by Vicki Vass
Standing up, she walked back up the path. From behind the large weeping willow tree, she saw Mr. Ripley smoking. She ducked behind the tree and made herself very small. She stood very still. She really shouldn’t be in the backyard. She inhaled again and the scent was gone. CC waited a couple minutes before heading back to the house. As she turned around, she stepped out from behind the tree and bumped into Mr. Ripley.
He was standing very still. “You shouldn’t be out here,” he said.
CC gave him an uneasy smile and ran past him into the house.
Moving upstairs to the master bedroom, Anne thought it fitting for a Hollywood designer. Decorated in pink chintz, it had white French impressionist furniture. A silk dressing gown hung over the fainting chair. Putting the back of her hand to her forehead, Anne said to no one in particular, “Really, Rhett Butler, I do declare you overwhelm me. You’re giving me the vapors.” She fanned herself and swooned onto the chair. From this perch, she saw the opening to what appeared to be a closet.
She strolled into a massive walk-in closet. One wall held shelves of shoes, purses and hatboxes. Clothing hung from the rods on the other three walls. Anne rifled through the racks. She stopped and held her breath for a second. She recognized the pants immediately. The colorful pansy-festooned pants were from Nancy’s last movie––the 1967 cult classic, Bikini Blood Beach. The Capri pants had been worn by a young Stevie Vann before she’d become a star. As Anne admired the craftsmanship, a hand flew past her grabbing them off the hanger.
She turned to see Betsy admiring her prize. “Okay, that’s it, Buttersworth. I’ve had just about enough of you. You saw me looking at the pants. I found them first.” Anne placed a hand on the pants.
Betsy interrupted her. “You hesitated and you lost. They’re mine!”
“Not this time, Buttersworth!” Anne grabbed one of the pants legs and tugged. The tug of war didn’t last long.
“Ladies, ladies! We could hear you arguing all the way downstairs,” Mr. Ripley said, walking into the room. “What’s going on here?”
“I was looking at these pants, planning to buy them. And she grabbed them right out of my hands,” Anne said, maintaining her hold on the pants leg.
“That’s not true. She wasn’t holding them. They were on the hanger. The pants are mine,” Betsy said, clutching her end.
“Ladies, we have to come up with a civil way to decide who can buy the pants. I wasn’t here to see what happened, and, by the looks of it, I don’t see either one of you are giving them up,” Mr. Ripley said, staring at them sternly.
Both women stood fast, each holding a pants leg. After reflection, Mr. Ripley said, “I can’t decide this for you. By the end of the day, whoever is holding the pants can have them.”
Anne and Betsy gave each other a determined look and started out of the bedroom, each retaining their grip on the precious pants. The newly formed Siamese twins moved cautiously down the stairs into the foyer.
“I’m not letting go,” Anne hissed.
Betsy muttered under her breath. “I’ve got all day. I’ve got no place to be.”
For the next three hours, the two wandered around the house, picking up items with one hand while holding onto the pants with the other.
“Okay, this is getting really silly. Let me have the pants. Pick out any item you want and I’ll pay for it,” Betsy said.
“I don’t want your charity. This isn’t about the money. It’s not even about the pants anymore. It’s the principle,” Anne said.
“For goodness’ sake. I have to use the bathroom,” Betsy said.
“No one’s stopping you,” Anne said.
Betsy shrugged it off. The two walked into the gourmet kitchen which had a rooster theme despite the contemporary stainless appliances. Roosters adorned the wall; ceramic roosters filled the shelf above the window; and the backsplash had roosters in the tiles.
Anne walked to the faucet and turned it on.
Betsy danced a little. “Turn that off,” she said.
Anne sat down at the kitchen table.
“What are you doing?” demanded Betsy
“It’s been a long day,” said Anne calmly. “I’m going to rest here.”
Betsy danced and fidgeted around behind Anne’s chair. “Fine, they’re yours!” Betsy said, letting go of the pants and stomping off.
Anne clutched the pants to her breast, caressing them. Looking out the garden window, she saw Mr. Ripley talking loudly to a well-dressed man. They seemed to be arguing. Anne walked to the back door and opened it slightly to hear.
“What happened to the spoon? Mr. Whitmore’s nephew has been calling me everyday since the estate sale,” the man said to Mr. Ripley.
“Like I told you on the phone, Banning, every item at the sale was marked either with a price or NFS. I’ve looked on my tally sheet. There were lots of silver spoons. I’m not sure which one he’s talking about,” Mr. Ripley said.
“Jared says it had some sentimental value––family heirloom or something. It wasn’t supposed to be for sale, and now it’s missing,” Banning said.
“Ill check with my assistant and let you know. “Thank you for putting me in touch with Mrs. Kirby. I’ll send you your usual finder’s fee after we tally the proceeds from the sale.”
“Call me when you find the spoon.” Banning turned on his heel and walked across the lawn to a black Mercedes.
Spoon, huh? Anne thought to herself. She closed the door quietly. A tap on her shoulder made Anne nearly jump out of her skin. “Anne, Martha from the Tribune is here,” CC said. Standing behind CC was a woman about their age, carrying a reporter’s notebook and camera.
