilting sound resounding throughout the room. “Your great-aunt loved Schubert,” he said over his shoulder just a whisper louder than the beautiful chiming of the ancient piano.

  Once again, Anne wondered if she could fit the piano into her house but the math escaped her. She might have to settle for the paintings.

  Mr. Ripley stopped playing and turned around on the bench to face Anne. “I found this piano for your aunt in a small village in France called Saint-Anton-Noble-Val. I was on holiday there, sitting at an outdoor café having a delicious beef bourguignon. I heard this ethereal music drifting over the hill into the town. I followed the music to this small chateau. The man playing was a music teacher from Paris. He was living out his retirement in his family home where the piano had been for over a hundred years. He welcomed me in, and I sat and listened to him play until the sun came up. I had to have the piano. He saw how much it meant to me and being the good heart he was, he couldn’t refuse me. Playing it again brings back such wonderful memories.”

  Listening intently, Anne felt herself sitting in that café and enjoying her crêpes. “Mmm, crêpes.”

  Mr. Ripley stood up. He cupped his hands behind his back as he strolled around the house, examining various items. He gave her his most charming smile and filled her ears with stories of how he came to find the items for Sybil. An old English pitcher, an Italian tapestry, a Spanish paella dish. Anne longed to accompany him on a buying trip.

  When they were back in the entryway, Mr. Ripley paused and nodded. “I think this shall be a very good sale. We’ll make sure each piece is given a good home. Your aunt would have wanted it that way,” he said. “The Viking swords and jewelry will bring the most money. I have some buyers in mind already. I didn’t see them today. I trust you have them put away for safekeeping.”

  “You know they’re on loan to the Field Museum,” Anne said.

  “I was surprised that your aunt would have let them out of her sight. They are beautiful family pieces worth a fortune.”

  “I talked to her attorney and according to her will, she’s leaving them to the Field Museum for their permanent collection.”

  Mr. Ripley’s charming smile vanished. “This is very bad news. I’m upset for you. You could have made a lot of money from those. What about the brooch? That’s the star of the collection.”

  “Sybil requested that it be buried with her.”

  Mr. Ripley’s vanished smile was really gone now and not coming back. The two stood for a moment in silence. “We will make do with what we have,” he said with a polished European air. “I will contact you with the final date. Is it OK if my team comes in this week to start cataloging?”

  “Of course,” Anne said, handing him a spare set of keys.

  Mr. Ripley took Anne’s hand in his. He gave her his most charming smile and said, “I’ll be in touch.”

  Anne closed the door behind him to finish her cleaning.

  Chapter Seven

  Anne was running late as always. It was something she meant to work on. CC was constantly reprimanding her about her time management skills. Yes, she had many issues or as CC called them Anne-syncrasies. Nevertheless, she was looking forward to seeing Aunt Sharon and Uncle Dick. It was their fortieth wedding anniversary. She wished that Sybil could have been there. Sybil always liked parties, even family parties.

  Anne pulled up into the driveway at Allgauer�
�s in the Northbrook Hilton and waited for the valet. Two cars in front of her was the gray Dodge pickup. Through the back window, she could see Suzanne and Jack arguing. They were facing each other, waving their animated hands like a silent puppet show. Anne wasn’t surprised to see them fighting again. Jack jumped out of the truck, slamming the door behind him. Suzanne sat with her face in her hands, her shoulders shaking like she was sobbing. Anne wanted to go over and console Suzanne but she didn’t want to embarrass her. Over the past ten years, Suzanne had changed. All the life seemed to have gone out of her. Life had beaten her down, and, Anne was afraid, life wasn’t the only one doing the beating.

  Anne waited until Suzanne went inside and then got out of the car, handing her keys to the valet. She’d lost another two pounds on her low-carb diet and she was feeling good about the way she looked. She was wearing her brand-new purple satin dress with her vintage amethyst brooch.

  All the Hillstroms were clustered at the bar. Not too surprising, Anne thought. Nodding at a few relatives, she walked to the bar and ordered a diet coke with lemon. She watched as Suzanne came out of the ladies’ room, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. She saw Anne and put a smile on her face. Suzanne came over and sat down on the bar stool next to Anne.

