Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (19 page)

Chapter Forty-five             

Anne adjusted her pink-flowered Adrianna Papell silk suit bought at a bargain price on eBay as she followed CC off the elevator into the Signature Room on the 95
th
floor in Chicago’s John Hancock Building. Betsy had reserved the entire restaurant for her engagement party, and Anne wanted to do the setting justice. She looked marvelous if she thought so herself.  She paused to admire her reflection in the mirror across from the elevator.

CC stood next to her adjusting her perfect little black dress. Combined with her pearls, it made a perfect statement.

They walked into the entryway of the restaurant and lounge. The floor to ceiling windows showcased the Chicago skyline and lakefront. The lights from the buildings glowed an incandescent yellow. From this height, the buildings looked like a city made of Legos. Anne pressed her nose against the window. The headlights of the cars driving up and down Michigan Avenue appeared to be one continuous line of light. Anne thought about the stores along the Magnificent Mile. At this time, they would be closed. That was okay; they had spent the day shopping and the car was overflowing with her purchases.

Anne thought,
God Forbid, there was an earthquake! All the beautiful people of Chicago are in one room tonight. How would the city survive?
She laughed to herself.

Wearing a stunning silver sequined Aidan Mattox long gown with a train, Betsy swirled up to them.
Neiman Marcus
, Anne thought,
way beyond her price range. Definitely this season, if not next. Betsy had spared no expense for this party.
“Anne! CC!” Betsy hugged them both at the same time, holding her champagne glass way out. “So glad you could make it!” She brushed her cheek against Anne and then CC at a safe distance from possibly smearing her lipstick.
First name basis, we must have done good,
Anne thought.

“The coach house is magnificent. I love every piece that you found and Steven loves it, too. He wants to thank you himself. He’s running late,” Betsy said, glancing around the room.

The party continued with music, champagne and appetizers. CC mingled with a group from the Art Institute, giving a lecture on French Impressionism to the curator responsible for the Monet exhibit on loan from the Louvre. She accented her points in her schoolgirl French. The Paris-born curator smiled politely, not wanting to correct her.

Anne perused the buffet. She had given herself one last night off from her diets. She piled a plate high with the remaining crab legs. It was getting late, and the party was slowing down. Anne looked out the window at the stars over the city. It was beautiful. Michigan Avenue was deserted. It looked peaceful from 95 stories up. Anne thought about Bradley and the Hermitage.

“The Art Institute curator invited me to the exclusive premier,” CC said, walking up behind Anne.

Betsy came up to them. “I’m glad you’re still here. Steven just showed up. His flight was delayed.” She called, “Steven!” and waved him over to them.

“Ladies, good to see you.” He walked up to them and put his arm around Betsy’s waist.

“Congratulations,” CC said.

“Thanks for inviting us,” Anne said, grabbing a shrimp puff from the waiter as he walked by. As he tried to continue his walk, she pulled him back and grabbed the last one.

Steven walked away to say goodbye to the last guests. It was after 3 a.m., and the staff was getting anxious to leave too. “I’m glad he made it back in time,” Betsy said. “With the funeral arrangements.”

“What funeral arrangements?” CC asked.

“Steven’s grandfather passed away.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” CC said.

“I never met him. I know he was very old and in poor health so it wasn’t a shock. He gave Steven his start in the business.” Betsy’s voice dropped to a theatrical whisper. “Steven doesn’t talk much about it. He wants people to think he’s self-made, but his grandfather mentored him. He also funded his first business. He owes everything to the Colonel.”

“The Colonel?” Anne and CC asked in unison.

“Steven’s grandfather was Colonel Anderson. He was Steven’s maternal grandfather,” Betsy continued. “After Steven’s father died, he went to live with the Colonel. The Colonel raised him. They even have matching tattoos.”

“Tattoo?” CC asked.

“What about my grandfather?” Steven said, walking up behind them.

“I was telling them about your grandfather.” Betsy put a manicured hand on Steven’s sleeve.

Steven stared quietly at Anne and CC. “The ladies met my grandfather when they were in Nashville.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Betsy said. “Oh, the manager is waving to me. Excuse me.” She sashayed off.

CC grabbed Anne’s arm. “We have to go.”

“I just got here. You can’t leave now. We have to catch up,” Steven said.

“We’re not feeling well,” Anne replied.

Walking backwards to the elevator, they pressed the down button. CC tapped her foot with a growing sense of urgency. The 40-second wait for the elevator to speed from the first floor to the 95
th
seemed like hours. Anne held CC’s hand. Her eyes closed. She was breathing heavily. “What are we going to do? What about Betsy?”

