by Vicki Vass
Mr. Ripley hurried over to greet Betsy, one of his best customers. He did his European hand kiss that he apparently reserved for very special clients, CC thought. Betsy had brought her entourage, or as she referred to them, “the ladies.” Supposedly they were a book club, but there was little reading involved.
Anne had not seen them yet. She was arguing with a customer over a Lalique vase in the sitting room. All of a sudden, the vase crashed to the floor when Anne spotted Buttersworth. All eyes turned to look at Anne. CC could see the letters “NFS” forming on Anne’s lips but it was too late. Betsy was holding the silver Tiffany pine-needle-pattern letter holder and its accompanying inkwell.
Betsy handed it to one of Mr. Ripley’s assistants and continued onto the Majolica umbrella stand. “This would be perfect in the lake house,” she chortled to her gang.
The Betsy clones all nodded in unison. Anne was terrified. She’d thought she’d put a sticker on it. She ran over. “Oh, Buttersworth, thank you for coming.” Anne wrapped her arms around the umbrella stand.
“Hillstrom, so sorry for your loss,” Betsy said. “Your aunt had very good taste.”
Anne held onto the umbrella stand with a vice-like grip. “Yes, she did. Very good taste. The NFS sticker must have fallen off the umbrella stand. I’ll get another one.”
“Don’t bother. I’ve already told Mr. Ripley I’m taking it,” Betsy said.
Anne was at a loss for words. She couldn’t go against estate sale protocol. She released her grip, still smiling and backed away slowly. But not without removing the gold-handled canes from the umbrella stand, clutching them tightly to her chest. “These don’t come with the umbrella stand.”
Betsy reneged on this battle, but her onslaught continued as she walked through the house and pointed at items. Mr. Ripley’s assistant stuck sold stickers on them. It was like Sherman marching through Atlanta to the sea. CC covered Anne’s eyes and took her to the backyard. “You don’t need to see this. Remember, all the proceeds are going to the museum. It was Sybil’s wish.”
“Yes, I know.” Anne cleared her eyes, took a deep breath and nodded. “I’m okay. Sybil left me her most precious possessions. I’ve got all the family photos and the family bible. Those are really the most important things, right? Right, CC?”
“Yes, it is,” CC reassured her.
Mr. Ripley showed the last customer out at 4:15 p.m. and closed the door behind him. His assistants scurried around, making notes about items that were to be shipped or picked up later. Mr. Ripley counted the receipts for the day. He motioned for Anne to come to him. “I don’t have a complete tally yet, but from what we sold today and from what buyers I have lined up for the piano and larger items, I estimate about $350,000. Of course, that’s after my twenty-five percent commission,” he said. “And, if you’d consider letting other items go, we could potentially make closer to $500,000.”
The numbers filtered through Anne’s head. She wasn’t concerned about the money so much, but rather preserving the precious memories. Except for Buttersworth, Anne knew in her heart that the items had gone to good, loving homes. She had interviewed each recipient carefully.
Chapter Nine
CC sat down at her computer and went to her blog site. “Dear Friends, today Anne and I attended the estate sale of Anne’s Great-Aunt Sybil,” she wrote. “As you may have read in my previous blog post, Sybil was killed by a burglar who ransacked her house. We thank you for all your condolences and comments. We appreciate the flowers that were sent to the wake. It was very generous. We feel that you are all part of our extended family.
“At today’s sale, Anne found it difficult to part with many of her aunt’s treasures. She decided to add certain pieces to her own collection.” CC uploaded photos of the nesting dolls, the statue and the Tissot catalog drawings. “Anne was very careful to make sure that every item went to a good home. Thankfully, Sybil’s most precious possessions––the Hillstrom heirloom Viking swords and jewelry––were already on loan to the Field Museum. As per Sybil’s request, those items are now part of the museum’s permanent collection. If you have the opportunity, you should go visit the museum and stop by the Hillstrom exhibit. There are some beautiful gold and precious stone bracelets and rings.” CC continued to expound on Sybil’s collection, occasionally reaching down to pet Bandit who was sleeping on her feet.
