Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (3 page)

She meandered into the game room where she found a vintage MET mahjong set, all original Bakelite and in its alligator briefcase. She estimated it to be a circa-1940 set. At $50, it was a steal. She could resell it for $250 or maybe $300 and there was a collector on her list looking for one. Over the past year, CC and Anne had scratched out a small profit by locating items for their fans. Anne struggled with the concept of only charging a
finder’s fee
but CC made sure the small profit they made was fair to both them and the fans. As the list grew, so did the profits. Anne was hoping she could make the Spoon Sisters, Antique Hunters, her full-time career.

As she found and checked off more items, that possibility was becoming a reality. This room contained many items on the list. Arms overflowing, she went outside to the garden tent. It was crowded inside with people holding silk flowers, baskets, ceramic arts and yard art. She was drawn to a Japanese cricket house. This would be perfect for CC’s koi pond. She grabbed it before another woman could snatch it up. Then she picked up a brass planter, looked it over, and set it down. It was a bullet atomic planter, solid brass with a turquoise interior.
Mid-century modern
, Anne thought,
not her style
. Then she thought about it again but the cricket woman was now holding it. “Excuse me, I was looking at that first,” Anne said.

“I didn’t see you holding it,” The cricket woman said, turning to talk to her friend so her back was facing Anne.

“Hmmph,” Anne said, thinking about it for a moment. “That’s okay; you can have it. By the way, it’s overpriced.” Anne walked away, feeling good about herself.

She carried the rest of her items to the long wooden counter where the cash registers were and paid for her purchases. She waited by the front doors for CC who came out bearing two large shopping bags. “What’d you find?”

“I got an early F-body Nikon and some lens filters. Look at these cigar boxes,” CC said. “They are from 1950’s Cuba. I am going to make everyone boxes for Christmas this year.”

Anne thought about CC’s boxes. They were decoupage, glued with images from vintage catalogs, magazines and yearbooks. More of a hodgepodge than art. Another project from her craft room but she didn’t want to discourage her friend. “Anything else?” Anne asked, struggling under the weight of her bags.

“I bought the pants. I think I look good in them. I bought something for Tony.” She reached into one of the bags and pulled out a white captain’s cap.

“That’s nice. Have you spoken to him lately?”

“We talked on the phone a couple nights ago. He’s been busy getting ready for Italy.”

They boarded the shuttle bus, balancing their bags on their laps. The bus was crowded and jostled along the road. Anne cradled the china like a newborn. When they reached the parking lot, they found CC’s 1968 VW bus blocked in behind a Mercedes and Lexus. “We’ll have to wait,” CC said.

“I’m not waiting.” Anne got out of the car and walked over to the police officer who was directing traffic. Minutes later, cars were being moved. “I showed them the picture of Nigel in his dress uniform. I might have said, my husband, Detective Nigel.”

“Anne, you’re really bad,” CC said. “Are you hungry? Do you want to stop for lunch?”

Lunch
, Anne thought,
would be nice but she still had a long list of places to stop before heading home
. “We don’t have time for lunch. I’ve brought some turkey sandwiches.” She reached into her large orange Prada bag and pulled out two foil wrapped packages. She handed one to CC.

By the end of the day, Anne was exhausted and broke. When they reached CC’s house, she barely had enough energy to carry her bags to her car. It took a while for her to fit everything into the already overcrowded Mercury Mystique.

CC, seeing Anne shuffling to her car, asked, “Do you want to come in for dinner? I can whip something up.”

At the click of the key, Bandit ran to greet them at the door. Anne barely acknowledged Bandit and plopped down on the sofa. She kicked off her sensible penny loafers and rubbed her aching arches. “CC,” she yelled over her shoulder as CC went into the kitchen. “I was thinking about the Flora Danica. What are the chances I’m ever going to find a set like that for a price like that?”

CC grabbed some fresh shrimp from her fridge, cleaned them and put them in a saucepan with lemon juice, garlic and olive oil. “Anne, you’re not thinking about keeping them, are you?” she asked while chopping lettuce.

“I’m just saying, would it be the worst thing in the world if just this one time I kept something on the list for myself. Let’s face it, we’re never going to find everything on the list. I’m willing to try, of course, and I enjoy helping people out. I enjoy hunting for treasures but don’t you feel like we deserve a little happiness, too.” Anne studied the plate. “This plate makes me happy.”

CC half listened as the oil started sizzling. She placed two halves of Romaine lettuce brushed with olive oil, Parmesan cheese, salt and pepper on a stovetop grill. She was helping Anne keep to her low carb diet. She turned down the pan with the shrimp and added a splash of vermouth. As the liquor cooked off, she went down to her cellar and selected a bottle of her homemade cherry wine that she had put up earlier in the season.

She brought Anne a glass. “Why don’t we eat and then we’ll talk about it?”

Anne sipped tentatively. “This is really good. Where’d you get this?”

