by Vicki Vass
CC gave a pointed look at the pants and said, “Hmmph.” CC headed for the shower.
Dinner was precisely at six. CC and Anne were on time. The dining room was already filled with fellow guests, there for the Fourth of July festivities. They all nodded and introduced themselves as Mrs. Hull brought in the first course of peanut soup. “Tonight, we’ll be dining as our founding fathers would have,” she said, placing the soup bowl in the center of the table. “This first course comes to you from Virginia. Peanut soup.”
“Yum,” Anne said, taking a sip of the steaming soup.
CC reached into her purse to retrieve her pepper jar. Anne touched her knee and whispered to her, “ That might be rude to our host.”
CC nodded in agreement and let the pepper jar be. The conversation was casual and pleasant. The couple from Minnesota, Stuart and Tracy, seemed to really enjoy the whole Revolutionary War-themed dinner and talked about their outing to the reenactment that they’d gone to during the day. Mrs. Hull brought in a roast beef with homemade biscuits and potatoes. Just when they couldn’t eat anymore, Mrs. Hull pushed open the swinging door from the kitchen with her backside and turned around with a silver tray filled with small china bowls of bread pudding.
“I’ve never had bread pudding before. It’s quite good,” Tracy said.
“The colonists brought bread pudding from England as a way to use leftover bread. It was known as a poor man’s pudding,” CC said, taking a breath to continue. Anne nudged her under the table.
“Coffee, anyone?” Mrs. Hull fluttered back into the dining room, walking over to the sideboard, which bore the weight of both a coffee and a tea service in silver.
“None for me,” Anne said, looking at her watch.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The Illinois State Fairgrounds were a beehive of activity. Carnival rides were in full swing and Credence Clearwater Revival filled the air. Cotton candy, corndogs and popcorn assaulted their noses. The smell of fried everything was everywhere. As Anne and CC walked through the carnival, they avoided the hawkers by the midway games. The rock music and rhetoric faded, giving way to the distant call of the fife and drum.
“You know, Anne, the reason they used the fife and drum was because it was the only way for officers to command troops over a distance. The fife was picked because of its high pitch, and the drum because of its low pitch,” CC explained as they climbed the slight grassy hill. They could see the bivouacked troops below. The tents billowed in the summer wind. The splash of red of the British troops on one side, the other side adorned with the blue of the Continental Army and the assorted colors of the Minute Men in the militia. On the outskirts of the camp, women stirred vegetables in iron kettles over open fires.
CC and Anne walked toward the Continental Armies’ camp. As they walked through the rows of tents, they asked the re-enactors about Tim Whitmore. The troops were assembling; the reenactment of the battle of Lexington was about to begin. A younger officer approached CC. “Excuse me, ma’am; we’re going to be starting. You have to clear the field,” he said.
CC recognized the Chicago accent. Usually people from Chicago don’t admit they have an accent, but CC had a very good ear for dialect, particularly this south side Irish Chicago accent. “Thank you. Are you from Beverly?” she asked, naming a south side Chicago neighborhood which held its own St. Patrick’s Day parade every year that was better attended than the downtown Chicago one.
The lieutenant appeared surprised. “How could you tell?”
“I spent a lot of time on the south side. I could hear it in your voice.”
“Yes, I am. Born and raised south side Irish.” He gave a proud nod.
Maybe you can help us,” CC continued. “We’re trying to find some information about one of the soldiers from Chicago. Tim Whitmore?”
The lieutenant’s face turned sad. “Tim was a good guy. He was in my regiment. He taught me a lot about being a continental soldier. He knew a lot about the battles and took it very seriously. He was the best Paul Revere we ever had.”
“Paul Revere?” Anne asked, perking up. She recited the entire Longfellow poem in her head.
“Yes, he would do the whole midnight ride––lantern, horse and all. I was with him in Boston two years ago for the reenactment of the Boston tea party.”
With a shaking hand, Anne pulled the spoon from her purse. “Do you remember seeing him with this spoon?”
