Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery

by Vicki Vass

  Anne sighed and sat down on the springy mattress.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  After a good night’s sleep, they walked over to the adjoining coffee shop, The Moreland Grind. Anne had changed into the flowered pants. “Did you bring any other clothes or is this your new thing?” CC asked.

  “These pants are so comfortable.”

  The two walked into the coffee shop where they were greeted by MaryAnne, the waitress, a woman in her 60s who apparently ate a lot of free pie. She was holding a pot of coffee and some napkins. “Morning, ladies, would you like a table or a booth?”

  “Booth is fine,” Anne said.

  “I like your pants,” MaryAnne said, brushing past them, heading towards a booth.

  “Hmmp,” CC said as they walked over to the booth and settled in.

  MaryAnne fluttered around the tables. For a large woman, she was quite graceful, CC thought. “I think our first stop should be public records or the courthouse so we can track down Jared Whitmore,” CC said. “We can look at public tax records. Maybe stop at the local newspaper and see if there are any articles. Here, I’ve made up a list.” CC pulled a reporter’s notebook out of her purse.

  MaryAnne came up to the table as CC was continuing. “I have another idea,” Anne said, turning to MaryAnne. “MaryAnne, we’re looking for Jared Whitmore.”

  “Are you friends or family?” MaryAnne said.

  “We knew his uncle.”

  “What a shame. You know, Tim grew up here. I actually went to high school with him,” MaryAnne said. “He was kind of goofy but nice. You know, once he moved to Chicago we didn’t see him much. He was never quite the same after winning the Powerball.” She paused. “Jared has a place about six miles south of town off of 19.”

  “Great, MaryAnne, thank you.”

  “Would you like to order now?” MaryAnne said.

  After their breakfast arrived, CC pulled a tiny glass jar out of her purse. She sprinkled the hot peppery mix on her scrambled eggs. Noticing Anne’s look, CC said, “It makes everything better.”

  “I don’t know how you can eat that,” Anne said. “My eyes are watering over here just smelling it.”

  While CC finished her coffee, Anne looked through the classifieds in the local paper. “CC, there’s not much going on here, but there is one thing that sounds interesting.”

  “Anne, let’s keep to the plan.” CC finished her coffee, and they headed down 19, a two-lane highway. As they were driving, they spotted a mailbox on the side of a gravel road. Sticking her head out the window, Anne made out the name Whitmore on the mailbox. CC turned down the gravel road that disappeared into the woods. It was a much less pleasant winding road than the one they’d driven to the other Whitmore house. CC had a feeling that Jared Whitmore’s house wasn’t as pleasant either.

  The first Do Not Enter sign popped up as they turned a corner. It was full of bullet holes. “Anne, I think this might not be a good idea,” CC said, looking at Anne, who was staring out the window.

  The second Do Not Enter sign was crudely made and larger than the first. “I’m getting the impression that we might not be welcome,” CC said, stopping the car.

  “We can’t stop now. We’ve come this far,” Anne said.

  CC continued on. When they reached the end of the gravel road, they came upon a rundown farmhouse. It wasn’t much to look at. Its whitewash had faded to gray, its black shutters dangled off their hinges, the windows were broken in places, and the screen door smiled a toothless grin. They pulled up and got out of the car. They walked up the wooden stairs and looked through the hole in the screen door. “See; the door’s open,” Anne said.

  “Are you crazy?” CC asked. “I don’t feel good about this.” She gazed around, waving off the buzzing flies.

  Anne walked over to the porch window and put her face up to the window, shading the sun with her hands. Anne swatted at the flies buzzing around her face. “I don’t see anyone,” she said.

  A clatter of metal sounded from somewhere behind them. They rushed back down the porch. CC started towards the car and Anne walked towards the noise. In a hushed voice, CC said, “C’mon, what are you doing? We need to get out of here.”

  “I just want to take a look.” Anne crept slowly around the corner of the house, making herself appear as small as possible.

  CC sighed and followed her around the back of the house. About 50 yards into the woods, they saw a little shack with smoke rising up out of it. They heard the rattle of metal pans. “They’re probably just cooking dinner,” Anne said.

