Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (8 page)

Chapter Sixteen

Saturday morning, CC’s phone rang, rousing her from her sleep. The train whistle faded into the strident ringing of the phone. “Hello, Ms. Muller? CC? It’s Helen Bradley from the
Daily Star
,” the voice on the other end said.

CC cleared her foggy head and sat up. “Yes, Helen, how are you?”

“Sounds like I woke you. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s all right.”

“Just wanted to let you know we spoke with Mr. Talcott. This guy is a piece of work. When we confronted him, he admitted he might have made a mistake. He returned Ida’s money and took the bears off the shelf. He didn’t want any bad publicity.”

“That’s great news. Thank you,” CC said and they hung up.

In small towns, word of mouth spreads quickly. Ida had told everyone she met about how Anne and CC had helped her with the bear. When CC blogged about the trip to Michigan, she received over 40 comments––the most she’d ever had in one day. Some were about Ida and the article about Talcott’s collections, but even more were from people asking her to either authenticate or find something for them. CC scribbled notes on the pad she kept next to her computer.

Scanning the listings on estatesales.net, CC saw one promising listing that might be worth their time. She picked up the phone to call Anne.

Recognizing the number on her caller ID, Anne answered, “Hi, CC.”

“Hello, Annie,” CC said from the other end of the phone line. “I was finishing writing about our trip to Amish Acres. They mentioned our blog in
The Daily Star
article about Ida, and you won’t believe this! We got over 40 comments.”

“That’s great,” Anne said.

“It is great, but a lot of people are asking for our help. There’s a woman from Holland who’s looking for a Rosenthal plate. There’s a man from Hobart looking for a pre-World War II Martin guitar,” CC said, skimming through the comments.

“Why are they asking us? Why don’t they just go to eBay or auctions?” Anne said.

“Most of them are nervous about purchasing items without the help of an expert eye, especially after reading about Ida,” CC said. “I guess they feel they can trust us.”

“That’s great. Make a list. Let’s go shopping.”

“That’s the other reason I called. Do you have any plans for this Saturday?” CC continued.

“Not as far as I know. What’s up?” Anne replied.

“Something right up your alley. There’s an estate sale in Sauganash,” CC said. An old established neighborhood on Chicago’s far north side, Sauganash residents teetered on the edge of the North Shore. Most residents believed they
were
the North Shore, but the true North Shorians had something else to say about it.

“What’s at the sale?” Anne asked, perking up.

“Lots of furniture, jewelry, crystal––the pictures look high end, very collectible. And she collected bears,” CC said

“I am so there, CC. Pick me up at seven,” Anne said with a renewed enthusiasm in her voice.

That Saturday, on the way to the sale at Sauganash, Anne and CC stopped at a few garage sales they spotted along the way. Anne was on a mission to find the items on the growing list of requests from their
fans
as CC called them. CC hoped that when the time came for Anne to part with her purchases she’d be able to.

Noticing a large sign advertising a rummage sale on the corner of Pulaski Road, CC turned down a side street. They could hear the sounds of Polish music before even arriving in front of a church. This north side Chicago neighborhood consisted of a large Polish population. Outside of Warsaw, Chicago boasted the largest population of Polish people in the world. CC hoped to find something on their list.

The church parking lot was closed to parking, its blacktopped surface lined with individual tents, similar to a flea market. In the church’s side yard, children were playing soccer. A food truck was parked selling Polish specialties including Kielbasa and sauerkraut, cabbage rolls and potato pancakes.

After quickly scanning items at the first table, Anne and CC walked away. It had been a large collection of children’s toys, clothes and worn shoes. Not worth their time. The next tent had a long table cluttered with household items including glasses, pots and pans and mismatched silverware.