The lieutenant studied it closely. “Yes, I do. We used it to stir our tea onboard the tall ship in the Boston harbor. I remember it because of its unique design. It was very important for Tim to be accurate. Everything he owned––his uniform, his rifle––were original. No replicas. I suppose this spoon is the real thing too.”
Anne took the spoon and wrapped it back in the soft cotton before stowing it away in her purse.
“I was really sorry to hear that he died.”
“It’s a tragedy,” Anne said.
“Ma’am, if you don’t mind me asking, why were you asking about the spoon?”
“I bought it at Tim Whitmore’s estate sale and wanted to find out more about it,” Anne said.
The fife and drum started their call to arms, leaving Anne’s words hanging in the air. The lieutenant glanced behind him and noticed his troops gathering for the battle. “I’m sorry. I have to go.” He ran off to join the troops who were moving in formation.
The two girls walked off the field and sat on the hill overlooking the battleground. They watched the cannons fire; a second later, the roar rushed over the valley. The drum and fife played as the first soldiers advanced in a line facing their foes––rifles firing and men falling.
Anne caressed the silver spoon the entire time.
After the battle was over, Anne and CC walked back through the crowded midway to find the exit. It seemed like the crowd had doubled since they’d come through. “Look, CC,” Anne said, pointing to a directional sign. “They have a flea market here. We should go.”
“Anne, we don’t have time,” CC said, glancing at her watch. It was late Sunday, and they both had to work the next day. “I have to get home to pick Bandit up. He’s been with the neighbors all weekend.”
Anne trudged behind CC, giving one last longing glance over her shoulder. Next year she’d just drive herself.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Three hours later, CC pulled into Anne’s driveway. It was already 9 p. m., and both travelers were weary. Anne opened the garage door and unloaded all her purchases. The evergreen bush next to the garage shook. Anne jumped back. The tip of the ten-foot evergreen bent over the driveway. “CC!” Anne yelled back to CC who was falling asleep in the car.
CC clicked on the headlights to see yellow eyes piercing out at them from the evergreen. Sassy dropped from the tree like a big white pine cone. “What are you doing out here, Sassy?” Anne said, picking up the indignant Persian. “How’d you get out of the house?” Sassy was in no mood to answer.
From behind the tree, Grandma Pat stepped out. “You got her.” Both Anne and CC’s hearts stopped for a second. “I heard her crying for the past half hour. I couldn’t find her.” Grandma Pat was apparently on her nightly rounds, wearing her Neighborhood Watch windbreaker and her baseball cap with LED lights that shone brightly from the rim. “Sorry,” she said. “Let me turn these off.” She reached up to the brim and turned off the lights.
“What’s the cat doing outside?” Anne asked.
“I don’t know. I heard her crying on my walk and thought maybe you’d let her out by mistake. All the lights were off in your house.”
Carrying Sassy, Anne walked up the back stairs. CC and Grandma Pat followed. The door had been kicked in.
“Wait!” Pat said, putting her arm in front of Anne and pulling her back. She reached into her windbreaker pocket and retrieved a large can of mace. CC immediately called 9-1-1. Anne slowly tiptoed into the kitchen and flipped on the lights. “What are you doing?” CC called out. “Someone could still be in t
here.”
Most visitors wouldn’t be able to tell if Anne’s house had been ransacked. It looked the way it did everyday, but Anne knew where every piece belonged down to the last napkin ring or thimble. Things were not as they should be, and Anne was not happy. She rushed into the kitchen to make sure her antique coffee grinders were still in place. They were.
“I don’t think it’s safe to be here,” CC said, walking into the kitchen and staring over her friend’s shoulder.
Anne grabbed a heavy cast iron skillet. With CC at her heels, they turned on every light in the house and checked every room––even under the beds. Grandma Pat supervised the operation. “Whoever was here is gone now,” Anne said, flopping down at the kitchen table.
The doorbell startled Anne and CC. Anne opened the door and was surprised to see Detective Towers who was wearing a tie festooned with pansies. “Miss Hillstrom, we meet again,” he said.
