Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery

by Vicki Vass

  “Is that why you came to America?”

  “Oh, no. My father was killed in the line of duty when I was twelve. My mum’s sister married an American living in Chicago. As you might imagine, my mum had a pretty rough go of it after my dad died. We came here to live with them.” He paused. “What about you? Tell me about Anne Hillstrom.”

  Anne took another sip of her Oreo cookie shake. “Not much to tell. I was born in the Midwest and went to school. I became a research chemist at Ebbort Labs. I’ve been working there for 25 years now.”

  “Chemist. That must be fascinating work.”

  Anne looked up, wearing a bit of a Hitler Oreo shake moustache. “Not so much. Not so much.”

  Nigel motioned to his lip, hoping she’d catch the gentle reference.

  “I mostly test like pesticides, insecticides,” she continued. “A lot of compound chemicals.”

  “Does that make you happy?”

  Anne stopped gnawing on her French fry. It had been a while since someone had asked her that question. She couldn’t remember ever being asked that question. In fact, it had been many years since she’d asked herself that question. She wiped the shake off the top of her lip with her napkin. “It’s not what I started out wanting to do with my life.”

  “What did you want to do?”

  “Don’t laugh at me but when I was little I used to pretend I was Nancy Drew or Miss Marple in search of clues to solve mysteries. I always liked putting puzzles together.” She stopped and thought before continuing, “The only puzzles I solve now involve emulsions and chemical reactions. Not exactly the stuff dreams are made of.”

  “I’m sure you’re quite good at what you do,” Nigel said.

  “Thank you,” replied Anne.

  She cleared off the pile of napkins and their empty food on the table, disposing of it in the nearby garbage can. “Thanks for lunch. It was really good,” Anne said.

  Bumping his head on the umbrella, Towers struggled to get his praying mantis legs out from under the table. It made Anne laugh and the detective blushed. The awkward goodbye turned into a pleasant one.

  Chapter Eighteen

  CC was on deadline but she didn’t want to cancel her lunch interview with Martha. She wrapped up the story she was working on. She ran the few short blocks to Boston Blackie’s, a well-known Chicago hamburger joint. Scanning the lunchtime crowd, she recognized Martha, based on her description, sitting in a booth. CC gave her a quick wave and hurried over to the table, sitting down and catching her breath.

  “CC, thank you so much for meeting me,” Martha said, introducing herself.

  “Thanks for your interest in my blog.”

  Martha pulled out a reporter’s notebook. “Do you mind if I take notes?”

  “No, not at all.” CC shifted in her seat, suddenly feeling uncomfortable being on the opposite side of the notepad.

  “I wanted to find out about your blog. It’s called ‘From the Estate’?”

  “Yes, it’s about me and my friend, Anne; we travel around to estate sales and share our experiences with our readers.”

  “Anne?” Martha questioned.

  “Anne Hillstrom. We’ve been friends forever. Anne and I love treasure hunting.”

  “Tell me more about the treasure hunting.” Martha scribbled notes furiously.

  “When we were in college and didn’t have any money, we started going to flea markets, rummage sales and then learned about estate sales. We were quickly hooked.”

  “What is it about estate sales that you enjoy?”

  “For me, it’s the thrill of the hunt. You never know what you’re going to find, and I especially like handling antiques.”

  “What is it about old things?”

  “It’s really about the craftsmanship. The quality of the pieces. You don’t see that today because everything is machine made. The people who crafted these items took pride in their work. They started as apprentices and took years to hone their skills. These pieces were crafted by human hands, not a machine. It gives them a soul.” CC paused and thought. “It’s a way to go back in time. You’re touching history, and if you’re really lucky, you might find something so rare, even one of a kind, that might have been lost.”

  “What’s the most interesting thing you’ve found?”

  “That’s a really interesting question.” CC paused again. “Every item has its own personality. One that was dear to my heart reminded me of my father. We came to America from Germany when I was quite young, and I’ve been back to Germany several times. On one trip, I found a cuckoo clock in the village where my dad was born.” CC looked at her watch. “I have to get back to work.”

  “Thank you so much. I’d like to get some photos of you and Anne for the article. Would it be possible to take them at an estate sale?”