Exiting the building, they headed to the street that led behind Michigan Avenue. CC had found a low-priced parking lot off of Lower Walker Drive. It was cheaper than parking in the adjacent parking garage off Michigan Avenue.

They walked down the stairs leading to the grimy parking lot. During the day, they had felt safe while they shopped but now the stores were closed and no one was out. It was a world of shadows and unfamiliar noises. They reached the bottom of the metal steps. CC grabbed Anne and whispered, “Quiet.” They could hear the click of heavy footsteps coming down the stairs behind them. “Run, Anne!” They ran down the narrow alley, avoiding the potholes. CC slipped and fell on her knees. Anne picked her up by the arm. They made it to the VW, jumped in and clicked all the door-lock buttons shut.

CC fumbled for her keys in her purse. She dropped them on the floor. She knelt down to find them. When she got up, she could see a large figure in the rearview mirror running with a limp toward the bus. The VW started with a poof. The engine cranked and then turned over. CC threw it in reverse almost hitting the dark figure who jumped out of their way.

“Hurry, CC! Drive!” Anne shouted, panting.

As CC squealed out of the parking lot, she could see headlights following behind her. She drove up the ramp leading to Michigan Avenue, doing 50 miles an hour. She flew through the red light, swerving onto the street, which was empty. She headed south. The little VW engine strained, pushing 55, 56 miles an hour. CC floored the pedal. Anne turned around in her seat looking out the back window watching the headlights getting closer. The big Ford F250 lights were bearing down on them. “Hurry, CC! He’s getting close!” Anne said, clutching her evening bag. She reached into it and pulled out her phone. She dialed Nigel. There was no answer, but she screamed into his voicemail, “”It’s Anne. We’re going be killed! We’re on Michigan Avenue. Please help us!”

She lost her signal. She tried dialing 911. “CC, I can’t get a signal.”

“Keep trying,” CC said as they reached the Michigan Avenue Bridge. The VW hit 70 miles per hour and that’s when the truck slammed into it, pushing the bus sideways and up and onto the railing.

The 1968 Volkswagen Bus teetered over the Michigan Avenue Bridge. On one side, certain death; on the other, really great shopping. Anne reached over the passenger seat and into the back to grab her bags. “That bag has my vintage Orrefors wine decanter,” she said. “I’ve spent years searching for it.”

“Anne, don’t move,” CC cautioned.

Anne ignored her friend, and the bus tipped closer to certain death than to shopping. She crawled to the back of the bus to save her day’s worth of finds. As she did, the bus teetered back towards the bridge, rising up slowly.

For once, CC couldn’t give her a hard time about going off her diet. This time it paid off. “Anne, stay where you are. Don’t move.” CC crawled back by Anne and the bus leveled out.

“What do we do now?”

“When I open the back window, we both have to crawl out at the same time,” CC said.

The Ford F250 idled in the middle of the street. The engine revved. And then the tires squealed and rammed into the rear of the bus. The bus slid, catching its back tires on the rails, the only thing keeping the bus from falling in the river. Anne and CC tumbled back into the front of the bus. CC crawled into the driver’s seat.

Anne looked up from the floor. “Look at my dress. It’s ruined.”

CC smiled. She loved her old friend. She reached down and helped her back into her seat.

“This is it. We’re going to die, aren’t we?” Anne said in a quivering voice.

CC didn’t answer and took her hand in hers. They both looked down into the cold dark of the Chicago River. Then the back window crashed in. An arm brandishing a gun came through the window. They could see the light blue of the quarter note tattoo shining in the moonlight.

Anne crawled up toward the back of the bus. Her skirt caught on the armrest, tearing.

“What are you doing?” CC yelled.

Anne climbed over the bags and boxes, clinging to the side of the VW, reaching for any hold she could grasp. She slipped a bit and then caught a hand again, pulling herself up with all her remaining strength. Taking the Orrefors vase out of the box, she dangled, holding on one with hand and with the other smashed the gun out of his hand. The vase shattered, sending shards of crystal deep into his arm. He screamed.

Then he stuck his head into the window, Anne reached around to push him away. He stuck his head in again and his ponytail caught on the jagged glass, snapping his head back. He yelled, “You just won’t die! Jenkins couldn’t kill you at the falls or in the alley. You made me kill Jenkins. Now I have to kill you!”

