Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery

by Vicki Vass

  “Ida, I noticed from the pictures you sent me of the bear,” CC said, “that something might not be quite right. I didn’t want to say anything until I could see the bear in person to see its serial number. You can see that the ear is missing the button that Steiff bears should have. This bear’s serial number ends with 22. The last number represents the centimeter of the bear. This bear is much smaller than 22 centimeters. Somebody tried hard to pass this off as an authentic Steiff bear. I’m sorry to say, Ida, it’s not.”

  Ida started to cry. Anne put her arm around her. “I’m such a foolish woman. The man at the store seemed so nice. He assured me this bear was real. He said it was the same year as my original childhood bear. I paid him $1,200. That was everything I had.”

  Anne reached into her purse and pulled out a lacy monogrammed handkerchief. She handed it to Ida.

  “Ida, Anne and I will take the bear and go talk to the shop owner. Maybe he made a mistake,” CC said.

  Ida looked up. “You would do that for me?”

  “Of course, we will.” Anne said.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Talcott’s Collectibles resembled a junkyard more than an antique store. Tires, out-of-season snow shovels were haphazardly displayed next to cheap ceramic planters. Other shelves bore bargain basement seasonal items like swimming goggles, water pistols and mittens. Even Anne was hard pressed to find anything she would consider picking up.

  Mr. Talcott greeted them at the counter. He was a gruff older gentleman wearing a not so clean tank top, khaki pants and sandals. “Can I help you, ladies?” he asked, pushing his glasses down his nose to get a better view.

  CC held the bear up. “Yes, you can. My friend bought this bear from you and apparently she thought it was a genuine Steiff bear. It’s obviously not.”

  Mr. Talcott took the bear out of her hands and gave it a quick uninterested once over, handing it back to Anne. “Do you have a receipt?”

  “No, I don’t. My friend, Ida, seemed to misplace it.”

  “Sorry, I can’t do anything for you without a receipt. How do I know she bought it here?”

  Anne walked up behind CC with a handful of similar fake Steiff bears. “Sure looks similar to these. You have a whole shelf of them.”

  “Look, ladies, everything here is sold as is. Without a receipt, I can’t help you. If you’re not going to buy something, I need you to leave.”

  Anne put the bears on the counter and was about to go into action. CC grabbed her elbow and said, “ Thank you.” She started to pull Anne out of the store. Anne reached over her shoulder and grabbed Ida’s bear back.

  “What are you doing? This guy obviously is a crook,” Anne complained loudly.

  “There’s no talking to guys like that. We’re going to have to figure something else out,” CC said.

  Getting back in the car, they pulled up in front of the New Buffalo Daily Star newspaper office. CC led the way. A young college grad greeted them from the reception desk. “How can I help?”

  “My name is CC. This is Anne. Can I talk to the news editor about a story?”

  “I’ll get Mrs. Bradley.” The intern got up and walked to an office. A few minutes later, a woman in her 30s came over to them. “Can I help you?” she asked.

  CC introduced herself and Anne. “I wanted to talk to you about Talcott’s Collectibles.”

  “That place is a real eyesore,” Mrs. Bradley said. “People complain about it all the time, but there’s not much we can do. The store does a good business with the seasonal crowd.”

  Anne held up the bear. “Did you know about this?”

  “What is it?” Mrs. Bradley asked.

  “It’s a fake Steiff bear that he’s selling. He’s got a whole shelf of them.”

  At her blank stare, CC explained, “Steiff bears were founded in Germany in the 1800s and are still handmade today. They are highly collectible.”

  “That’s interesting. I haven’t heard anything about Talcott selling fake bears.” Mrs. Bradley stared at them in curiosity. “Just who are you?”

  “We’re antique hunters,” Anne said.

  “What do you want me to do about the bears?” Mrs. Bradley prodded.

  “Can you write a story to warn people? They need to know that these bears are fake before they buy them,” CC said. “Unless you know what you’re looking for, it’s a pretty good imitation.”