  “Sure; I’ll send the address of the next sale we’re going to go to.” After shaking hands, CC got up and headed back to work.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Anne dreaded Monday mornings, Tuesday mornings, and Wednesday mornings. Thursdays weren’t so bad; Fridays pretty good. She walked into the large multi-complex Ebbort Building. She passed through the security checkpoint, waving to the security guard, heading down the corridor to the sealed doors that housed her weekday home. With a swipe of her ID badge, the double stainless doors swooshed open.

  She entered the clean room and donned her lab coat before going to her station. This week she was testing organic compounds for mosquito repellent. She shared the lab with two other chemists. Ebbort Labs’ interest in mosquito abatement had increased as the threat of West Nile Virus had grown. Her part was just the first in a series of independent tests to validate preliminary research results. She really hoped it would work because she was tired of being bitten. The DEET and citronella candles were proving no match for these aggressive mosquitos. With all the flooding in the Midwest, it had been a really bad year. On her left arm alone, she had over five bites.

  For the first time in a long while, she was actually interested in work. After working in silence for a few hours, she was interrupted by Sharon, her fellow chemist––a younger girl recently graduated from college. “Hey, how’s the repellent going?”

  “Honestly, DEET is still the best repellent but who wants to spray that on.” Anne took off her safety glasses and looked at Sharon and said, “What works for me pretty well is a dryer sheet. It has to be scented. Just rub it all over your skin. It keeps off all but the most aggressive mosquitoes.”

  “Very interesting,” said Sharon. “How was your weekend?”

  “It was good,” replied Anne. “I went to a sale. I found a beautiful Steiff bear. It was on my list.”

  “What list is that?” Sharon looked quizzically at her.

  “Oh, my friend CC and I––you’ve met her––have a blog about our finds at estate sales. A lot of our fans have been writing to us looking for help finding items.”

  “Really? That’s pretty cool. Maybe you can help me out,” Sharon said.

  “What are you looking for?” Anne asked, getting enthusiastic.

  “My boyfriend and I are buying a loft off of Madison and Racine, not too far from the United Center. He wants to bring over all his furniture. Let me clarify that––his junk.” Sharon leaned against Anne’s table. “I’m trying to be fair about it. I told him he could pick three of his favorite possessions, but I get to okay them. Anne, you should see his taste. It’s like he’s still in a college dorm room.”

  Anne rubbed her chin and looked thoughtful. “Let me see. What’s your style? What do you like?”

  Sharon sat on the stool next to her. “I really love 1960s mod. I’d love to find an Andy Warhol, a real one. I inherited a couple Eames chairs and I’d like to decorate the whole loft around them.”

  “Eames chairs. Those are really valuable,” Anne said. “I’ll put you at the head of the list. I’ve got some ideas in mind for 1960s décor.” Anne thought for a moment. “I might just have a few things in my gar
age. Give me a day or two.” She had to decide if she was willing to part with one of her Formica kitchen tables or her avocado green stove.

  “Thanks, Anne.” Sharon stood up. “We’re heading out to lunch. Do you want to join us?”

  “Not today. I brought lunch,” Anne said. She watched her coworkers walk out. Anne sat at her desk, nibbling her chicken salad sandwich, browsing through her eBay watch list. Anne took a couple bites and reached into her drawer, pulling out a Reese’s peanut butter cup. “If I eat half the sandwich, I can eat the whole candy bar,” she said to herself. She scrolled down her eBay watch list. The silver tea service that had started at $25 was now up over $100. Too bad; she couldn’t spend that much right now. She had overextended herself again and was struggling to pay her monthly bills. She didn’t tell CC because she didn’t want a lecture.

  After work, Anne headed to the police station to meet Nigel Towers. She sat in the viewing room as Nigel spoke with the homeless man who matched her description. It was definitely him. She watched through the glass and listened intently.

  “Tell me, Mr. Findle, you say that some guy came up to you and asked you to hock this ring?” Nigel put the ring on the table.

  The homeless man touched the ring and said, “Yep, yep; that’s it. That’s the ring.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “I don’t know––just a middle-aged white guy, kind of greasy.” The homeless man’s leg bounced up and down with a nervous energy.

  “What do you mean by greasy?”

  “He seemed kind of off. He didn’t seem right, you know what I mean?”

  “Did he say why he wanted you to pawn the ring?”