Anne reached around the van looking for a weapon. She saw the gun lodged against the side panel at the same time Roger did. She couldn’t reach it and she was losing her hold, starting to slide back. Roger pushed his way through the window, his ponytail starting to tear. His fingers inches away from the revolver. Anne looked down and saw her large orange Prada bag. She grabbed it and felt around inside. She touched the soft eagle feather. She pulled it out and stabbed Roger, the roadie, in the eye with the pointed quill. He screamed and fell backward onto the pavement, leaving his ponytail dangling from the jagged glass. He rolled on the ground in agonizing pain.

“Anne, we have to get out of here,” CC said as the VW groaned and squealed, metal scraping against metal. She pulled herself up toward Anne. She unlatched the window that swung out.

“Anne, you have to move a little,” CC said as they both tried to exit the window at the same time.

“CC, I’m stuck. I’m not going to fit.”

CC glanced behind Anne and noticed that she was holding her large orange Prada bag along with several shopping bags. “What are you doing? Let go of the bags.”

“
My
bags!”

“Anne, you have to let go of the bags. You’re not going to fit through the window with those bags. You have to let it go.”

At Anne’s panicked look, CC touched her cheek and in a calm, quiet voice said, “Anne, just let it go.”

Anne thought about it and realized CC was right. She pushed through the window, making one last grab, pulled the large orange Prada bag to safety. She held it up triumphantly. They heard the death rattle of the VW as the tires gave way, sending it plunging toward the Chicago River. Their last glimpse of the bus before it entered its watery grave was the bumper sticker that read, “The Spoon Sisters.”

Anne and CC lay on the cool cement of the Michigan Avenue bridge walkway as the fire department and police arrived. Roger, the roadie, rolled on the ground, grabbing his face. Blood dripped from his eye.

The EMTs put him into the waiting ambulance. Another EMT walked over and put blankets on both Anne and CC. He took their vitals. “Are you ladies, okay?”

They both shook their heads, still breathing hard. Nigel rushed up to them. “Anne, are you all right? What happened? I came as soon as I got your message.”

He knelt down. Anne put her arms around his neck and pulled him close. “Nigel, I was so scared.” She told him the story about Blue Note Records, the Colonel and Steven. Nigel relayed the story to his commander who sent a squad to the Signature Room to arrest Steven.

Chapter Forty-six

After finishing breakfast, CC sat down at the table to blog, “Dear Friends, I’m sorry it’s been a while since I’ve written.”

Anne sat next to her picking at the plate of Danish. She deserved an additional treat after her ordeal. Her one more day off her diet had turned into another one more day.

“So much has happened. I’ve attached the
Chicago Tribune
article that I wrote. It’s my first byline in a major newspaper,” she wrote, smiling. “It tells about the bridge and the Blue Note murders, all of our recent ordeals,” CC continued typing. A chat window opened on her screen with a shrill noise. It was Betsy. “Hi Betsy,” CC said.

“Hi, Betsy.” Anne stood in the background, peering over CC’s shoulder.

“Where are you?” CC asked.

“I’m at O’Hare. I’m heading to Paris. I’m going to be gone for a while. I wanted to say goodbye.” Betsy paused, pushing her Fendi sunglasses up onto her forehead.

“I’m so sorry everything turned out like it did,” CC said.

“Me too,” Betsy said, showing an expressionless face. She paused, trying to think of something to say. “I have to go. They’re boarding my plane.” Betsy pressed off and disappeared.

“You think Betsy will be okay?” Anne asked.

“Betsy’s always fine,” CC said.

“You notice she was wearing the cashmere trench coat from Burberry. I don’t even think it’s available here yet. She’s probably going to all the runway shows.” Anne pictured herself strolling on the Champs-Ėlysées, arms loaded with one-of-a-kind designer originals and enjoying pastries at a sidewalk café. “Mmm, petit fours.” She eyed the Danish again with disdain. It was the lesser cousin of the French pastry. “I wish I could fly off on a whim and go to Paris,” she said, biting off a piece of the cheese sweet roll.

Not answering, CC returned to her blog; her fans were waiting. Anne looked around for her phone to check her eBay watch list. “CC, have you seen my phone?” Anne dug into her large orange Prada bag. She pulled out an envelope. It had the Cherokee casino logo on it.

“What’s that?” CC asked.

“I forgot about this. John Blackbear gave it to me.” Anne turned it over. “Maybe it’s a gift card for a free stay at the casino. That would be fun.”

CC continued writing.

Anne ripped open the envelope. The check read, “Pay to the order of Anne Hillstrom, $250,000.”

“CC, how do you feel about Paris?” Anne asked.

THE END