Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (13 page)

Chapter Twenty-seven

The black Lincoln town car pulled up in front of Monique’s, a vintage clothier located off a side street, one block away from Broadway. Bradley jumped out of the driver’s seat and opened the door for Anne and CC. “Ladies, do you want to me to come in with you? I know the owner.”

“Of course, Bradley,” Anne said. She definitely was getting used to this service. All CC saw was dollar signs.

Walking ahead of them, Bradley opened the door that led into the small storefront. The window display contained stage costumes from different decades. “Monique’s is mostly known for its country stage costumes, but the owner also deals in high-end vintage clothing in her Charleston store. I contacted her yesterday. She had ball gowns overnighted that she thinks will work for you.”

As they spoke, a beautiful woman floated into the room wearing a classic Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress and pearls. Her jewels were vintage Harry Winston. Anne could tell they were not imitation. She was pleased to be in such elegant company and wondered if she could try the necklace on. Anne thought Monique resembled Helen Mirren.

Bradley kissed Monique on both cheeks and spoke rapidly in French. Anne and CC watched in amazement at being exposed to another one of Bradley’s talents. “This is Monique. Monique, may I introduce Ms. Hillstrom and Ms. Muller. They are antique hunters,” Bradley explained with a flourish.

Anne curtseyed as if she were in the royal court. CC shook Monique’s hand. With a lilting French accent, Monique spoke, “I understand you ladies have been invited to tomorrow’s charity ball at the Hermitage plantation. You will need the right attire for the costume ball. I have the perfect gowns for you both. I believe Bradley was correct in estimating your measurements. For you, Miss Hillstrom.” Monique held up a royal purple silk gown with a bustle and layers and layers of flounces.

Anne smiled approvingly and reached out a hand to touch the silk. Her fairy godmother had picked the perfect gown. She already felt like Cinderella.

“And, for you, Miss Muller, a more practical gown.” Monique held up a severe high-necked teal satin ball gown.

Reaching for the hanger of the purple dress, Anne could feel the history emanating from it. “Are these authentic dresses from the era?”

“Of course. That dress you’re holding was worn by General Nash’s wife at a similar ball at Mr. Jackson’s house. And, the one you hold, Ms. Muller, was worn by a French countess––Dubuque––who was a mistress of Mr. Jackson’s, or so the story goes. Quite scandalous, wouldn’t you agree?”

Before Monique could finish, Anne was in the dressing room changing. She was a bit worried since she had been off her South Beach, low carb, paleo, Weight Watchers diets. Oh, what the heck! She was off all her diets, but she wore her Fitbit faithfully everyday and tried to reach her 10,000––more like 2,000––step quota.
This vacation––no correction
, Anne thought,
antique hunting trip, had not been kind to any of her diets, and she could see a slight difference in her waistline.

She slid the gown on and felt the smooth silk slide over her. It fit perfectly. Bradley was amazing. She twirled around and watched the silk float like an exuberant butterfly around her ankles. This was her destiny. She had found her time machine and this evening would be set for 1820.

CC stared at the full-length gold-gilded mirror. She wouldn’t say it out loud and she was embarrassed to think it, but she looked beautiful. She had felt beautiful ever since the night at Brent’s house. She no longer thought about Tony or Italy or her ex-husband. She felt like Mata Hari using her feminine wiles to spy on the enemy. But who was the enemy?

Bradley kissed both Monique’s cheeks, spoke again for several minutes in French as the two laughed. Anne looked around the shop, admiring the sequined jackets, short leather skirts and bandana tie-dyed halter tops––all fitting for a stage performance. “Monique will have the gowns pressed and then delivered to the hotel,” Bradley said.

As they left Monique’s, Anne received a text message on her iPhone from Nigel. It read “glad to help.” She opened the attachment. Anne downloaded the police report. She skimmed it, stopping at the sentence that read, “Victim had tattoo of blue quarter note on his arm.”
They looked at each other. The police report confirmed what they already knew. Walters had the same tattoo as Roger.

