by Vicki Vass
“Mr. Ripley, we intend on exposing Banning as a embezzler,” CC said. “This could impact your reputation.”
“Why don’t you go to the police?”
CC and Anne looked at each other. “They didn’t believe us.”
“How do you want me to help you?” Mr. Ripley asked.
“You can tell Banning that we bought the spoon by mistake for five dollars. We know it’s worth a lot more money. We’re willing to sell it back to him for the right price,” CC said.
“I think you should call him yourself directly. I don’t want to be involved. I have a reputation to protect,” said Mr. Ripley. He stood up, put his tea back in his pocket. “Good day, ladies.” He walked back into the house, closing the French door with a loud click.
Anne and CC looked at each other again. It had never occurred to them to call Banning themselves.
Driving down Route 14 on the way home, Anne screamed, “CC, look! An antique store!” They’d just entered the small town of Richmond, Illinois. Anne was pointing at a large two-story Victorian painted lady that held a sign reading Emporium in large yellow letters. “Can we stop?”
CC parked in the front of the building. They walked into the old home that had been transformed into an antique hunter’s dream. Shelves were overflowing with teacups, vases, silverware and all sorts of knick-knacks. Pictures and paintings hung haphazardly on the wall.
“This is great.” Anne smelled bargains in the dusty, crowded store. She picked up a silver decorative monkey, picturing it on her mantle.
CC browsed selectively and made her way through the myriad of rooms at a much quicker pace than Anne. Little interested her but she did find a birdhouse crafted from tin that she had to have for her garden.
Anne hovered over a long glass-front case, eyeing the display of vintage jewelry, admiring the amber bead necklace, delicate cameo pins, and marcasite rings. She was struck by the chunky amber necklace and strained to see a price on it. The price tag was hidden from view, a pet peeve of Anne’s. She didn’t like wasting time finding someone to tell her how much something cost. She punished shop owners by leaving and never returning. In Anne’s world of antiquing, it was a capital offense.
CC stepped up behind Anne, gazing into the case. “See anything?” she asked.
“I was looking at that necklace,” Anne said, pointing at the butterscotch amber necklace.
“It’s pretty,” CC said.
“Yes, but I can’t see the price.”
“Let’s find someone to help,” CC said.
“It’s too late now. I’ve lost interest.”
CC added another Anne-syncrasie to the running list in her head, right after her time management skills and her distorted view of finance.
Anne walked to the front desk where she paid for the monkey and a pair of lapis lazuli earrings. Placing their purchases in the car, they walked the few storefronts to the old-fashioned drug store that also had a lunch counter. They opted to sit at the counter on the tall red vinyl stools instead of waiting for a table. They both ordered Green River floats and grilled cheese sandwiches.
While they waited for their order, Anne wandered around, investigating the novelty items and jars of penny candies. They had all Anne’s favorites from when she was a little girl, like bulls eyes, wax juice bottles, pixie straws, licorice pipes and dots on the paper. She filled a bag with a selection of all of them.
She stopped to test the hand cream made locally by a beekeeper. She walked past the penny scale that told your fortune. She knew her fortune would be bad if she stood on the scale after going off her diet the last few days. On the back wall were hickory walking sticks, old-fashioned crutches and a vintage wheelchair made out of wicker. Everything had a price tag dangling from it.
“Anne, the food’s here!” CC called over to her.
Anne hurried back and sat on the stool next to CC, swiveling back and forth on the seat. She was very excited about moving on to the next antique store. CC took a bite and sighed, “This is so good, Anne, It’s Gruyere, cheddar and Swiss. It’s full of gooey goodness.”
“They’ve got some really incredible antique medical supplies. I saw a leather doctor’s bag. It had to be from the 1800s,” Anne said.
They finished their lunch. Anne swiveled facing CC. “What’s the plan?”
“We contact Banning and let him know we have the spoon and it’s for sale,” CC said.
“Sounds good. Can we stop at the other little shop I saw on the way out of town?”