  “Explain how you know they’re fake,” Mrs. Bradley said.

  CC and Anne walked her through how to identify real Steiff bears from fake ones.

  “Kristin, come here a minute.” Mrs. Bradley motioned to the intern. “I want you to take a ride over to Talcott’s and see what you can find out about these bears.”

  Anne and CC thanked Mrs. Bradley. They went back to Ida’s house. Ida was waiting for them in the front yard. She was picking Japanese beetles off the roses. Anne handed her back the bear.

  “That Mr. Talcott is not a nice man, Ida,” CC said. “I’m sorry we weren’t able to get your money back, but I did talk to the local paper and they’re going to write a story about him. That way he can’t fool other people.”

  “We’re not going to give up on this. I promise we’ll do all we can to get your money back,” Anne said.

  Ida hugged both girls and gave them a homemade loaf of banana bread. The girls headed back to the highway.

  “I don’t know about you but I’m starving and Nappanee is only 30 minutes away. Thresher’s restaurant is supposed to have a fantastic chicken dinner.”

  Nappanee was home to Amish Acres, the 138-year-old homestead of Indiana’s Amish population. Popular with tourists, the homestead had been restored to a living history museum. It offered tours, musical theater and, of course, old-fashioned family-style dinners. CC and Anne had often talked about visiting, but had never found time until now. They arrived just in time for the dinner rush, put their names in and wandered around the little stores by the restaurant.

  Anne examined the handcrafted knives, tasted the fresh-made jam and smelled the beeswax candles. She touched all the quilts as she tried to pick out her favorite pattern. CC sat reading a book on Amish life. When their names were called for dinner, they sat at the old-fashioned barn table. The waitress dressed in an ankle-length black dress with a white apron and white bonnet, greeted them.

  The biscuits arrived first, still warm. Anne smothered hers with the freshly churned butter. Then came the broasted chicken and honey-glazed ham with mashed potatoes.

  CC reached into her white Coach purse and pulled out her jar of homemade hot pepper powder and sprinkled it on the chicken.

  “Really?” Anne asked, looking over. “The chicken isn’t fantastic enough without that?”

  CC smiled and said, “It makes everything better.”

  After dinner, they walked along the boardwalk and darted in and out of the tiny shops. They watched craftsmen making their wares. CC thought about Ida’s plight and how she could help. But most of all she thought about the man from the train.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stepping off the elevator, Anne glanced up and down the long, narrow hallway of the high-rise office building on LaSalle Street. Etched on the double glass doors were the names, “Berman and Tabor, Attorneys at Law.” Anne had only met with Jon Berman once before to review Sybil’s will. Berman was handling Sybil’s estate.

  She opened the door and was greeted by a perky young law student, Kimberly, who was encased behind a wooden reception desk. “I have a meeting with Mr. Berman,” Anne said.

  “Yes, hi, Miss Hillstrom, Mr. Berman will be right out. Have a seat please.”

  A few minutes later, the short balding fifty-ish attorney came out to greet her. Shaking her hand, he said, “Anne, it’s good to see you again. Follow me back to the conference room.” Over Anne’s shoulder, he said to the receptionist, “Kimberly, let me know when Mr. Stilton arrives.”

  Anne followed Jon Berman down the hallway, getting glimpses through the glass doors of other attorney
s consulting with clients or poring over law books. She didn’t think anyone was having a good time today. Anne wasn’t having a good time. She knew that this moment was coming, but she was not looking forward to it. She stepped into the conference room after Jon Berman. He sat at the head of a long table which was surrounded by twelve leather chairs. Anne sat next to him on his right.

  Jon pored through the files he had been carrying. He took his glasses out of his suit pocket and put them on the tip of his nose. He occasionally peeked over the tip of them at Anne just to remind her that he was sitting there. Finally, he closed his file and took his glasses off. He put them on top of the folder and sat back in his high back chair and swiveled towards Anne.