CC read over her shoulder. They both were silent.

Chapter Twenty-eight

Bradley pulled the 1940s maroon Duesenberg up the long driveway leading to Andrew Jackson’s majestic Hermitage plantation. Its oil lanterns were aglow in the early evening. In the circular driveway, there were limousines, Rolls Royce’s and exotic sports cars. For the occasion, Bradley had borrowed the car from a local collector and had donned full chauffeur attire. The front entrance was a cluster of activity, a rainbow of color from the array of period gowns. Almost everyone stopped to watch as the million-dollar car pulled up by the front steps. All the Nashville elite wanted to see who would step out. Bradley exited the driver’s seat, placed his chauffeur’s cap on his head, opened the back door, clicked his heels and bowed. He reached his hand down to first help Anne out and then CC. As he bowed his head, he gave them a wink.

Around her neck, Anne was wearing a gold and ivory cameo locket; Bradley had borrowed it from a turn-of-the-century jewelry display in the hotel’s lobby. CC was wearing a pearl and emerald choker from the same collection. Apparently, there was no limit to Bradley’s skills.

Anne and CC walked up the steps, nodding at the gawking Nashvillians. From the ballroom, they could hear the opening strains of a waltz. They crossed over the lobby and wandered through the crowd into the ballroom. Anne felt like she had stepped back in time to antebellum days. She imagined Andrew Jackson walking down the marble staircase. The beauty and elegance of the young country, this young city displaying its potential.

Anne strolled around, touching all the antiques. It was a rare opportunity to view history from the other end of the red velvet rope. From behind her, she heard a familiar voice. She turned to see Chief John Blackbear wearing full tribal chieftain dress. “John, what are you doing here?”

He smiled. “I am representing the seven clans of the Cherokee who were allowed to stay in North Carolina. President Jackson enforced the Indian Removal Act but was persuaded to allow our clans to stay in North Carolina.”

Anne was so excited she forgot her decorum and kissed his cheek. John Blackbear’s smile grew. “Anne, I must talk to you. Can we walk out to the veranda?”

The early evening fall air was cool and crisp, but not cold. The wind coming off the rolling hills blew through Anne’s golden hair. Her bare shoulders glistened ivory in the waning moon. Her blue eyes sparkled. John Blackbear towered over her like the great mountain of a man he was. His eyes were soft and his voice gentle. “Anne, I met with the leaders of the seven clans. The morning star crystal as you know is invaluable to my people. They wish that I not only thank you for finding it, but that I give you this. I was going to bring it to your hotel, but now please take it.” He handed her an envelope embossed with the casino logo.

“John, what is this? I didn’t do this for any reward. I wanted to help you. I care about you. I understand the importance of preserving history.” She tried to hand the envelope back to him.

“Anne, the casino has been very profitable. Money is not an issue for my people. This is merely our way of thanking you. I insist. Do with it what you wish, but to refuse it would be an insult to the clans.” John’s hand reached over hers, pushing the envelope back toward her.

“Thank you, John.” She placed the envelope in her bag. Anne reached up and put her arms around John Blackbear’s neck and pulled him down. She kissed him once as a thank you. The second kiss was all for her.

While Anne and Chief Blackbear lingered in the moonlight, CC was in a group of history professors from Vanderbilt who were discussing Andrew Jackson’s policy on tobacco reform. “You know, Andrew Jackson was one of the first to introduce a natural tobacco pesticide to fight aphids,” CC broke into their conversation. “He learned the recipe from the Cherokee Indians who used it for their corn crops. It transferred quite nicely to tobacco crops. The Cherokee called it kaola. It was a mixture of burnt chestnut tree bark, tickseed leaves, and sage. I forget the rest, but I can send you the recipe if you’re interested. I’ve actually made it for my garden back home in Glen Ellyn, Illinois. I make a paste that I mix with three to one fertilizer. Then I bury it deep in the roots of my tomato plants and other herbs in early spring. It works quite well.”