CC sighed, exasperated. “Okay, but only for a few minutes.” They paid for their lunch and walked onto the next shop.
Chapter Forty-Six
Anne set the video camera on top of the refrigerator in her kitchen. She looked through the viewfinder to make sure it was the perfect angle to see CC sitting at the table. She placed an art deco silver napkin holder in front of it. “All set,” she said to CC.
The doorbell rang. They looked at each other. “Are we really going to do this?” Anne asked.
CC nodded at her. They answered the door together. Banning stood straight-faced on the other side, holding a briefcase. He didn’t say a word.
“Mr. Banning, please come in,” CC said.
He followed her into the kitchen. Banning sat down at the table and placed the briefcase next to him on the floor. From above, Sassy uttered a low growl, her tail rocking like a pendulum. She looked like a Kit-Cat clock perched on the shelf.
“I understand that you were mistakenly sold a very expensive spoon,” Banning said.
“Yes, Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride spoon,” Anne said.
“May I see it?” Banning asked.
Anne took the spoon out of her large orange Prada bag, unwrapped it from the cotton cloth and handed it to Banning.
He took out an eye loupe and looked the spoon over carefully. “How did you know what the spoon was?”
“We’re antique hunters. We know a great deal about history and artifacts. This is a very important spoon. It belongs in a museum,” CC said.
Anne gave her a sharp look.
“It holds a lot of sentimental value to the Whitmore family. They were very upset when they learned it was sold by mistake. They have authorized me to offer you $5,000 cash for the spoon.” He lifted his briefcase, snapped it open. With the top of the case facing the two women, he pulled out a stack of twenties still wrapped in a Federal Reserve band. He closed the briefcase, put it on the floor and placed the stack in the middle of the table waiting for a response.
Anne got very excited. CC slowly pushed the stack of money back to Banning’s side of the table. “It’s worth ten times that,” she said.
Banning lifted up his briefcase again and pulled out another stack. He placed it on top of the other, pushing it toward CC’s side of the table. “$10,000 is as much as I’m allowed to go.”
CC reached under the table and pulled out the imitation Phoenix vase and placed it next to the money. “How much would you give me for this vase?”
Banning’s expression turned ashen. “Where’d you get that?” he asked in a loud voice.
“From Tim Whitmore’s warehouse.”
“What is this?” he stammered. “You know the spoon is fake, don’t you? Are you trying to blackmail me?”
“We know that you were buying millions of dollars of antiques for Mr. Whitmore and replacing them with replicas,” CC said.
“We know your plan,” Anne added.
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out another stack of twenties. “Here, $15,000. Keep your mouths shut.”
“We’re antique hunters. We can’t be bought,” Anne said. “You’re a disgrace to antique lovers.”
Banning pounded the table. He grabbed the cash and stood up. Anne grabbed the spoon off the table and backed up against the sink counter, terrified. This time, Banning opened the briefcase and pulled out a gun. “All I want is the spoon. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”
“What about Tim Whitmore?”
&
nbsp; “What about Tim? The fat slob died of a heart attack. What do you expect after eating all that fried hillbilly food,” Banning said, waving the gun around. “He didn’t have a clue that the antiques weren’t real. His idea of class was his framed autographed poster of Richard Petty.”
As CC and Banning spoke, Anne felt Sassy’s piercing stare. Over Banning’s head, Sassy arched her back, preparing to pounce at the sound of the can opener. Anne reached behind herself and pushed the lever down. The noise was startling.
Banning’s surprised look turned to terror when a 30-pound brass coffee grinder and a 20-pound Persian cat both landed on his head. He fell to the ground, knocked out cold.
Anne ran to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a roll of packing tape. Quickly, she and CC sealed Banning up into a cocoon. Anne then called Detective Towers who showed up a short while later.
“Okay, ladies, I’m sure there’s a very good explanation for all this. You said you caught the man who broke into your house. I take it this is him.” He looked down at Banning still tied up on the floor.