  “Why would you be cooking in a shack behind the house, not in the house?” CC said, stopping in her tracks.

  Anne walked into a beer can trip wire sounding an alarm. A young man with shaggy blonde hair, wearing a torn sleeveless shirt came rushing out of the shed, brandishing a shotgun in his heavily tattooed arms. The girls froze, CC clutching Anne.

  “What are you doing here? Who are you?” the man asked, pointing the shotgun at them.

  “We knew your uncle. We’re here to talk to you about him,” CC said.

  Jared lowered the shotgun, eyeballing the women. “You knew my uncle, Tim, did you?”

  “We didn’t know him personally but we were at his estate sale. We’re trying to identify one of the items we bought,” CC said, nudging Anne. Anne slowly reached into her purse and brought the spoon out.

  Jared rested the shotgun against the shack and took the spoon. He looked it over and handed it back. “Never seen it before. Why’s it so important?”

  “We overheard the estate sale manager talking to some man named Banning. He said that you were asking about it,” Anne said.

  Jared stopped and thought. “Oh, Banning, he’s my uncle’s antique dealer. He bought and sold a lot of stuff for him.”

  “What kind of stuff?” Anne asked.

  “You know––antiques––that crap he had all over his house. Banning advised him and purchased things for him.”

  “Your uncle had a very extensive collection,” CC said.

  “Uncle Tim didn’t know anything about collecting,” Jared said, rubbing his jaw, spitting into the red clay and looking angry. “Banning told him what to buy. Cost Uncle Tim a fortune, all he left me was an old gun.”

  “I thought your uncle won millions from the Powerball. Where’d it all go?” Anne asked.

  “Wish I knew,” Jared said.

  “What about the house and his collection? We were at the estate sale and saw everything he had,” Anne said.

  “Uncle Tim left a lot of debt. He liked to gamble, and he liked to buy fancy junk. He was trying to fit in with those North Shore snobs,” Jared said. “He was ashamed of where he came from.”

  “Let me take a look at the gun,” CC said. Anne grabbed the spoon back out of his hand.

  “Follow me.” He walked into the farmhouse. CC and Anne followed him in. Looking around, it was obvious he didn’t have his uncle’s eye for quality. Jared came back to the dark wood-paneled living room holding a long rifle.

  CC took it out of his hands and inspected it with a knowing eye. “This is a Massachusetts Minuteman Rifle. It looks authentic.”

  “Is it worth anything?” Jared asked.

  “Depending on who owned it, it could be worth a lot of money,” CC said.

  Jared took back the rifle. “It’s useless. There’s something wrong with the barrel. Doesn’t matter much. My uncle only shot blanks out of it anyway.”

  “Why would he shoot blanks?” Anne asked, sitting on the arm of a tattered pink couch.

  “Uncle Tim was into reenacting. You know, battles––especially Revolutionary War battles. He and his buddies would go out, dress up and play soldier,” Jared said. “I didn’t much care for it. I went with him a couple times.”

  “Can I take the gun?” CC asked, pulling her business card out of her pocket. “I’d be glad to help you sell it. I’ve seen others in much worse condition sell for thousands of dollars.” CC turned the gun over,
looking under the barrel.

  Jared managed a bit of a smile. “Now, that’s what I want to hear.” He took a long look at them. He stared at CC’s business card and appeared deep in thought. “What does antique hunters mean?”

  “We connect people with treasures from the past, their childhood memories,” Anne said. “If they’re looking for it, we can find it.”

  Cradling the rifle, CC interrupted Anne, “Do you have any mineral oil? Or anything that I can use to clean the rifle?”

  “I got some dish soap,” Jared said.

  “That’ll work.”

  Jared came back from the kitchen carrying a bottle of dish soap. CC took a paper towel, moistened it and added a little soap. The dissected snake engraving on the barrel came alive, and she could make out the words Join or Die.

  She said, “Anne, take a look.”

  Anne brought her loupe up to her eye and examined the image. CC looked up at Jared with a smile on her face. “Sons of Liberty,” Anne said, getting excited.