Before going to bed, CC checked her blog and saw one new comment. “Anne and CC, so sorry about Aunt Sybil. Our prayers are with you. I wanted to share that when I was at the Elkhorn flea market, I saw a vendor selling some Viking jewelry. I don’t know enough about this kind of jewelry to say if it was real or not, but he was asking a lot of money for it. It’s the first time I’ve seen this kind of jewelry for sale at this market. Your friend, Pam.”
CC googled Elkhorn flea market and saw that it was open this Sunday, tomorrow. She texted Anne all the details.
Chapter Ten
It was 5 a.m., much too early to be awake on a Sunday morning. But if there was a chance to find some of Aunt Sybil’s lost, stolen jewelry, it was worth sacrificing her sleep. Plus, after all, it was a flea market. Anne’s life was spent searching for new places to shop. The monthly antique market opened at 7 a.m., and Elkhorn, Wisconsin, was at least a 90-minute drive so they had to get moving.
Anne waited impatiently for CC to arrive, upset that CC had to stop at Starbuck’s on the way to her house. There would be plenty of time for coffee later. CC pulled up, sipping her Grande Americano. “I want to beat traffic,” she called out from the open driver’s window.
Traffic, Anne thought, as she settled into the passenger seat. Who else would be crazy enough to be out at this hour? They took the highway until it ended at Lake Cook Road and then meandered along Route 12; nothing was open and no one was on the road.
“Oh, did I tell you? CC, it was fantastic! Last weekend when I went to my Aunt Sharon’s fortieth wedding anniversary, I brought along the dress I’d worn as a flower girl. My mom had it specially made from this Irish linen fabric. We hung the dress up for everyone to see, and they were so impressed with the quality.”
“I like that old picture of you that you emailed to me, wearing the dress as a flower girl. It looked great,” CC said, keeping her eyes on the road.
“I brought out the Hillstrom bible too. I found it when Suzanne and I were clearing out Sybil’s house,” Anne said.
“How is Suzanne?”
“She looked beautiful. Jack was drunk.” Anne paused for a moment. “It was nice going through the family history with everyone at the party. A lot of my cousins didn’t know anything about our heritage or our ancestors,” Anne said. “According to some of the earlier entries, the Hillstroms date back to the ninth century Vikings.”
“That’s really interesting. You know, Anne, the word Viking originates from the Old Norse and literally translated means expedition overseas,” CC said.
“Yes, I knew that, CC, very interesting,” Anne replied, digging through her purse for a mint.
“Did I tell you? Dannie is pregnant again.” CC changed the subject, talking about her stepdaughter, Dannie.
“Oooh, babies! That’s so exciting. When is she due?”
“Sometime in the fall,” CC replied.
They continued to exchange news during the remainder of the drive to Elkhorn. Upon arriving in the city, they made a brief pit stop at a gas station. Once back in the car and on the main street, they arrived at the entrance to the fairgrounds’ parking lot where a policeman was directing traffic. They followed his directions and parked. The lot was already packed with cars and people were waiting eagerly in line by the front gate. Many were wheeling carts, wagons and baskets. Although the weatherman had predicted temperatures in the upper 80s, the morning air was cool and overcast. After they parked, Anne slathered her milky white skin with SPF 45. That and her blonde hair were gifts from her Viking ancestors.
They took their place in line, Anne waiting impatiently. “C’mon, we’re al
l here. Why can’t they just let us in?”
“Because it’s not seven yet,” CC said, spraying herself liberally with suntan lotion.
Anne flipped open her phone and looked at the time. “It’s 6:58; close enough.”
“Really?” CC asked. “You’re going to start the day like this?”
The line started moving forward and finally they went through the gate. Despite the cool chill, Anne felt sticky, especially when the sun peeked through the clouds. She was excited about the possibilities of what she might find. The fairgrounds resembled a Turkish bazaar with rows of long tables, some covered by canopies, with vendors selling goods out of the back of their vans.
They walked to the first booth, Anne inspecting every piece. She’d brought her magnifying loupe for close examination. She picked up an early Limoges gravy boat. It was $42 too much, she thought, putting it back down.
CC wandered along, looking at industrial merchandise like old tools, beat-up storage lockers, farm implements and finally honing in on an old miniature lead airplane. She just had to have it. She bartered with the man, settling on a price. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Anne frantically waving at her. CC walked over to where Anne was almost jumping up and down. No small feat.