Banning tried to talk through the tape covering his mouth. Detective Towers peeled back the tape over Banning’s mouth. “These women are crazy!” Banning cried. “They called me over to look at an antique they wanted to sell. Next thing I know, they’re robbing me!”
Anne took out the stepstool, climbed up and took the video camera off the the top of the fridge. “That’s not true. We have proof.” Anne played back the whole scene for Detective Towers.
“You bi. . . .”
Before the b word could come out of Banning’s mouth, Nigel put the tape back over it. “Ladies, I have to say I was wrong.”
Anne then brought out the tea leaves. “These tea leaves are laced with arsenic. They were in the same bag with the spoon that Banning used to poison Tim Whitmore.”
Banning screamed something undecipherable through the tape. Nigel ripped it off again, along with a little bit of skin. “Okay; I’ll admit I stole from Whitmore. But I didn’t killed him! Why would I kill him? He was my golden goose!” Banning protested.
“Because he found out that you were charging him millions of dollars for cheap fakes,” CC said.
“He never knew. After he died, I was afraid that I might get caught, so I got rid of all the fakes except for that damn spoon. They were supposed to only sell the real antiques at the estate sale,” Banning said.
“How do you explain the warehouse?”
Banning grew quiet. “I want to call my attorney.”
Detective Towers cut the packing tape off completely and put Banning in handcuffs. “We can arrange for that,” he said. Detective Towers called for a squad car to take Banning. Two police officers came to the door and took him away. “I’ll need to take the spoon for evidence,” Detective Towers said.
Anne held onto the spoon. She was reluctant to let it go. CC nudged her shoulder. “I’ll make sure you get it back,” Detective Towers said.
Anne smiled at the thought of seeing Detective Towers again and handed him the spoon. For the first time since all the excitement had started, she noticed that his tie matched her pants. She wondered if it was a coincidence.
After Detective Towers left, Anne said, “I never showed you what I got from the Kirby sale.” She reached into her large orange Prada bag and pulled out a small glass case.
CC eyed the case.
“They’re commemorative stamps from the 1964 summer Olympics in Tokyo. They were only sold during the Olympics. I’m going to frame them and put them in my bathroom,” Anne said. “Neat, huh?”
“Yeah.”
“He had a lot of items from the 1964 Olympics in his office. He also had a lot of Japanese vases but this was all I could afford.”
“It’s funny because the rest of the house was very Italian,” CC said.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Tony stood behind CC, holding his hands over hers as she struggled with the steering wheel of the Biagletti. The waves were slapping against the boat’s hull, and the wind was gusting, pushing them across Lake Michigan. She could feel his chest pressing up against her back and his heart beating.
They docked the boat at Saginaw, Michigan, and walked along the pier, which was adjacent to quaint shops that nestled along it. Settling on the Captain’s Table restaurant, they sat on the outdoor deck overlooking the lake. They watched the sailboats drift by, white sails billowing in the wind.
“I’ve always wanted to race in the Mackinac run. I worked on one of the race sailboats for the Chicago Yacht Club,” he said.
“How come you never have?”
“The crew is usually reserved for club members and the Yachting elite. I’m more the hired help.”
“The Biagletti is beautiful. You’re an artist.” She paused. “That reminds me. I know of a boat that you might be interested in. I saw it at an estate sale in Lake Geneva. It’s a 1932 Chris-Craft wooden powerboat. It’s in pretty bad shape, but it’s a great boat. I think you could get a good deal on it.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
Anne thumbed through the racks of clothes in Nancy Packwall’s closet, hoping for another find like her flowered pants. Everything was pretty much picked over from the first sale. Betsy Buttersworth hadn’t even bothered to show up for this second sale. Anne held up a sleeveless beaded tank top and looked for a place to try it on. She closed the closet doors and slipped it on. Not quite right, she thought, as the top barely slid over her hips.