  Jared gave Anne and CC a blank stare. CC gave him a history lesson and said, “The Sons of Liberty were mostly local shopkeepers and tradesmen in Boston before the Revolutionary war. Sam Adams, Paul Revere, Patrick Henry and John Hancock were all members. This is their emblem.”

  Jared continued to look confused. “You know about the Boston Tea Party?” CC said. “The Sons of Liberty planned and executed the Boston Tea Party to protest the Stamp Act. They met at the Green Dragon Tavern to plan their revolt. I visited the tavern when I was there once for a conference in Boston.”

  “Is that so?” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You might want to talk to the guys that Uncle Tim played soldier with. They might be interested in buying the gun. They have a reenactment every Fourth of July in Springfield,” Jared said.

  “Thank you, I’ll contact you once I find out more about your gun,” CC said, jotting down Jared’s phone number.

  They walked outside and stood by their car on the gravel road. “Hold up a second,” Jared said, running toward the shack. He came back, carrying a Mason jar. “Here’s a little something for the road.”

  Not wanting to insult him, CC took the jar. “Thank you.” She threw the jar in the back seat and drove off.

  The two friends left Jared and headed back north toward Chicago. “Hey, look, we’re going to be driving right past Springfield,” Anne said, reading from one of her guidebooks. “It’s the state fair weekend. There’s a Revolutionary War reenactment that Jared mentioned. Let’s stop and find someone who knew Tim Whitmore. Maybe they can give us some answers about Tim and the spoon.” Anne paused. “Speaking of Jared.” She reached behind the passenger seat and picked up the Mason jar. “What are we going to do with this?” She unclasped the Mason jar and a foul odor immediately filled the car. Her eyes watered and her nostrils flared.

  CC looked over with a horrified expression. “Close it!”

  Anne panicked and dropped the Mason jar spilling it all over the car, causing CC to swerve into oncoming traffic. She pulled the car back hard to the right, overcompensating and running onto the shoulder, a split second before nearly driving head on into a semi-, whose horn was still blaring.

  By the time she’d regained control of the car, a Springfield police officer was on her tail. The tilt-a-whirl police light filled her rear view mirror and the siren drowned out Anne’s screaming. CC pulled the car over to the shoulder, trying to figure out how to explain smelling like a hundred proof moonshine. And, she had to explain the rifle sitting up in the backseat.

  Anne took out her lace handkerchief and desperately tried to dab away the moonshine smell. CC looked at her and said, “Really?”

  The trooper tapped on the driver’s window. CC rolled it down. Both girls turned to the left with their biggest smiles. Anne stopped dabbing up the moonshine.

  The trooper took a sniff. “Please exit the car, ma’am.”

  “Officer, it’s not what you think,” CC said, reaching for the door handle.

  “Ma’am, please exit the car,” the trooper repeated. Anne reached for her door handle. “Not you, ma’am. Just the driver.” CC got out of the car slowly.

  The trooper took a step back and said something into the two-way radio clipped to his shoulder. “Ma’am, have you been drinking?”

  “Officer, I have not. By mistake, there was a mason jar in the car. We didn’t know it had moonshine in it and it spilled,” CC said.

  “Ma’am, moonshine is illegal in Illinois unless it’s stamped from a licensed distillery,” he said. “Any open alcohol in a vehicle is against the law. I need to see your driver’s license, proof of insurance and registration.”

  CC had everything in her hand already and gave it to him.

  “Ma’am, I need you to take a Breathalyzer test.”

  “I realize you have probable cause. I’ve not been drinking, and I don’t want to take a Breathalyzer test. Statistics show that eight percent of breathalyzers are inconclusive or even worse false positives,” CC said.

  The trooper called in CC’s information. “Ma’am, were you aware that you have three outstanding red light tickets?”

  She hemmed. “I did receive some notices but I feel that they’re unconstitutional. Did you know there is a five percent variable error for red light cameras? It’s true. Google it.”