  “He said that he’d lost a lot of money at the track and he wanted to sell his wedding ring. He’d told his wife that he lost it. He didn’t want her to find out. That’s why he wanted me to go inside the pawnshop. He said he’d split the money with me whatever I got from the pawn shop guy.”

  “What happened after you pawned the ring?”

  “I got $50 for it. I thought that was pretty good. The pawn shop guy thought it was fair, but the guy in the alley was mad. He said the ring was worth much more than that, and he roughed me up a little bit and stiffed me. He didn’t give me a dime. You know, I shouldn’t have trusted him; he was wearing a Vikings jersey in Chicago. Who wears a Vikings jersey in Chicago?”

  Anne jumped out of her seat. Nigel finished up with Mr. Findle and walked into the viewing room where Anne was dancing around. “Nigel, the Vikings jersey! I know who it is! My cousin Suzanne’s husband, Jack, was wearing a Vikings jersey last time I saw him. He did some work for my Aunt Sybil. I bet you he stole the ring when he was at her house. I just know he did. He’s that kind of guy.”

  “Greasy?”

  “Yes, greasy; that’s a good way to describe cousin Jack.”

  “Do you have an address for him?”

  “No; he and Suzanne split up recently, and he took off. I don’t know where he is now. He’s from Minnesota. His parents live in St. Paul; maybe you could check there.”

  Nigel smiled at Anne. He appeared to feel good that there was something he could do to help her.

  By the time she got home, it was after 8 p.m., and Sassy was not pleased. “Okay, Sassy, I know you’re starving.”

  Sassy paid no attention and headed to the kitchen. She waited on the shelf above the kitchen table. Anne reached up, pulling Sassy off the shelf. “We’ve talked about this. I don’t want you knocking anything over.” Anne placed Sassy on the floor next to her food dish.

  After Sassy was fed, Anne called her bank to check on her balance. The news wasn’t good as she’d suspected.

  Chapter Twenty

  CC’s trip to New York to cover the steel shipbuilding conference had exhausted her. She didn’t even have time to blog. She’d returned home on Friday and had sat down at her computer. There were hundreds of comments awaiting her. She sifted through them and added their requests to her list. One comment was from Ida. She paused to open it. It was a picture of Ida holding her new granddaughter and the Steiff bear. “Thank you,” Ida had written. CC sat back and smiled.

  Then she started writing her next blog post, “Dear Friends, last week, Anne and I went to a sale in Sauganash, which is a neighborhood on the north side of Chicago. Old oak trees line both sides of the streets, draping over the middle. Jumbo brick bungalows are beautifully restored, ” she wrote as the phone rang.

  CC picked it up. “Hello?”

  “CC, it’s Anne,” the voice said.

  “What’s up, Anne? I just got back.”

  “I was at the police station with Nigel who was questioning the homeless guy who pawned my ring,” Anne said. “He said the guy he got it from was wearing a Minnesota Vikings jersey.”

  “And?”

  “Jack. Jack was wearing a Vikings jersey at Aunt Sharon’s anniversary party.”

  “You think Jack stole your ring?”

  “Nigel’s going to look for him. Oh, and Mr. Ripley is having another sale tomorrow in Highland Park. I think we should go. The pictures look fantastic,” Anne said, barely containing her enthusiasm.

  CC gazed at the growing list in front of her. “Sure; what time do you want to go?”

  “It starts at 9 a.m., and I want to get there first thing. Should I come to your house and we can go from there?”

  “Sounds good.” CC hung up the phone She emailed the reporter with the address of the sale, in case she wanted to send a photographer to the Packwall estate sale as she’d indicated.

  Then she went back to writing her blog. Before closing her computer, she scanned her list of requests. Most of them were pretty ordinary items. One item stood out. A friend of Ida’s, Tony Tedesco, was looking for a 1929 Baglietto ship bell. “Baglietto,” she mused. “I’ve never heard of that.”

  She Googled Baglietto and read out loud to Bandit. “Baglietto is a shipyard that builds fine mega-yachts, motor yachts and speedboats in its home country of Italy. The company was founded as a boat builder in 1854. They relocated to a waterfront wood boat building plant around 1890. During the 1920s, they mostly made government boats and seaplanes. By the 1950s, they were known for their speedboats as well as motor yachts and sailboats. Baglietto uses mahogany, iroko and teak for their wood boats,” she finished reading. “Interesting.” She shut down the computer and headed outside with Bandit.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The next morning after stopping for Starbuck’s to fuel CC’s caffeine habit, they headed to Highland Park, a quaint little upscale community surrounded by large forest preserves.