The professors silently stared at her, wondering who she was and why she was talking to them. The band stopped and the caller announced “Ladies and Gentlemen, Colonel Andrew Jackson and his wife, Mrs. Jackson.” The band played a fanfare as Mr. Robinson dressed as Andrew Jackson entered. He led a woman in a pink satin ball gown down the stairs, her arm placed on his forearm.

No wonder he wanted us to attend; it gives him a chance to show off,
CC thought. Mr. Robinson/Jackson stopped along the way and kissed hands as ladies curtseyed. He bowed to the men, some dressed in army uniforms. He recognized CC and walked over to her. “I’m so glad you could attend,” he said. “This is my wife, Rachel.” He introduced the woman to CC.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Robertson.”

Mr. Robertson/Jackson cleared his throat. “Ma’am, you’re mistaken. This is my wife, Mrs. Rachel Jackson.”

“So sorry, of course.” CC curtseyed. “You have a beautiful home, Mrs. Jackson. Your costumes are so authentic.”

“Ma’am, these aren’t costumes. This is actually my formal dress uniform.” Mr. Robertson/Jackson corrected her again.

CC thought she’d drink the Kool-Aid or, in this case, the punch. She would play her part and said, “I beg your pardon, Colonel Jackson. All this excitement has given me the vapors.” She fanned herself with her ornate hand-painted fan.

“I’m sorry that Colonel Anderson won’t be making an appearance tonight. His secretary informed me that he is not feeling well,” Mr. Robertson/Jackson said.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” CC said. “Maybe you can arrange for us to meet him at a later date.”

The music started up and the dancing began before supper was announced. John Blackbear led Anne into the dining room. He held out her chair and then sat next to her. CC sat on the other side of Anne across from Mr. Robertson.

Liveried servants brought large silver platters bearing a variety of food, including roasted pheasant. After the main courses, the servants brought out a large cake known as an election cake. These cakes were made for large community gatherings.

After it was served, Mr. Robertson stood up and motioned to the band to stop playing. He tapped his glass and raised it. “To Nashville. To Tennessee. To the United States of America!”

“To Colonel Jackson!” someone across the table cried out.

The room filled with the clanking of glasses and cheers of “Huzzah.”

Suddenly, the French doors burst open and two men in period costume burst into the room followed by a swirl of wind and rustling leaves. The flames in the chandeliers swayed and flickered. The first man was elegantly dressed; the second was garbed in the high collar and a black tie of a groomsman. He was carrying an ornate wooden box.

Mr. Robertson/Jackson stood up and exclaimed, “Dickinson, how dare you enter my home? What is the meaning of this?”

“You, sir, are a scoundrel and a coward! You reneged on our horse bet. I demand satisfaction!” said the Charles Dickinson impersonator.

“Sir, this is neither the place nor the time for your insults. I have guests. You embarrass yourself in front of my wife and our friends.”

“Your wife is a bigamist.”

“How dare you come into my home and insult my family!” Mr. Robertson/Jackson said, slamming his fist onto the table.

Dickinson motioned to his second, who placed the ornate wooden box on the dining room table in front of Mr. Robertson/Jackson. He unlocked it and opened it revealing two silver-handled dueling pistols. “I besiege you to examine the pistols. I challenge you to a duel at Harrison’s Mill.”

CC was all excited. She held up her fan to whisper to Anne, “You know, Anne, Andrew Jackson had a notorious temper and fought over a hundred duels. The man who broke in, Charles Dickinson, was one of his most famous duels. This will be exciting. Watch.” She was enjoying the show. She knew the whole story of the May 30, 1806 conflict when Jackson and Dickinson fought a duel that ended poorly for Dickinson on the Red River in Kentucky.

The candles in the chandeliers flickered again; this time they were extinguished. The room went dark. Seconds later, there was a flash of light and then a gunshot. The guests screamed.