“Hi,” Anne said, shaking the reporter’s hand while maintaining her hold on the pants.
“You must be Anne. CC told me quite a bit about you when we talked the other day,” Martha said. “Perhaps we can sit here and talk.” The reporter pointed to the kitchen table. Anne sank back down on one of the chairs, and Martha sat across from her.
“I’ll just stay here and listen if you don’t mind.” CC hovered in the background, leaning against the wall.
“CC says you are antique hunters. How’d you get interested in antiques?”
Anne thought for a moment. “My interest in antiques started early on. I used to spend the summers at my Great-Aunt Sybil’s house. She was a collector of many things from stamps to jewelry to spoons. She would take me to sales with her. She taught me how to identify and authenticate antiques.”
“Are there certain antiques you look for?”
“Of course––the more rare the better. Right now, we’ve been concentrating on a list.”
“CC touched briefly on that. Tell me more about the list.”
“People have been writing in to our blog, asking us to find things that they’re looking for. Some are harder than others to find. We have a pretty good network of antique dealers, estate sale managers and so on that we’ve connected with over the years,” Anne said.
“What are some of the items on the list?”
“They really vary. One woman is looking for a Rosenthal plate that matches the service her grandmother had. A guy is looking for a pre-World War I Martin guitar. Someone else wants a Mystery Date game. It runs the whole gamut,” Anne said. “Get the list out, CC,” Anne continued, looking over at CC who was still holding up the wall.
“That’s not necessary,” said Martha. “How about you personally? What catches your eye in an antique?”
Anne held up the pants. “I wouldn’t call them antique, more vintage, but take these pants. They were worn by Stevie Vann, a starlet from the 1960s, and now they will be mine.” From the corner of her eye, Anne saw Betsy Buttersworth watching the whole travesty. She did not look pleased.
“What would you say is the most unique item you’ve ever found?”
“Every item is unique in its own way. Touching something from the past connects you with history. It could be something as simple as a Victorian thimble to my Aunt
Sybil’s collection of Viking swords and jewelry,” Anne said.
“That’s an interesting way to look at antiques,” Martha said, scribbling in her notepad.
Anne nodded. “Oh, yes, holding an antique in your hand brings you in touch with its history.”
Martha checked her watch. “I have to get going, but I’d like to get a picture of you and CC. Maybe in front of the dining room table where all the crystal is displayed.”
“Wait, I have to do something first.” Anne ran out of the kitchen and into the living room. She paid the woman who was tallying purchases at the card table by the front door. Anne wrote out a check, hoping it wouldn’t bounce.
“Can I have your phone number?” the woman asked Anne.
Anne rattled off her number and the woman jotted it down on the top of the check. “Thanks.” Trying to look casual, Anne glanced around, saw a small doorway marked Do Not Enter. Opening the door slowly, she saw no one around. She darted in, closed and locked the door. She slipped on the pants. A perfect fit. She turned and gazed at herself in the mirror, admiring herself from every angle. Exactly like Stevie Vann, if she said so herself.
Opening the door slowly, she once again checked around before stepping out of the bathroom. Walking into the dining room, she saw CC standing in front of the crystal and china laden table. Martha was holding her camera up to her face. “Anne, those pants look perfect!” Martha said.
“Yes, they do, Anne.” CC gave Anne a sharp look. “Where’d you get them?”
“Just now. Aren’t they marvelous?” Anne twirled around.
“They’re fabulous,” Martha agreed with her. “Please stand next to CC.”
Anne posed, sticking one leg out in front of the other as she’d seen contestants do on America’s Next Top Model.
After Martha had finished taking her pictures, CC paid for her purchases. She and Anne then headed to the car with their bags. “Where’d you get those pants?” CC asked, holding a small bag.
“It’s a long story. I’ll tell you at lunch.”
“I want to let the dog out. Let’s go to my house. I’ll make us something,” CC said.
Anne thought about her checking account and remembered the check she’d just written. Lunch at CC’s was a good idea, she realized.
CC looked in her fridge. She hadn’t gone shopping since she’d gotten back. The only thing left was a few chicken breasts. She thought about her mom’s smothered chicken recipe. Heating olive oil in a pan, she dredged the chicken breasts in flour and added salt and pepper and her extra spicy mix. She put the chicken breasts in the pan. In another pan, she melted some butter, added mushrooms and onions. She went out to the garden and grabbed some romaine, Early Girl tomatoes and chives to make a fresh salad. After the onions and mushrooms had caramelized, she added sour cream and allowed it to simmer.
Placing the chicken breast on a plate, she covered it with the mushroom/onion mixture and added the salad. “Anne, lunch is ready,” she called downstairs to Anne who was looking at eBay on her computer. The silver set was now up to $200, way past her limit.
Anne went up to the table and sat down. CC poured them both a glass of white wine. “This looks fantastic, CC,” Anne said, taking a bite of the chicken.