  “Martha, that reporter from the Tribune who I told you about, is going to meet us. She wants to talk to you and take our picture,” CC said.

  “Why is that?” Anne asked.

  “It’s for that story she’s doing on the blog. They wanted to get a photo of us at a sale. I emailed her with the information about today’s sale.”

  CC turned down a long side street that ended at Lake Michigan. The homes here were palatial and situated on large lots. This particular home was a white Colonial with green shutters. Parked in the driveway in front of the house was a vintage Rolls Royce Silver Cloud with a For Sale sticker on the windshield. Large purple Jackmannii clematis wrapped around the marble pillars supporting the wraparound porch. Massive pink clusters of hydrangea flower balls outlined the elevated deck. CC stopped to examine them––not a single hole in the leaf. Whatever Nancy Packwall had been using had kept the caterpillars and other creepy crawlers off the plant. She admired the Sarah Bernhardt peonies, soaking in their aroma.

  Anne darted past CC to jump in the line that extended from the front door and was winding into the driveway. “I love this house,” Anne said to CC.

  “It’s built in the Greek revival style that was very popular in the antebellum south,” CC said. “Architects in the area started copying the design after soldiers came back from the Civil War.”

  The history lesson flew pas
t Anne. CC had a tendency to tell people much more than what they wanted to hear. Once again, Anne saw Betsy Buttersworth at the front of the line. Just once, she wanted to get to a sale before her.

  At exactly the stroke of 9 a.m., the green front door opened. Mr. Ripley came out and counted, as people started filing in. As Anne and CC moved to the front of the line, Ripley held out his hand, blocking them. “That’s it for now. You’ll have to wait until some people leave,” he said.

  Anne wanted to argue, but she knew it was futile. She tapped her foot impatiently. She didn’t like waiting. After what seemed like an eternity, several people filed out, carrying bags. Anne tried to peek in their bags as they walked by. Anne gave Mr. Ripley a perturbed look. He smiled and let them in.

  They walked around the first floor. The 90-year-old woman, Nancy Packwall, who’d lived in the house, was a retired costume designer for campy B-grade horror movies from the 1950s and 60s. She’d moved back to Highland Park in the 70s. There were a lot of movie posters and memorabilia scattered throughout the main floor. In the living room, two locked glass cases held her collection of vintage jewelry, including a Harry Winston diamond necklace, some Tiffany chains and a Cartier emerald bracelet. Most of Mrs. Packwall’s money had been made by outliving four husbands.

  CC drifted to the jewelry case. She was always looking for unusual pieces to add to her collection. She especially admired Mexican and American Indian silver pieces. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a sterling silver bracelet decorated with a large turquoise stone. After asking the woman guarding the jewelry case to see it, CC held it in her hand. She could see worn engraving that appeared to be a medical warning, but she couldn’t make it out. To her, it made the bracelet even more interesting. She negotiated a price with the woman and asked her to hold it while she continued to shop.

  She stepped out the sliding glass door that led onto a tumbled cobblestone patio, surrounded by daylilies, David Austin roses, and creeping phlox. She went over to smell a double delight hybrid tea rose with a pale pink center with a white exterior. At the edge of the patio, a curved wooden bridge traversed a koi pond. A rough cobblestone path, lined with native prairie tickseed and meadow sage, led to the back yard where there was a large glass greenhouse. She strolled over to take a look. The door was locked. She was able to peek in and see the beautiful orchids inside. CC sat on the green granite bench in front of the greenhouse. There was no For Sale sticker or price on the bench. It would look wonderful in her garden. She ran her hand along the cool, beveled edge. The foxglove and cone flowers would be blooming soon. It was very quiet and peaceful in this garden. The only scent that would make it even better would be French roast coffee and a smoldering Gitane. It had been years since she’d had her last cigarette. She’d smoked a lot when she was married; it had helped with the stress. There was something about coffee and a cigarette. She could almost smell the sickly sweet scent of tobacco now. She inhaled deeply. She did smell tobacco.