“Look at this French provincial cabinet. Isn’t it gorgeous? It would look fantastic in your living room,” Anne said, pointing at a large gold gilt cabinet with a glass front.
CC walked all around the piece, inspecting every inch of both its exterior and its interior. “I’m not looking for any furniture,” she told Anne.
“You have to have it. Look at the price. It’s a bargain,” Anne argued.
CC studied it. It was an extremely handsome piece. She hesitated.
“Sit down.” Anne pulled her over to a nearby bench. “Just sit here and look at it,” she said.
CC sat down next to her. The two sat and stared at the cabinet, admiring its curved legs, ornately painted front and the overall craftsmanship. “Try to convince me that you can live without it,” Anne said. Anne had a way of wearing CC’s resistance down. It’s not that CC didn’t appreciate the piece and that she didn’t want it. She just didn’t need it. Her German sensibility often kept her from making impulse decisions, whereas Anne lived by them.
“I do like it, and it would look nice in my living room,” CC said.
The old grizzly-haired gentleman who ran the booth walked over to them. “What do you think? I’ve seen you staring at this cabinet? It’s a great cabinet. I can make you a great deal.”
“Problem is, I have no way of getting it back to my house,” CC said, touching the cabinet with her fingers.
“For a small fee, I can deliver it for you,” he said.
“We’ll take it,” Anne exclaimed, jumping up.
They settled on a price, exchanged information and then went on to the next booth. Anne stopped to admire an early 20th century oak fireplace mantel. It was just what she’d been looking for to replace the one in her living room. Even though she hadn’t measured the space, she just knew it would fit.
While transfixed by the fireplace mantel, she saw a lady pick up a Roseville magnolia vase. It was priced way too high, she thought. “That’s not real,” she whispered over the lady’s shoulder.
The woman turned and looked at her, “How do you know?”
“If it was a real Roseville, the magnolias would be better defined. This glaze is too rough. An authentic Roseville has a slight shine to the glaze and the detail is more precisely painted. Turn it over and look at the lettering. On a real Roseville the s will slant slightly to the right; see this one is straight up and down,” Anne said, pleased with herself for passing along valuable information. She always liked to share her knowledge with a fellow enthusiast.
“Thank you,” the woman said, putting the vase back down and walking away.
While Anne was pondering various items, CC spotted a bright blue decorated ceramic tile in a neighboring booth. She wandered over to take a closer look. “Pewabic pottery, $35,” she read. She got excited. Founded in Detroit in 1903, Pewabic pottery was very collectible and growing in value. If this was authentic, she could make a profit right here, right now, reselling it on eBay.
She pulled out her iPhone and went to the eBay app. Similar tiles were selling for hundreds. Pulling out her reading glasses, she turned the tile onto its back so she could take a closer look at the mark. The copyright mark was 1997. She put it back disappointed. Earlier work by the company was highly sought after; the more recent pieces, while still collectible, were not as valuable.
CC continued to the next booth in search of a find.
Anne continued her hunt, picking up a little trinket here and there, a depression glass bottle stopper, a hand-woven towel, a postcard of Erte art and the piece de resistance––a small pair of scissors in the shape of an ostrich. Somehow, she’d misplaced CC. She scanned the growing crowd but could not see her friend. She did smell popcorn, however. Maybe it was time for a snack. While paying for her popcorn, CC walked over to her, carrying a large pine spice box. “Isn’t this awesome?” she asked.
“That’s fantastic,” Anne replied, a mouth full of kettle corn.
“I’m going to use it for my art supplies,” CC said, admiring the clean lines of the box.
“Are you ready to go? I’m so hot,” Anne said.
“Aren’t you enjoying yourself?” CC asked, stopping to peruse a display of watch parts. “I think we’ve been to every booth, and I haven’t seen anything that even resembles Viking jewelry.”
Out of the corner of her eye, Anne glimpsed some jewelry display cases lined up on a table in front of a white panel van. “CC, one quick look before we go.” Munching on her popcorn, she strolled over to the table. It was a mishmash of vintage jewelry with some cheap Avon pieces and some slightly better silver tossed in.
