by Vicki Vass
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.
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.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
CC had just fallen asleep when she heard the message alert from her iPhone. It was on the nightstand next to her. Half asleep, she reached over, grabbed it and rubbed her eyes. It was from her friend at the LA Times. He gave her the name Jeremiah Riddle and a phone number. She turned off her phone and went back to sleep.
Later, Anne and CC sat in the Capital Bar and Grille, the elegant dark-wood restaurant located in the basement of the Hermitage hotel. CC was on her second cup of coffee. She loved their great French roast. Anne was still perusing the menu. She had to stop ordering pecan pancakes. It was all she had for breakfast since she had arrived in Tennessee but they were so good. She was starting to feel the consequences of the carb load, her pants were a little snug around the waist.
“Anne, the Tennessee ‘Jack’ Egg sandwich looks delicious. Why don’t you give it a try?”
The waiter came over to take their order. “Can you tell me about this Tennessee egg sandwich?” Anne asked.
CC interrupted. “It’s infused with Jack Daniel’s whiskey.”
The waiter smiled. “Yes, it’s very popular with our guests.”
“I’ve tried infusing my French toast with my homemade cherry wine. I’d love to learn how your chef prepares it.”
“Oh, are you a chef?” the waiter asked.
“I dabble a bit,” CC replied.
“I’m sure Chef Elbert would like to meet you. Would you like to come back to the kitchen?” the waiter asked.
She nodded and stood up. “I'll be right back,” CC said to Anne before following the waiter into the kitchen. Anne rolled her eyes. Wearing his white toque, the chef was calling out orders and directing traffic in the busy kitchen.
“Chef Elbert, this is one of our guests, Ms. Muller. She’s a chef. She wanted to watch you prepare the Tennessee Jack Egg sandwich,” the waiter said, introducing CC to the world-famous chef.
“Of course.” He nodded at her. CC watched as he infused the toast with Jack Daniels whiskey, fried an egg in a small pan with some bacon. When all the components were complete, he placed them artistically on the plate, garnishing the dish with house-made tomato gravy.
“Thank you so much, Chef Elbert. I can’t wait to try that at home,” CC said, marveling at the plate.
“The secret is to use jowl bacon,” Chef Elbert said.
“I’m very familiar with jowl bacon. We had it often when I was growing up in Louisiana.” CC paused. “Of course, one of my favorite breakfast recipes is for pain perdu; it’s a New Orleans French toast.”
“Please, I’d love to watch you make that.” The Chef gestured at the oven and the pans.
CC took five eggs, half a cup of white sugar, and half a cup of milk. She fluttered around the kitchen until she found orange liqueur and added two tablespoons followed by a tablespoon of orange zest. She cut up a loaf of white bread into twelve slices. She combined the ingredients in a large bowl and beat them until they were thick and foamy. Then she poured the mixture into a shallow pan, she soaked the bread slices for two minutes on each side. She took a large griddle and turned on the heat to medium. She cooked the slices two minutes on each side until they were golden brown. She drizzled warm maple syrup on top and garnished it with a fresh orange slice. Chef Elbert tasted a slice. “Oh, Chef CC, this is delicious. I’d love to add this recipe to our Sunday brunch menu. We shall call it CC’s French Toast.”
CC smiled.
When CC returned to the table, Anne had already eaten half of her sandwich. The waiter brought CC the French toast. “That looks great, I didn’t see that on the menu,” Anne said.
“It’s new.” CC smiled.
After breakfast, CC went into one of the tiny rooms that served as a business center. She dialed Jeremiah Riddle’s phone number. A woman answered, “Orange County Nursing Home. How may I help you?”
“I’m sorry. I was trying to reach Jeremiah Riddle. Is this the right number?”
“Oh, Jeremiah lives here. Please hold. I’ll have the nurse let him know he has a phone call.” A few seconds later, another female voice answered, “This is Nurse Nancy. I understand you want to speak with Mr. Riddle. Can I say who is calling?”
“He won’t know me. My name is CC Muller. I’m calling about his brother.”
The nurse handed the phone to Jeremiah Riddle. A very soft, southern raspy voice answered, “Hello.”
“Mr. Riddle, my name is CC Muller. I wanted to ask you some questions about your brother, Clarence.”