CC put her fork down. “Oh, I almost forgot. Our list has gotten bigger. We’re now up to over 200 items to search for.” She pulled the list out of her purse which was dangling off the back of the chair.
“You know if we’re going to be putting all this time and effort looking for items for other people,” suggested Anne, “don’t you think we should charge them something for our trouble?”
CC thought about it for a moment. “I think it’d be okay to make a small profit, just enough to cover expenses.”
“Yeah, just enough to cover expenses. That’s all,” Anne agreed. As Anne continued eating her chicken, CC read from the list.
“A 1929 Baglietto brass ship bell.”
“Ship bell?” Anne looked up from her plate. “Let me think. I don’t know what year it is, but I have a brass ship bell in my storage locker.”
“What? What are you doing with a bell?” CC asked.
“I bought it when they shut down the Great Lakes Navy Base along with some office furniture and bunk beds.”
“Really? Bunk beds?”
“Yeah, they’re all in my storage locker,” said Anne.
“Maybe we should take a ride to your place and go look at it.”
The two rushed through the remainder of lunch, cleaned up and then headed ten miles west to Anne’s storage locker. “It’s locker #325, #425,” Anne said, as she searched in her purse and pulled out a set of keys.
“How many storage lockers do you have?” CC asked, driving around the alleyway.
“Just the three.” They pulled up in front of locker #532. Anne unlocked the padlock and opened the large overhead door. CC jumped as a box fell on top of her foot. The locker was overflowing with cardboard boxes, garbage bags and everything. There was no order to any of it.
“How in the world are you going to find a bell in this mess?” CC asked, moving the box.
“I know exactly where it is,” Anne replied, climbing over a desk chair and squeezing past a metal footlocker, then pulling a moving blanket carefully off a teetering pile. There it was––the brass ship’s bell. It was quite heavy, but Anne managed to retrieve it without doing too much damage to the stained glass windowpanes that surrounded it. She followed her steps backward over the pile and laid the bell at CC’s feet with a flourish.
CC was still concentrating on the teetering piles of odd-sized boxes. “Really, Anne, three storage lockers like this?” CC examined the bell. “It wasn’t a Baglietto but it was inscribed with bella in Italian. “I think this is pretty close,” CC said. “It looks pretty old. It’s in great shape.”
While CC took pictures of the bell with her iPhone, Anne looked at the Formica table and avocado green stove. She opened the stove and looked inside. She twisted some of the knobs. “I don’t know,” she said out loud. “I really like this a lot. I think I could make it work in my kitchen.”
“What are you talking about?” CC looked up.
“Sharon at work was looking for some furniture for her new place. She has a 1960s motif.”
CC walked over and looked at the stove. “That would work. That’s a 1960s Hotpoint. Did you know the sheet metal they used was from the Gary plant I told you about?”
“Okay. Good to know for next time,” Anne said with a giggle. As they walked back to CC’s car, Anne gave the stove one last look. It would take a lot for her to part with it.
Later that night, CC sent the pictures of the bell to Tony Tedesco. Then she sat down at her computer to write her next blog entry. “Dear Friends,” she started as she sipped from her steaming hot French press coffee. “Today, Anne and I traveled to another fabulous sale run by Mr. Ripley. He is gaining quite the reputation for holding high-end sales. This sale was at the home of the former Hollywood costume designer, Nancy Packwall. I found this fantastic poster, which I will hang in my bathroom,” CC wrote, uploading a picture of the colorful B movie framed poster.
“Anne found several things but the most important was a pair of flowered pants.” Here CC uploaded a picture of the pants that she’d taken before Anne had left. “I have a feeling that we are going to be seeing much more of these pants so prepare yourselves.”
As she was writing, Tony Tedesco’s name popped up in the “waiting” comments section. She opened his comment and read, “The bell looks exactly like what I’ve been looking for. How’d you find it? And, how can I get it from you? How much do I owe you?”
She wrote him a quick reply, briefly explaining how she’d found the bell. She also said that she could drop the bell in the mail. His reply came back before she could shut down the computer.
“I’m in Chicago working at the Chicago Yacht Club. If you’re in the city, I could meet you,” he wrote back.
“I work in the c
ity just a few blocks from the Yacht Club. I could bring it over on my lunch hour,” she typed back quickly.
“That would be great. How about Tuesday?” he wrote back.
“Sure. I’ll be there about noon,” she typed back. With the plans confirmed, she shut down the computer and went to walk Bandit.
Chapter Twenty-Two
On Tuesday, CC walked past the long low white building set on the shore of Lake Michigan. Moving along the cement pier, she walked past the schooners and sailboats, looking for the one called Annabella. She stopped and asked a teenage boy who was scrubbing down the pier. He pointed to a 50-foot wooden sailboat.
As she walked up to the boat, Tony Tedesco came out of the cabin, wearing denim shorts and deck shoes. He brushed his long salt and pepper hair away from his eyes and wiped the sweat from his face with his t-shirt. He saw CC and put his t-shirt on. “CC, hi! I’m Tony,” he said with a melodic Italian accent.
It’s the man from the train, CC thought. She stared, not answering.