“Hi, Nigel, I mean Detective Towers. I wasn’t expecting you,” Anne said, standing in the doorway.
“I hope you’re not disappointed.”
“Don’t be silly. Apparently you’re the only police detective in Chicago,” Anne said with a playful smile.
“Your name came up on the call sheet, and I thought it appropriate that I take the call since we have a history.”
Nigel’s charm and his whimsical ties really worked. She felt more at ease immediately. She’d already forgotten that she was scared. “Please come in,” Anne said, opening the door wider.
“Miss Hillstrom, have you touched anything?” he asked, looking around the room.
“Aren’t we past last names at this point?” Anne said. “We did have lunch.”
Grandma Pat walked into the living room and gave Detective Towers a lookover. “Who is this young man?” she said, circling around the very tall and very British Detective Towers.
“Pat, this is Detective Towers. Detective Towers, this is my neighbor, Pat Irwin.”
“Pleased to meet you, ma’am.” Detective Towers bowed his head.
Grandma Pat’s concerned look turned to a smile. “British, are you? That’s interesting.”
“Anne, it is then.”
“I just made some tea. We were quite unnerved as you can imagine,” Anne said. They all stood in the entryway. “Would you like a cup?”
CC walked into the living room at that moment and was also struck by Nigel’s height and mesmerized by his tie. “Detective Towers, nice to meet you. CC Muller.” She held out her hand to him. He shook it.
They all walked into the kitchen and sat around the table. “Can I offer you a cup of tea? We still have the tea kettle on,” Anne said.
“Tea would be lovely.” Nigel sat on a chair, his knees bumping against the table. Anne was reminded of one of her favorite animated Disney movies, Ichabod Crane and Sleepy Hollow. “Have you noticed anything missing?” the detective asked, pulling out a small notebook from his coat pocket.
“I’ve walked around the house and haven’t noticed anything off hand. As you can see, there’s a lot to look at,” Anne said, bringing him a cup of Earl Grey.
The detective scanned the room, which had been restored to its original finish from the black and white tile on the floor to the bead board cabinets. Like the living room, it was cluttered in a cozy way. Assorted teacups hung from wooden pegs over the sink, coffee grinders stood on the shelf, and copper pans sat on the stovetop. “Yes, I can see you have a good eye for antiques. I noticed your poster in the hallway from Bikini Blood Beach. That’s a very unusual poster,” he said. “Not too many people share my love of classic American B movies. It’s a passion of mine. I read that costumer Nancy Packwall just died.”
Anne did a twirl, showing off the flowered pants. She hadn’t taken them off in days. “We went to her estate sale. These are the pants that Stevie Vann wore in the movie and that’s where I got the movie poster, too,” Anne said.
“The pants are quite lovely,” Detective Towers said.
“I’m sorry but I just have to ask,” CC interrupted. “The British accent?”
“We came over from Liverpool when I was young.”
“How old were you?” CC asked.
“I was about eleven,” the detective said.
“That explains it. I just read an article about how children develop their accents by the time they are twelve. That’s why you haven’t lost it,” CC explained.
“CC, back to the break in,” Anne said, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I don’t understand why someone would break in and not take anything when you have so much to choose from. Can you make a list of anything that’s missing?” the detective said. “Do you want me to wait with you?”
“That’s okay.” Anne hesitated.
“Of course, we want you to wait. Someone just broke into the house,” CC said. “I don’t even know if it’s safe for Anne to stay here tonight.”
“Anne, you can stay with me,” Grandma Pat interrupted.
Nigel leaned back and sipped his tea. “You should call someone out to fix that lock, but in most cases we find that burglars don’t come back,” the detective said. “I’ve not heard of any other recent burglaries in this neighborhood. It seems to be an isolated incident.”
They sat while Anne called a few locksmiths. Not wanting to pay the emergency charge, Anne arranged to meet them the next day. Anne walked Nigel out to his car.
“Call me anytime if you can think of anything or find something missing or even if you’re just nervous.” He took a moment to touch Anne’s hand.