  “This is the most Hillstroms I’ve seen in one place since my wedding,” Suzanne said.

  “Yes. An open bar at both events.” Anne raised her glass of Coke. Down the bar, an already drunk Hillstrom lifted his glass back, shouting, “Skol.” Other relatives echoed his toast, raising their glasses.

  Suzanne’s husband, Jack, sat by himself at a table with a half-empty bottle of Absolut. Wearing a Minnesota Vikings jersey, Anne thought he was dressed inappropriately for such an important occasion. In contrast, Suzanne was dressed elegantly in a black silk dress with matching heels and Aunt Sybil’s rhinestone jewelry. Sybil had bestowed it on Suzanne for her wedding.

  The Hillstrom clan filed into the banquet hall, which was stuffed with twelve tables, each with ten chairs. Large red and yellow parrot tulips held the center at each table along with a forty-year-old wedding picture of Dick and Sharon Hillstrom. An accordion player, or as most Hillstroms called him, “Uncle Ernie,” strolled from table to table, playing Swedish folk songs.

  Speaking loudly over the accordion music, Anne said to Suzanne, “After you left, I found something I think that Sybil would want you to have for the kids. I have it out in my car. Maybe after the party, you can take it.” As she spoke, Anne put her hand on Suzanne’s forearm.

  Suzanne quickly retracted it with a wince.

  “What’s wrong?” Anne asked.

  “Nothing, just my carpal tunnel has been acting up.”

  For the first time, Anne noticed a wrist brace peeking out from under Suzanne’s cardigan. “I’m so sorry. I’ve heard that’s really painful.”

  The microphone squealed. Uncle Dick tapped on it. “Hello. Is this working? Hello? I want to thank everyone for coming out for our anniversary party. Some of you were at the wedding forty years ago and some of you weren’t.”

  It was apparent to Anne that Uncle Dick had imbibed a little too freely. “Before we start the party, I want to raise a glass to my beautiful bride.” Aunt Sharon stood next to Uncle Dick. He put his arm around her waist. They looked like a couple of Hummels, round with rosy noses and cheeks. “Here’s to our first forty years together; may the next forty be as full of love and adventure. Skol!” He raised his glass.

  The whole room echoed, “Skol!” And then they attacked the family smorgasbord, heaped with Swedish meatballs, potato dumplings and pickled herring. A carving station held trays of roast beef and turkey. The dancing, the feasting and the drinking continued long into the night. Sharon and Dick danced to their wedding song, “When I Fall in Love.” As they were dancing, Uncle Dick grabbed the microphone and sang along with Nat King Cole, half in English and half in Swedish.

  Anne and Suzanne wandered out to the car so Anne could give her the rocking horse she’d found. The bright red horse had been ridden hard by generations of Hillstroms. “I remember that rocking horse,” Suzanne said. “We had to be, what? Four? Or five?”

  Anne just smiled.

  “The kids will. . .”

  “There you are,” Jack interrupted them. “Let’s go.” He grabbed Suzanne’s arm. She moaned.

  “Listen,” Anne said to him, “I don’t think you’re in any shape to drive. I haven’t been drinking. I’d be glad to drive you two back to your hotel.” She stepped in between them.

  Jack laughed and guzzled out of the bottle in his hand. “I’m fine to drive,” he slurred his words. He grabbed Suzanne’s arm again, intentionally knowing it would hurt. Suzanne pulled away and stood by Anne. Jack put the bottle down this time. “So that’s how it is, is it? You know she’s the one causing all the problems, Suzanne. Your cousin there. She wants to keep all the old lady’s money for herself, doesn’t she?”

  “Jack, stop it. You’re drunk. You don’t know what you’re saying,” Suzanne said.

  “The hell I don’t. That old lady owed me. I fixed her porch and she never paid me.”

  “When did you fix her porch?” Anne asked.

  “We’re going now.” He grabbed Suzanne, who was clutching the rocking horse. Jack grabbed the horse and smashed it to the ground. He pulled Suzanne toward their pickup.

  Anne was terrified when she saw Suzanne turn around and look over her shoulder. Her eyes were empty. Whatever fight she’d once had in her was long gone.