“The backyard,” CC replied. “My cherry trees. It’s an old family recipe. Actually very simple. You mash up the cherries, add sugar and water, some yeast and then let it ferment. The trick is to pick the cherries at just the right time when they’re at their sweetest. I had a really good crop of cherries this year.”

Between being tired and thinking about the china, Anne blocked CC out. She often had selective hearing when it came to her friend. CC was a wealth of knowledge when a penny’s worth would do.

CC placed the romaine on the plate and put the shrimp on top of it. She sprinkled feta on it, garnished it with fresh herbs and her homemade blueberry vinaigrette. She poured more wine and sat at the table.

Anne sat across from her, with her phone near her side. The prices on her eBay watch list items were climbing and probably out of her price range but it was still fun to look. “What’s going on with you and Nigel?” CC asked.

“He asked me to go to Galena for the weekend. You know I love Galena. It’s just blocks and blocks of antique shops, cute cafes and bed and breakfasts.” Anne pictured the quaint town in her mind’s eye.

“Anne, I don’t think he wants to go for the antiquing. I think he wants to spend quality time alone with you,” CC reprimanded her.

“I know that. It’s just I’m uncomfortable with being with him in that way.”

“What do you mean that way?” CC asked.

“In a romantic way, you know,” Anne speared a shrimp with her fork and took a big gulp of her wine.

“Anne, you’ve been dating him for a year now.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call it dating.” Anne paused. “I like him but I don’t know if I like him that way.”

“Anne, he‘s not asking you to get married. He’s asking you to go to Galena for a weekend.”

“I’m afraid if I say
yes
he’s going to get the wrong idea. Don’t get me wrong. I think he’s attractive, sweet, funny, but I don’t have those feelings for him. I wanted to but it isn’t happening.”

“I think if that’s the way you feel, you should let him know. I’ve seen the way he looks at you.”

“CC, I’m afraid if I tell him, I’m going to lose him. He means a lot to me. I want him to be my friend. I enjoy his company but I don’t feel that spark that knocks me off my heels.” Anne looked at her plate and moved her food around.

CC knew what Anne was talking about because she felt that spark with Tony. After dinner, CC brought up her computer and went to her blog site. “Anne, you never wrote your post for this week.”

“I’m too tired to think about that now. I’ll do it tomorrow when I’m fresh.”

“Dear Friends,” CC typed, “Anne and I are back from the Lake Forest Presbyterian Church rummage sale. It was crowded as always.”

Anne put her fingers up to her mouth and said, “Shhh. Don’t tell them about the plates. I haven’t decided yet.”

“You know they can’t hear us, right?” CC returned to typing and jumped at the buzzing coming from her computer. “Anne, I have a Face-time coming in. It’s Tony.”

“Do you want me to leave?” Anne asked.

“Don’t be silly.” CC straightened her hair, put on lipstick and checked herself in the mirror. She sat back down. A handsome man with salt and pepper hair and a weatherworn face appeared on her iMac. “CC, are you there?” Tony asked.

“Hi, Tony, can you see me now?” She waved at him.

“Yes.”

“You look great.”

CC blushed.

“I’m here, too.” Anne waved from behind CC.

“I finished the ship. If I want to sail it back to Italy this year, I have to leave soon. Look, I’ll show you.” Holding his iPhone, he gave her a panoramic view from the dock.

“She’s beautiful, Tony.” CC hesitated a minute before asking, “Couldn’t you have someone else sail it back?”

“The agreement I made with the buyer included delivery and stated that I would hand deliver it. I’ve spent the past 18 months working on her,” he paused. “I want to take her out on the open sea. Let’s meet for dinner tomorrow and we can talk.”

“Sounds good, Tony.” She clicked off.

“Why does he have to move back?” Anne asked.

“It’s a good opportunity. His mentor at the shipyard is retiring and he wants Tony to take over for him. Tony was his apprentice for ten years. He learned everything about restoring yachts from him. I understand the allure of working on beautiful works of art and living in southern Italy.”

“Well, CC, like you were quick to tell me, I think you should let Tony know your feelings.”

“Well, Anne, if he asks me to go I think I’ll go.”

“What about the Spoon Sisters? What about me? Are you going to leave me behind?”

“Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.” CC looked at her phone. “This is strange.” She had a text from Betsy Buttersworth. “Betsy wants us to come for brunch tomorrow.”

“She’s not getting the plates.” Anne crossed her arms over her chest.

CC sighed. “Let’s go and see what she wants.”

Chapter Four

They arrived at Betsy’s historic Frank Lloyd Wright prairie home in the near west Chicago suburb of Oak Park. The Sunday morning gawkers with their walking tour headphones stopped politely to admire the brass plaque that adorned Betsy’s front door. The short walk up to the building was lined with fall mums. Anne hesitated halfway up the stairs. “CC, you’re sure this is a good idea? Every time we get involved with Buttersworth, something bad happens.” Anne was decked out for brunch in a silk shantung two-piece suit, white gloves and a large straw hat with a pink ribbon. CC was wearing the wide wale corduroys with a turtleneck. She was carrying a bottle of her homemade cherry wine.