CC and Anne walked up and down the tables, looking carefully at the selection. At one table, they found a shoebox holding a mishmash of jewelry. CC sorted through it and pulled out what appeared to be a medallion. “Anne, look at these. They’re scapular medals,” CC said, holding them up to Anne. One side of the medal bore an image of Jesus. “It’s marked
medalik szkaplerzny
. That’s Polish for
scapular
.” CC turned the medallion over and they could see the Virgin Mary. “It’s seen normal wear from being rubbed over the years. This has to date back to the early 1900s.”

Anne picked one up and rubbed it between her fingers. “What kind of metal is this?”

“It’s aluminum.”

“It can’t be worth a lot if it’s aluminum.”

“Actually, during that time period, aluminum was very valuable. It was worth a lot of money.”

“What do you think we should offer?” Anne asked, sorting though the box, pulling out similar medals.

CC reached into her purse and pulled out her reporter’s notebook. Scanning down the list, she remembered the name John Wilson. “Anne, Mr. Wilson––he’s in Kalamazoo. He collects war medals and medallions. He’s looking for European medallions. This might cover both. The Polish soldiers carried these into battle in World War I and II for protection.”

“Let’s get them then,” Anne said.

Taking the medals to the woman holding the cash box, Anne and CC negotiated a price for the entire box. Anne slipped one into her pocket, hoping CC would not notice.

CC stopped to listen to the polka band and watch the folk dancers in their colorful native costumes. She noticed a table set up in front of a rusty delivery truck. Its faded lettering read, “Lock Service.” A large elderly man sat on a folding chair behind the table, smoking a rolled cigarette. CC walked over. The table was piled high with padlocks, lock-picking tools, and combination locks, some new, some very old. CC stopped when she saw the padlock. It was an 1880s Trenton lock and hardware. CC held the cool metal in her hands and looked at him. He smiled. “You know your locks. That is a John Chinaman. Do you know the story?”

CC did but let him continue.

“It’s called a story lock because of the image depicted on it. A Chinese fellow is attempting to steal a flask of whiskey through the window. The shopkeeper’s dog catches him and bites his ankle. The lock was used as a restraining lock to lock up thieves,” he explained.

“It’s a beautiful example of their work. It’s in great shape,” CC said. “I’d love to have it. And this is the original key, isn’t it?”

He nodded and rolled up another cigarette.

CC couldn’t quite place his accent, but she’d smelled his tobacco before. It smelled Turkish. She picked up another lock. It was a 1910 post office combination lock used on mailbags. It was a five-cylinder model which was pretty rare. She gently spun the cylinders, which rotated smoothly. “I cleaned that one just recently,” the man said.

“How much are you asking for these?”

“Why don’t you start a pile? I think you’re going to be here a while.”

CC knew she was going to have to pay dearly for this. There was no hiding her enthusiasm. She made a large pile of the locks on the table. When she was done, CC made the calculations in her head. She knew she had to start at least at five hundred dollars. She didn’t want to insult him, but she also wanted a good deal. Antique locks were on her list, but these would probably stay in her collection. She’d worry about that later. She took another whiff of the tobacco again and realized it wasn’t Turkish. “Kolko Struva.”

“Very good.” He smiled and nodded. “You speak Bulgarian.”

CC laughed. “No, I’m sorry I don’t, but I finally recognized the accent. The tobacco had me fooled. I thought it was Turkish.”

He shook his head. “God, no. I’m Bulgarian. Eleven hundred for everything,” he said.

“I couldn’t give you more than $400.”

“That’s not enough. The story lock is worth more than that by itself.”

“$450?”

“You’re a very nice lady, and I appreciate you speaking Bulgarian.” He bit the tip of his cigarette and spat it out on the ground. “Tell you what, you make it $500 and I will give you something special for free.” He got up and went into his van. He came back holding a large ring of skeleton keys. “These keys are very special. Some of these I cut myself. They will fit almost any padlock.”

“Deal,” CC said. She shook his hand and gave him her cash. She wrapped everything up in a large grocery bag and went to find Anne. She found Anne covered in powdered sugar, a large plate of kolacky in her hand.

“We have go to the sale in Sauganash. It ends soon,” CC said.