  “Anne, your aunt’s will is airtight. There’s no room for misinterpretation. I don’t see any grounds for contesting it,” he said.

  “The family is really upset. They feel that Aunt Sybil was not in her right mind.” Anne tugged at her suit jacket. It was too tight.

  “Anne, it’s very difficult to contest a will. They’d have to prove that she wasn’t of sound mind when she signed it, and they’d have to have evidence from a medical professional. I know that’s not the case. I drafted the will for her, and she signed it a few weeks ago. She seemed fine to me.”

  “Why did Aunt Sybil wait so long to draft her will? She was 85 years old.”

  “Actually, she did have a will in place many years ago. I wasn’t her attorney at that time. She contacted me a few months back and said that she wanted to write a new will. She was very specific about her wishes to have you act as executor and that her estate would be donated to the Field Museum.”

  “I think that’s why the family is contesting it. They can’t understand why she’d leave everything to the Museum. She’s already given them our family heirlooms––Viking swords and jewelry.” Anne paused. “I hadn’t seen Aunt Sybil for at least three years. I kept meaning to visit, but either she was traveling or I was working. You know how it is. You just mean to get together with someone and things get in the way. To be honest with you, she wasn’t always the easiest person to be around. Especially the past few years.”

  “When I went to her house a few months back, she seemed very nervous,” Jon Berman said. “She insisted that the new will needed to be done quickly. Was your aunt sick?”

  Anne shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  “This is between you and me. I had to go to her house because she didn’t want to come downtown. When I knocked on the front door, I heard her unlock the door and then I heard something heavy being dragged from behind it. When I walked in, I saw that she’d been using a heavy cement Christmas tree stand to barricade the door.”

  “I know that tree stand. When I was a little girl, we used it for our Christmas tree.” Anne had wondered what had happened to it. She hadn’t recalled seeing it at Sybil’s house.

  “When I asked about it, she shrugged me off,” Jon Berman said. The buzzer sounded in the room. “The other attorney should be here now. Let me do the talking,” he said to Anne.

  Kimberly opened the door and led a sharply dressed young attorney into the room. He was followed by Suzanne, Jack, Uncle Dick, Aunt Sharon and a few other Hillstroms. They all took places at the large conference table across from Anne. The two attorneys shook hands and introduced themselves. Anne never stopped staring across the table at Suzanne and Jack.

  Suzanne lowered her eyes. She couldn’t bring herself to look back at Anne. Jack sat with a smirk on his face. He was wearing the same Vikings jersey that he’d worn to the anniversary party.

  “Mr. Stilton and I spoke on the phone yesterday. We thought it might be best for us all to meet in person,” Jon Berman said to the group. “After reviewing your Great Aunt’s will, I can see no reason to contest it.”

  Mr. Stilton reached into his briefcase, which he’d plopped onto the table as Berman was speaking. “I have signed statements from nine blood relatives of Sybil Hillstrom. All of them state that Sybil had showed signs of dementia and paranoia for the past few years. In the past few months, she had become a shut in, not answering calls or leaving the house.”

  “How would they know? No one ever went to visit her,” Anne interrupted. “No one called her.” She looked around at her family members. “I’m as bad as the rest of you. I’ll be the first to admit it. How can you say she wasn’t right? You didn’t know her.”

  “I saw her. I saw her three weeks ago,” Jack said. “I was in town doing a job. Suzy wanted me to stop in and see her. I noticed some boards were loose on her front porch. The whole porch needed to be fixed. I offered to do the job for cost and she never paid me.”

  “I can understand why she never paid you after seeing the shoddy work you did at my house,” Anne said. Mr. Berman put his hand on Anne’s arm to stop her.

  “You don’t have any medical records or doctor’s testimony to indicate that Miss Hillstrom was anything other than eccentric, do you, Mr. Stilton? There’s no law against that,” Mr. Berman said.