“Do you see anything you like? I can work with you,” the man from behind the table said, getting up from his lawn chair.
“That’s okay,” Anne said, turning away.
“Wait; I just got some new stuff in.” The man went into the van and pulled out a shoebox. He set it down on the table in front of Anne who out of politeness picked through the rings and bracelets. Most were silver or brass. She came across a gold band which stood out from amongst the rest. Anne held it up to admire it in the sunlight.
“You have a good eye. That’s a really good piece. It’s solid gold,” he said.
Anne pulled her jeweler’s loupe out of her large orange Prada bag to examine the crudely hammered metal. She peered closely inside the band and noticed what looked like the Hillstrom crest. This could be one of the Hillstrom Viking rings that had been passed down to Sybil; Anne was sure of it. “This looks really old. Where did you get this?”
“I buy from a lot of different dealers in Chicago.”
“This particular ring. Where’d you get this one?”
He stammered, “I don’t remember exactly.” His eyes shifted around the perimeter. He took the ring back and put it away. “If you’re not going to buy something, I need you to make room for other people.”
“I’m interested. How much do you want?” Anne pulled the ring back from the box.
“I think the gold alone is worth $300,” he said.
Anne reached into her purse and pulled out three one hundred dollar bills. “I’ll give you two hundred for the ring and a hundred more if you tell me where you got it. I collect old rings, and I’d really like to see more of this type.”
“I get a lot of gold bands. I believe this one came from a pawnshop at Western and Division in Chicago. It’s called Metro Sales.” He scratched his head.
Anne handed him the money and slipped the ring into her purse. “Now, I’m ready to go,” Anne said, turning back to CC who had watched the whole scene in disbelief.
“I’m surprised you didn’t try to talk him down,” CC said as they walked out the flea market entrance.
Anne’s feet were sore after wa
lking around the flea market for four and a half hours. It was now 11:30 a.m. and the sun was heating up. It must be at least 90 degrees, she thought. She could feel the sun hitting the back of her neck and was glad to be heading home. Maybe she could take an afternoon nap or run to Goodwill. She’d have to wait until Monday to visit the pawn store.
Chapter Eleven
After dropping Anne off, CC headed home. She walked Bandit around the block. The dog wasn’t really good in the heat but needed the exercise. When they came back, she poured herself a glass of wine and sat in front of her computer. She uploaded the pictures she’d taken at the flea market from her iPhone.
She started typing, “Dear Friends, Anne and I had a pretty successful day at the Wisconsin flea market. It was our first time venturing north. It was a mixture of some very nice antiques, but a lot of junk. Like with everything, you have to pick and choose. I’ve posted some pictures of some of the items we found. We had a delightful lunch at a little pancake house along Route 12. I also posted pictures of the omelet I had with a side of homemade blueberry pancakes. Yum Yum. Anne was very helpful with helping me find this lovely French provincial cabinet for my living room. She also saved a woman from buying a fake Roseville vase. Once again, it’s very important to know what you’re buying before you buy it.” CC sat back, gulped her wine and pondered the day’s events. She then went back to typing, “The important thing as always is not so much what I found as who I found it with. The best find is an old friend.”
As she stopped for another sip of wine, she noticed a comment from a reader. “Dear Friend, my name is Ida. I live in New Buffalo, Michigan. One of my girlfriends from Bingo told me about your blog, and I’m so glad she did. I’ve really enjoyed reading about you and Anne and your adventures. I feel like I know you both. Because of you, I was inspired to buy something that I’ve always wanted. When I was a little girl, my mother gave me a Steiff bear. We didn’t have a lot of money, and they really couldn’t afford it. It meant so much for her to give it to me. Somewhere over the fifty years that passed, I lost that bear. My daughter is having my first grandchild now. As you might imagine, we are all very excited and I feel very blessed. I wanted to have a special gift for her, so I bought an antique Steiff bear that looks similar to the one I had when I was a little girl. It cost me most of my savings but it’s worth every penny to pass this tradition on to my grandchild. I’ve attached a picture of it. I wanted to thank you so much for inspiring me. Your friend, Ida from New Buffalo, Michigan.”