  “Ma’am, I’m going to have to take you into the station.” By the time they were done talking, a second and third police car pulled in behind them. A tow truck followed the two cars. Anne and CC sat in the back of the trooper car, listening to the squawk of the police radio. Anne was taking deep breaths, counting to ten. It wasn’t working.

  CC was trying to think who to call. It was after 5 p.m., on a Friday night when they arrived at the Springfield police station. CC was afraid they’d have to wait until Monday for a hearing. The officer brought them in front of the desk sergeant.

  “I’d like to make my one phone call,” Anne said.

  “Actually, you’re not limited to one. We haven’t charged you with anything yet,” the sergeant said.

  Anne sat on the bench as the sergeant discussed the situation with the arresting officer and CC who was brandishing her press credentials. She kept dropping the governor’s name. She had interviewed him for an article a while back. The desk sergeant was not impressed.

  “Hello, Nigel,” Anne whispered into the phone, cupping the phone with her hand so nobody could hear her.

  “Hi, Anne. Are you back from your trip?” Nigel asked.

  “I’m in the Springfield police station.”

  “Is that part of your trip?” he said with his charming, dry wit.

  “It’s kind of a funny story.” Anne explained about Jared, the moonshine and their police escort into town. “Can you talk to somebody here? Can you help us out?”

  “Springfield, yes. I’ll talk to the captain there and see if I can do anything.”

  “Thank you, Nigel; thank you so much.” Anne paused. “Have you found Jack?” she asked.

  Anne could hear the worry in his silence. “The St. Paul police are looking for him. His parents haven’t seen him. We’ll find him.”

  “Thank you again.”

  Anne hung up feeling a little better about the situation. When she walked back over to the sergeant’s desk, CC and the sergeant were laughing. Not the reaction that Anne was expecting. “Anne, come here and meet Sergeant Pat. His wife is one of our fans.”

  “One of our fans? She reads the blog?” Anne asked.

  “She read the article about the bear and she was hooked after that. She reads it all the time. She’s going to want to meet you two,” the sergeant said. “I’ll tell you what, as far as the charges, the first offense for possession of moonshine is a misdemeanor. It has a fine. I can tell by talking to you that you’re not drunk. As far as the red light tickets, if you promise to pay them and everything else checks out, we can let you go with a warning.” He paused. “You can do me a favor.” He waved them over to come
closer to his desk and they leaned in as he talked in a soft voice, “My anniversary’s coming up. My wife’s always wanted an antique cameo locket––a genuine hand-carved one. Can you find one for me?”

  “We will,” Anne said. “I have one in mind already. We’d be glad to do that for you, yes, sir.”

  He handed them his card and waved over the arresting officer. He explained the situation and the jailbirds were free.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  With the state fair in town, all the hotels were filled. Using her guidebook, Anne found a small bed and breakfast not too far from the fairgrounds. Luckily, they had one small room left. It was an attic room with a separate bathroom. The original wood floors creaked under their feet with every step. Civil war-era paintings hung on the wall depicting a young Lincoln. A homemade quilt decorated the bed. There was a cozy rocking chair in the corner that overlooked the rose garden.

  CC flopped onto the feather-down mattress, exhausted. Her shoulders ached from driving.

  Anne sat at the cherry wood vanity table. She had not let the spoon out of her sight since they’d met with Professor Elliott. She took it out of her purse and laid it on the table. She thought of what she would do with the money if she could bring herself to sell it. But how could she? Her whole life had been about hunting down pieces of history and here she’d found a piece of the puzzle––a corner piece. She held it in her hand, savoring its weight, picturing herself in Boston Harbor on the tall ship Eleanor. “More sugar, Mr. Adams? Would you like a little milk, Mr. Revere?” she giggled to herself.

  From the bed, CC said, “Huh? What did you say? What are you talking about?”

  “Nothing; didn’t realize I was talking out loud,” Anne said.

  CC sat up on the edge of the bed. “I’m going to take a shower. Mrs. Hull said dinner is at 6 p.m., sharp. I don’t think we should be late. Do you want to change first?”

  “I’m fine. I’m going to wear what I have on,” Anne said.