Later, when they arrived in Sauganash, they pulled up to a brown brick bungalow on Chicago’s far north side. It was typical of Chicago’s 1920s homes and similar to Anne’s. They walked up the cement steps and onto the porch. The front door was open, so they walked in. The home boasted its original oak wood trim and a brick fireplace. The oak floors creaked underneath their feet.

Anne was intoxicated by the smell of antiquity. CC headed directly for the basement. It smelled musty, a scent not unpleasing to CC. Ductwork and electrical conduit twisted its way along the open rafters down below ground. There was an eight-foot long homemade pine bar with four plush stools. CC sat down, staring at the eight-foot long beveled mirror that hung behind a hundred or so assorted bottles of whiskeys, liquors and vodkas.
Somebody had a great time in this basement
, CC thought. Next to the bottles were German beer steins, a bowling pin whiskey decanter and a little 1960s Hawaiian girl who could be coaxed to hula and shake your drink if you put a quarter in a slot. CC wanted everything. She thought about the scene from one of her favorite scary movies,
The Shining
. At first, it was fun talking to the ghostly bartender. Then she remembered the rest of the movie and jumped off the barstool quickly.

She went into the furnace room where there was a long steel cabinet that ran the length of the wall next to the oil boiler. The long skinny wooden drawers were filled with rusty tools. There were 20 mason jars filled with assorted screws, nuts and bolts, and nails. Attached to the top of the counter was an old hand-cranked vise. Above it, on the wall, a rusty handsaw hung. CC said out loud, “Somebody had a good time in here, too.” She caught the attention of the estate sale employee working the basement and negotiated a price for all the items. The employee helped her carry them upstairs to the living room.

Anne went upstairs to one of the three small bedrooms. In the third bedroom, she found a collection of bears, ranging from beanie babies to a giant stuffed panda. In the middle was a small, perfectly cared for Steiff bear. Anne checked the button tag on its ear and the corresponding tag on its chest. Both looked to be original and intact. The only wear the bear showed was from being loved a lot. The fur was a bit matted where some little girl had held it close to her heart. Maybe it belonged to the owner when she was a little girl. No matter its story, it deserved to be loved.

CC poked her head in the bedroom. She was carrying German beer steins. “Anne, check these out. These are pre-World War II from Oktoberfest in Munich. They’re awesome!”

Anne turned around to look at CC. Anne held up the bear so CC could see it.

“It’s perfect.” CC pulled out her iPhone, snapped a picture and then emailed it to Ida.

Feeling satisfied with their day’s purchases, they stopped for lunch at Portillo’s, a famous Chicago chain known for its Italian beef and hotdogs. Anne was not able to stay on her low carb diet. With all the excitement going on, she ordered a beef and cheddar croissant,
wet
––as true Chicagoans call
extra gravy
. She complemented the order with fresh-cut onion rings.

CC ordered a salad and a glass of water. She gave Anne a disapproving look at her choice of lunch.

“Really, after all that’s happened, you’re going to begrudge me a little comfort food?” Anne asked, taking a large bite out of her soppy sandwich.

CC didn’t say a word, pulling her mason jar out of her purse and sprinkling it onto her salad. “It makes everything better,” CC said before Anne could even comment.

Anne paused long enough to take the first bite of her chocolate cake.

“You know why Portillo’s cake is so moist, don’t you?” CC asked. “It’s because they add mayonnaise to the batter.”

Anne just nodded her head, her mouth full of chocolate cake.

After dropping Anne off at her house, CC went home and walked Bandit. Taking out their day’s purchases, she photographed the items they’d found that were on the list and mailed them off to the various requesters. She then blogged about their day’s adventures.

There was a new comment waiting for her. CC read it, “Hi, I’m Martha Thart, a freelance writer for the
Chicago Tribune
. My aunt, Susan, who summers in New Buffalo, sent me the story about you and the bear. I pitched it to our feature editor, and she gave me the go-ahead to write your story. I’d like to arrange an interview.”