  Jack stood up and pounded the table. “That old bitch was crazy and she deserved what she got.”

  Suzanne jumped up and pushed Jack back into his chair. “Shut up. Just shut up. I don’t want to do this!” she screamed. “I loved Sybil. She doesn’t deserve any of this.” Suzanne started crying and ran out of the conference room. Anne ran out after her.

  They stood in the hallway. Suzanne buried her face in her hands, sobbing and gasping for air. “Suzy, just catch your breath. It’s okay,” said Anne, putting her arm around her cousin.

  “It’s not okay. Nothing’s okay,” Suzanne struggled to speak through her tears.

  Anne pulled a lace handkerchief out of her pocket and handed it to Suzanne, who held it to her eyes. “Thanks,” Suzanne sniffled.

  “Take a deep breath and we can talk,” Anne said.

  “I can’t live with him anymore, but I feel trapped. I’ve got the kids, no home. I’ve got no job, no money.”

  “I know,” Anne said.

  “What am I going to do? After what just happened, I can’t be alone with him,” Suzanne said.

  Anne grabbed Suzanne by the shoulders, locking eyes with her. “You can’t live with him anymore. You have to leave him right now. He’s going to hurt you––or worse––he’s going to hurt the kids.”

  Suzanne rolled up her sleeve, looking at the floor too ashamed to admit it was true. Her arm was badly bruised and cut. She raised her red-stained puffy eyes to Anne’s.

  Anne fought to hold back the tears. “I know, honey. I know what you’ve been going through. I’m ashamed that I didn’t try harder to stop it.”

  “You tried. I wouldn’t listen.”

  Anne smiled, her whole face lit up. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

  They walked back into the conference room. Suzanne sat next to Anne across from Jack. Suzanne was wearing the diamond and emerald Viking Queen’s brooch that Sybil was supposed to be wearing in her casket.

  Jack stared, angry and confused at the same time. “What’s going on here?”

  Mr. Berman said, “Part of Sybil Hillstrom’s last wishes were that Anne be her executor. As executor, she has the power to decide who receives her most valuable possession––the Viking brooch.”

  “She was buried in that brooch. I saw her at the cemetery wearing the damn brooch in her coffin,” Jack said.

  “Sybil wanted all her loved ones to believe that she was taking the brooch with her,” Anne said. “Her exact words in the will are, ‘the brooch should go to the one who wants it the least, but who deserves it the most.’ I believe Suzanne deserves it the most and now she has it.”

  “The rest of the antiques were sold at her estate sale. The proceeds will go to the Field Museum.” Mr. Berman reached into the accordion file and pulled out some papers. “Suzanne, I need your signature on these.” He passed the papers to her along with a black fountain pen.

  “What are these?” Suzanne asked, skimming through the legal jargon.
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  “The will stipulates that the owner of the brooch also receives the deed to the house and a monthly allowance of $4,000 for maintenance.” He read from the will in front of him.

  “My name’s on the deed already?” Suzanne said. “Why?”

  “I knew the minute that Mr. Berman told me about Sybil’s wishes and the wording in the will, just who deserved the brooch and the house,” Anne said. “Your children should have the same memories that you and I have playing in that house.”

  “Damn, that’s what I’m talking about,” Jack said. “Finally, something that makes sense. Suzy, everything’s going to be okay now.”

  “Yes, me and kids will be okay.” Suzanne stared him right in the eye.

  “What do you mean? Me and the kids?”

  “We’re moving into the house. You’re not. I’m done with you.” She turned to Mr. Berman. “Do you know a good divorce attorney?”

  Jack jumped up again and tried to reach for his wife across the table. Uncle Dick held him back. “This isn’t over!” Jack screamed. He glared at Anne, his bulging eyes about to pop out of his face, his biceps pushing against Uncle Dick. “This is all your fault, Anne! This isn’t over!”

  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.”