Where has Anne gone off to? CC asked herself as she walked through the main floor of the house. She wasn’t so much interested in the sale, as she wanted to find Mr. Ripley to tell him about Banning. She didn’t see him anywhere. She stepped out into the backyard for a cigarette. She didn’t want Anne to see that she was smoking again. All the stress of the Banning adventure had her unnerved. She wandered through the garden. The royal raindrop crabapple tree spread its arms across the yard, wind chimes and birdhouses danced in the trees’ limbs. She sat down on the circular teak bench that surrounded the tree trunk. The yard had not been tended to since Nancy’s death. She could tell that Nancy had loved her garden. CC finished her cigarette and followed the stepping-stones through the meadow sage. She watched the monarch butterflies land and take off on the purple landing strip. She followed the dry riverbed that was lined with yellow tickseed. She bent down to pull some weeds, including a sticker bush which pricked her finger.
When she stood up, she noticed the greenhouse. She could probably find a pair of gloves in there. Last time, the door had been locked; now it opened with a slight tug. The aroma of peat moss, manure, mushroom compost and soil filled her nostrils. To her, it was a fragrant perfume. Then she smelled the orchids. She closed her eyes and breathed deeply. Following the scent, she took in the heady aroma of hyacinth. It was coming from the Zygopetalum orchid, a variety known for its particular scent. She wondered if the plants were for sale, but caring for orchids had never been her forte. On the garden cart next to the orchids was a metal water mister. It looked like the one Marlon Brando had used in The Godfather.
CC admired the craftsmanship and simplicity of it. It was just what she needed. Carrying it back to the house, she went to look for Anne. She found her in the kitchen admiring a Fireking Jadeite bowl. “Are you ready to go?” CC asked.
“CC, I think this is like the bowl that’s on our list,” Anne said.
They looked over the list, checked the bowl and agreed that the price was right. They went to the long table in the living room to pay for their purchases. CC put the sprayer in a large brown bag. After leaving the house, they went to the car and loaded up the trunk. Anne got into the passenger side.
As CC was about to get in the car, she noticed Mr. Ripley’s silver Bentley pulling into the driveway. She ran up to the car as he was getting out. “Mr. Ripley!” she called.
Mr. Ripley smiled his congenial smile.
“I wanted to let you know that the police arrested Banning. He’s safely behind bars,” CC said.
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“I’m disappointed to learn that Banning is a thief, but I’m glad to hear he was brought to justice,” Mr. Ripley said. “Mr. Whitmore was a very nice man and had a wonderful collection.” With an Eastern European flair, Ripley nodded his head, bowed and kissed her hand. “What an unusual perfume!”
CC gave him an enigmatic smile.
When they got home, CC took the mister into the backyard, anxious to try it on her pepper plants. She thought about Vito Corleone chasing his grandson around the tomato plants with a slice of orange in his mouth. She pulled the plunger back and misted the peppers. The water smelled sweet like overripe bananas. She continued spraying, just to empty it out. The first honeybee struck her in the back of the neck. She turned and screamed. Two other bees stung her arms. She dropped the mister and ran up the back stairs into the kitchen swatting madly in the air.
“What’s wrong, CC?” Anne asked, sticking her head out from the refrigerator.
“Bees! I must have disturbed a hive. They’re swarming all over me!”
Anne looked out the back window. She could see what looked like an entire hive of bees around the mister, some crashing into it. “What were you spraying back there?”
“I thought it was just water. I don’t know. It was whatever Nancy Packwall used on her plants. I figured she had a beautiful garden so she must have known how to take care of the plants, but it smelled like ripe bananas.”
“Ripe bananas?” Anne asked with a furrowed brow.
The two watched out the kitchen window for some time after the bees had subsided. Anne took one of CC’s scarves and made a beekeeper’s babushka. She grabbed two oven mitts. She ran quickly outside and grabbed the mister and brought it back into the kitchen. She put it into the sink. “I can smell the bananas. It smells rotten,” Anne said, sniffing.
CC brought her a small mason jar. Anne unlatched the cap on the canister and poured some of the mixture into the jar. “I’m going to take this into work with me tomorrow and see what the deal is,” Anne said, putting the Mason jar into her large orange Prada bag.