Before Anne could change her mind, CC rang the doorbell. Moments later, Betsy Buttersworth appeared wearing a vintage Halston dress and saltwater pearls. She smiled at CC and then looked Anne up and down. The smile faded. “Come in.” She held the door open for CC and let it close slightly, rubbing against Anne as she walked through, pretending not to notice.

The inside of Betsy’s home was as pristine as the exterior. Everything in it was era appropriate. FLW, as Betsy referred to him, would have approved. “Ladies, we’re going to have brunch in the sunroom. I have it all set up. Please follow me back.”

As they walked on the slate tile, the stained glass window in the upstairs landing stole Anne’s gaze. The Sunday morning sun was shining through, painting the floor with reds, blues, greens and ambers silhouetting the oak stairs like a pulpit in a Baptist church. Anne imagined FLW standing at the pulpit preaching the gospel of prairie design. “Hillstrom, are you coming?” Betsy said from the hallway that narrowed through the kitchen and into the sunroom.

Oh, last names again
, Anne thought. That was one thing about Buttersworth that really irritated her. She’d known Buttersworth since they were kids, yet Betsy refused to call Anne by her first name. It was always
Hillstrom
, like
Hillstrom
was an insult.

Following Betsy and CC into the sunroom, Anne saw the beautifully set table. It was adorned with vintage French linens and a lace embroidered tablecloth covering the leather top round oak table.

“Please sit down, ladies.”

Betsy walked over to the sideboard and retrieved a crystal pitcher full of orange juice. She filled three Lalique champagne flutes with Dom Perignon and a splash of orange juice. She sat down and neatly creased her dress. “Let’s have a toast, shall we? To old friends, the best kind of friend.”

Anne tentatively sipped. She kept waiting for Buttersworth to bring up the china. She knew that’s what this was all about. What else could it be? She couldn’t contain herself anymore. The pressure was too much; the waiting, the worrying, the stress level was unbearable. “You can’t have the china,” she blurted out, and then downed her Mimosa like it was a true Swedish toast.

“Hillstrom, what china are you talking about?”

“Okay, Buttersworth, you can stop with the games. You know you brought us here to try to take back the china from the rummage sale. It’s not going to happen. You had your chance, you passed on it, it’s mine, end of story.” Anne set her glass down on the table with a thud and stood up.

“Oh, Anne, you’re a riot,” Betsy said with a noticeably fake laugh. “I wanted to wait until after we ate to tell you why I asked you here. We can talk about it now.” Betsy twisted the ring on her finger so the stone was facing up and waved it in the air. The light was blinding. “Steven’s asked me to marry him.”

“Oh, congratulations,” CC said, admiring the ring. “It’s beautiful.”

“It’s very big,” Anne said, giving it a glance.

“Steven will be moving to Chicago,” Betsy said, accenting her point with hand motions. “We’ve been flying back and forth, making time between our busy schedules.”

“Do you have a wedding date?” CC said, tapping Anne’s foot under the table.

“Not quite yet. We’re still working out the details.”

“That’s why you want the china,” Anne said.

“Oh, Anne, you are funny. I don’t need your china. What I would like is to commission you to help me with a project. I’m converting my coach house in back to a studio for Steven. I envision a combination office and music room. I would like to keep it authentic like the main house. Early 1900s antiques but with a music theme like vintage guitars, radios, microphones, posters. I want a lot of Nashville memorabilia. I want him to feel at home.”

“Why us?” Anne asked, biting at her fingernail.

“Steven was very impressed that you were able to find that microphone for Dave Southwell.” Betsy paused. “What a tragedy. Dave was signed to one of Steven’s subsidiaries. Anyway, I’d like to hire you exclusively to furnish my coach house. Between planning the wedding and my charity work, I don’t have time to do it myself. Besides, we have a history. You know what I like and I trust your eye. It’s going to be a surprise for Steven so I’m under a time constraint. I’d like to get the whole house done before Steven is back from Nashville. I have several leads from various sources. Some antique dealers, some musicians who might want to sell some of their equipment. It’ll give you a good start. Of course, I’ll pay you a hefty commission.”

“Betsy, we’d love to help you but we both have full-time jobs,” CC said. “We couldn’t take off that much . . . .”

“Don’t be silly,” Anne interrupted, jumping at the chance of an adventure like this. “Of course, we can. This is a great opportunity for the Spoon Sisters to grow our business. And, of course, we want to help Betsy. We’re all old friends.”

“Thank you, Anne, I’m glad you feel that way.”

CC hesitated. “I guess I can file my stories from Nashville just as easily as from Chicago. I’ll have to work it out with my boss but it’s a possibility.”

Betsy refilled all three glasses with just a touch of orange juice and a larger splash of champagne. “Here’s to the Spoon Sisters and a successful hunt!” she declared.