“Who are you?” he asked in a louder voice.
CC talked loudly into the phone. “We found some of your brother’s sheet music and had some questions.”
“I haven’t seen my brother in 50 years. Not sure I can tell you anything.”
“Do you know what happened to him?” CC asked, scribbling notes in her reporter’s notebook.
“He left his kid on my doorstep and took off. Clarence was always irresponsible, drinking and rabble rousing.”
“What happened to his child?”
“I raised him like he was my son. Who are you?” he asked in a confused voice.
“Is he still around?”
Mr. Riddle grew quiet for a moment. “CJ died years ago. He was too drunk to drive. He was an alcoholic like his father.”
“I’m so sorry to hear this.”
“Don’t be sorry. He gave me a beautiful granddaughter, Lily. She took care of me when I got sick.”
“Is she around? Can I talk to her?”
He dropped the phone. Nurse Nancy picked it up. “I’m sorry but you’re upsetting Mr. Riddle,” the nurse said.
“Is he okay?”
“He has advanced Alzheimer’s.”
“He seemed so lucid,” CC said.
“You caught him on a good day,” the nurse said.
“He mentioned his granddaughter. Do you know how I can get in touch with her?”
“She hasn’t been around in months. He stopped recognizing her and when she would come visit him, he would get agitated,” the nurse said.
“I’m so sorry. Do you know how I can reach her?”
“When I spoke to her last, she told me she was going to Nashville. She always had her guitar with her and played songs for Mr. Riddle,” the nurse said. “We tried her number recently but it was disconnected.”
“I’m in Nashville. I can try and find her,” CC said. “Do you know what she looks like?”
The nurse hesitated. “I’ve got information about her biological grandfather. It’s very important I get in touch with her,” CC said.
“There’s a picture of Mr. Riddle and his granddaughter next to his bed. I can make a copy and email it to you,” the nurse said.
“Thank you. That would be great.” CC gave the nurse her email address.
After hanging up the phone, CC turned a guilty look at the computer. It had been days since her last blog post. So many people were waiting, hanging on her every word. She opened up the site.
“Dear Friends, Please accept my apology for not writing more frequently. Anne and I have had quite an adventure that would rival anything Agatha Christie could dream up. The antique world holds so many dangers that we didn’t foresee when we undertook our commission.
Through it all, Anne and I have remained true to the course. We have found many great items both for our client and for those of you on our list. We will be contacting you individually.”
She
detailed some of the stores they had visited and added pictures from her phone.
“The rest of the tale must be held back for now, due to police investigations. Enough said. But I promise you will know the whole story when the whole story is known. Until then, God bless all of you.”
She posted the blog, and turned off the computer. When she opened the door of the business center, Bradley was standing at attention. She took a step back. “Bradley.”
“Miss Muller, Miss Hillstrom wanted me to tell you that she is over at Betty’s Boots on Broadway. I wanted to also give you fair warning that Betty’s Boots caters to all the stars and their prices reflect it.”
“Ohmiword,” CC said, grabbing her purse.
“Will you be needing a ride?”
“Yes, Bradley.”
By the time CC arrived at Betty’s Boots, Anne was wearing a pair of light orchid Lucchese boots and a matching $3,000 lambskin fringed skirt. A sequined cowboy hat completed the outfit.
CC sighed. “Anne, we can’t afford any of it.”
The salesgirl frowned. “We have layaway.”
Anne turned to CC. “Layaway. Layaway.” She admired herself in the mirror, twirling so the fringe swirled around her. “CC, we’ll be getting that big commission check from Betsy.”
“Anne, do you have any idea what the Hermitage is costing daily? If you really want the boots, we can stay at a different hotel and save money,” CC said.
Anne’s face turned white. She turned to the salesgirl. “I will not be purchasing these items today.”
“Anne, we have to go. I have a lead on Riddle.”
With one last glance at the full-length mirror, Anne reluctantly changed back to her street clothes. “You sure you don’t want to do layaway?” the salesgirl asked, taking the boots and skirt from her.
Pausing for a moment, Anne shook her head no. She followed CC out of the store and into the street where one drunken tourist was practicing a line dance in the middle of the street while other tourists cheered her on. Anne wanted to join in. CC pulled her arm and led her to the black Lincoln town car before she could ask.