  Chapter Eight

  Anne and CC arrived early at Sybil’s house. Mr. Ripley was just pushing the yellow estate sale sign into the lawn. “Good morning, ladies,” he nodded at them.

  “We came to help,” Anne said as they got out of the car. CC was carrying a cooler with sandwiches and drinks prepared for a long day and carrying the Rolleiflex 3.5F.

  Mr. Ripley stopped her to admire the camera. “An early 1950s Rolleiflex. That’s quite a nice camera. Where’d you find that?”

  “Actually, it was at one of your sales. The Whitmore sale,” CC said.

  “Very nice.” Mr. Ripley handed it back to CC with a smile.

  “Do you need us to help set up anywhere?” Anne asked him.

  “No, my staff has everything under control,” Mr. Ripley said.

  “We’ll just look around then,” Anne said.

  “Is Suzanne coming later?” CC asked Anne as they walked into the house.

  “She called me last night. They went back to Minnesota. She said something about one of the girls being sick,” Anne said.

  “That’s too bad. I was looking forward to seeing her again. How are things with her and Jack?” CC asked, already knowing the answer.

  “I think they’ve gotten worse. Jack’s drinking is out of control and I know he’s been taking it out on Suzanne. And there’s something else, CC.”

  CC stared at her.

  “Jack did some work on Aunt Sybil’s house a couple weeks before she was murdered.”

  “What are you trying to say?”

  “I’m not saying anything. Sybil never liked or trusted Jack. I’m sure she let Jack do the work to help Suzanne. Wait!” Anne called out to one of the workers who was setting up a table with her aunt’s collection of Russian nesting dolls. The young employee halted in his tracks. “I was planning on keeping that one.” Anne grabbed the four-piece set depicting the “Snow Queen” fairy tale.

  CC followed in Anne’s tracks, holding the items that Anne was gathering from the various rooms. “Anne, I thought you went through the house already.”

  “I couldn’t see everything. There was so much scattered around.” Anne walked over to a 1928 Max LeVerrier life-size statue light. The nude female holding a round illuminated ball symbolized the goddess of light. “NFS!” she called out urgently.

  CC walked over. “Is this an original Clarte?”

  “Yes, this was here when I was a child. Sybil spent a month in Europe and brought it home with her. It’s a b
eautiful representation of art deco, isn’t it?” Anne looked around. “NFS, right now, NFS!”

  CC saw that Anne was losing control. She was breathing heavily, a sure sign that she would start hyperventilating at any minute. CC took her by the hand and dragged her into the bathroom which had its original white subway tile and porcelain lion-pawed bathtub.

  A quick glance around and CC understood Anne’s frustration. Sybil had so many beautiful antiques. It was hard to give any of them up––especially for Anne. “You can’t keep everything,” CC said. “Take a deep breath.”

  Anne took deep breaths. “CC, look, I can get another storage unit. They’re not that much. I can make it work. Maybe two units.”

  CC smiled and gave her friend a hug. Over her shoulder, Anne caught the glint of an original Tiffany tulip vase. “NFS!” she called out. “NFS, NFS!” She pointed at the vase. CC saw a wild look in Anne’s eyes, like she’d jumped into the abyss. “Take a breath, Anne; we’ll work all this out, I promise.”

  Anne just shut her eyes and repeated, “NFS, NFS,” her new mantra. A tap on the door broke Anne’s meditation. “Ladies, is everything okay?” Mr. Ripley asked through the closed door.

  “Yes, Mr. Ripley, we’ll be right out. Everything’s fine,” replied CC.

  The bathroom door opened and the two women emerged, just as the front door swung open and people started filing into the house. Sipping her coffee, CC settled herself at a perch in the kitchen. Anne wandered behind customers, trying to talk them out of items, showcasing flaws and mismarkings with a gleeful enthusiasm. CC shook her head. For the most part, CC was proud of her friend. She had the key to the candy store, but she wasn’t eating all the candy.

  After many hours, the sale was winding down. CC thought Anne would make it, until Betsy Buttersworth walked in. CC had hoped, no, she’d prayed, that Buttersworth didn’t know about the sale. When she hadn’t seen Betsy first thing in the morning, she’d thought they had been lucky. It turned out they were not so lucky.