Someone turned on the auxiliary electric lights. CC and Anne were lying on the floor with Bradley on top of them. There was a gunshot hole in the back of the chair where CC’s head could have been––should have been––if not for Bradley’s quick thinking. “Bradley, what happened?” CC said. “How did you know?”

“I saw these men break into the house. I thought they might be trouble. By the time I came through the door, the candles went out. I could hear the cocking of the pistol, that’s when I pushed you and Anne to safety,” Bradley said.

Mr. Robertson/Jackson ran over to CC and helped her up. “Ms. Muller, the guns were not supposed to be loaded. This was to be a reenactment. I don’t know what happened. I have no idea who fired the pistol.”

He yelled for security. “Check the house. Check the grounds. Call the police!” The guests were still in shock and murmured in soft whispers amongst themselves.

CC looked on the table. The box was open with only one pistol remaining. The other one was missing. She examined the bullet hole in her chair. There was no possibility it was a misfire or an accident. Whoever had shot it was not only an expert marksman but could apparently see in the dark. She and Anne had been turning over stones and something evil had crawled out.

Later, Detective Clark, who had been the officer who questioned them after they had found Walters, arrived at the scene. Recognizing Anne and CC, he sighed and questioned them first, “Ms. Muller, Ms. Hillstrom, apparently all crimes in Nashville revolve around you. Can you tell me what happened?”

“Detective Clark, we were having a perfectly lovely dinner,” Anne said, describing the feast. “We had pheasant, which was delicious. I usually don’t care for gamey birds but this was perfectly done. For dessert, we had a delicious spiced election cake with fresh whipped cream. And a lovely raspberry cordial.”

“And what about the gunshot?” he said with a deep sigh.

“Charles Dickinson’s assistant set the dueling pistols on the table and opened the box. Then the candles blew out and the gun fired,” CC said.

“Where is this assistant now?” Detective Clark looked around the room. The groups of elegantly clad guests were talking quietly as police officers gathered their information.

CC looked at Mr. Robertson. He shook his head. “I don’t know. I don’t know who he is. He wasn’t the actor we used last year,” he said. Mr. Robertson motioned for the Charles Dickinson impersonator to come over. “This is John Thompson, he’s with the Historical Society. He played Charles Dickinson, my dueling adversary. John, this detective wants to speak to you.”

“Where’s the man who was helping you tonight?” Detective Clark asked.

“His name’s Jenkins. I met him at the gun club. He’s a regular there. When my usual assistant couldn’t make it, I asked Jenkins if he could fill in,” Johnson said.

While the detective was talking to Johnson, CC followed the trajectory line of the bullet hole from the back of her chair to the back wall. She found the ball lodged into the sideboard. She looked around to make sure no one saw her. Its bright sheen was not characteristic of an authentic lead ball that should have been used for the dueling pistol. It was a machined steel ball. She had been to the manufacturing plant and recognized it as coming from Southern Tradition Flintlocks. Upon closer examination, she saw their mark.

Detective Clark walked up to Anne and CC. “Once again, I’m asking you ladies to stay in town until we can wrap up all the investigations,” he said.

John Blackbear walked Anne outside. “Anne, it’s not safe for you here. I want you to come back to my house with me.”

“John, I can’t leave CC.”

“CC is welcome also.”

“I appreciate the offer but we have work to do. Antique hunting work. It’s important work,” Anne said.

John Blackbear bent down and kissed Anne. “The offer stands. You’re always welcome at the reservation and in my home.”

CC walked up to Anne after John Blackbear left. “So, what was that all about?”

“Nothing, it’s been a long night. Let’s go home.”

Bradley opened the door of the Duesenberg and helped them into the back seat. He stuck his head in. “Are you sure you’re both okay?”

Anne placed her gloved arm on Bradley’s arm. “As long as you’re around, I have a feeling we will always be okay, Bradley.”