Anne held his hand for a moment. “I certainly will, Nigel.” Anne was a bit flustered. She’d thought about Nigel since their lunch. She never expected to see him again under these circumstances. She watched him drive away.
CC had been peeking through the living room window. It had been a very long time since she’d seen her friend show any interest in anyone. She could tell by Anne’s body language that she was attracted to Nigel. She hid her smile to conceal her snooping.
“Ok, then,” Anne said, walking back into the house. “Nigel’s on top of this.”
“Apparently, he is,” CC said with a smirk.
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Anne asked.
“Why don’t you stay with me?” CC said.
“I think I will,” Anne said, and then she turned to Grandma Pat. “Thank you for the offer, Pat, but I’m going to stay with CC.”
Grandma Pat reached back into her windbreaker pocket and took out the can of mace. “Here, Anne, I want you to keep this. You can’t be too careful. I’ll keep an eye on your place.” She hugged Anne before walking out the back door.
CC helped Anne board up the kitchen door before Anne put Sassy into the cat carrier.
“Okay,” Anne said, gathering up some things, including the cat carrier with Sassy stowed safely inside. She followed CC home.
Chapter Thirty
Anne woke to the sound of a crashing floor lamp and the hiss of a screeching cat. “CC, I forgot to close my bedroom door and Bandit was hot on Sassy’s tail,” Anne apologized.
After cleaning up the glass, CC washed her hands and cut up strawberries. She combined flour, buttermilk, eggs, a touch of sugar and baking powder. She added the strawberries to the mixture. Testing the griddle with a drop of water, she put the pancakes on the sizzling pan. When the pancakes were done, she topped them with a large spoon of cream cheese and a fresh sprig of basil.
Anne looked at the plate and realized she’d forgotten to turn her filter on. Editing her words had never been her strong suit. Maybe that’s why she’d gotten on so well with Sybil. “You don’t have any Lingon berries, do you?”
“I don’t exactly keep Lingon berries around the house. We’ll have to settle for strawberries.”
“I’m sure it’ll be good.”
This was one of those Anne-syncrasies that CC wasn’t very fond of. She was never quite satisfied.
After breakfast, they headed back to Anne’s
house to wait for the locksmith. CC stayed until after he’d left. When CC returned home, the phone was ringing. She ran to grab it. “Hello,” she said.
“CC?” a tentative voice asked. “This is Marco, Ida’s son-in-law,” he stuttered.
CC could hear the sadness in his voice. “Yes, Marco, what’s wrong?”
“Ida passed last night,” he said.
CC threw her purse onto her table and slid onto the dining room chair. Bandit danced around her feet.
Marco continued talking, “She’d been ill for a while. It was a lot worse than she let on. She just went in her sleep.”
I’m so sorry. She was such a sweet lady,” CC said.
“I wanted to call you and let you know. Ida appreciated your finding the bear for baby Lily. Having you as a friend meant a lot to her.” He paused. “The funeral is this Saturday if you can make it.”
“I’m so sorry. I’ll be there.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Anne and CC parked in the circle drive outside Chicago’s illustrious Field Museum. They walked up the limestone steps. “You know, Anne, this museum is constructed from steel and Georgian marble and was inspired by Grecian and Roman temples. Originally, it was called the Palace of Fine Arts when it was built for the 1893 Colombian Exposition.
“In 1921, the museum was moved to its present location. It took six years and cost $7 million dollars to build,” CC said as they opened the large doors.
Anne didn’t hear a word her friend said as she took in the glass display cases and various hallways marked Egyptian, Jurassic Period. They walked up to the Help Desk near the ticket booths. “Can we see Wayne Muscarello?” Anne asked.
“Do you have an appointment?” the elderly woman wearing a pink volunteer badge asked.
“No, but he’ll recognize the name––Hillstrom. He’ll want to see us,” Anne said, handing the woman one of their business cards.
“Very well,” the woman said, picking up the phone. “Mr. Muscarello, there’s a Miss Hillstrom here to see you.” She put the phone down and said, “He’ll be up shortly.”
