Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery

by Vicki Vass

  “That’s great news. Thank you,” CC said and they hung up.

  In small towns, word of mouth spreads quickly. Ida had told everyone she met about how Anne and CC had helped her with the bear. When CC blogged about the trip to Michigan, she received over 40 comments––the most she’d ever had in one day. Some were about Ida and the article about Talcott’s collections, but even more were from people asking her to either authenticate or find something for them. CC scribbled notes on the pad she kept next to her computer.

  Scanning the listings on estatesales.net, CC saw one promising listing that might be worth their time. She picked up the phone to call Anne.

  Recognizing the number on her caller ID, Anne answered, “Hi, CC.”

  “Hello, Annie,” CC said from the other end of the phone line. “I was finishing writing about our trip to Amish Acres. They mentioned our blog in The Daily Star article about Ida, and you won’t believe this! We got over 40 comments.”

  “That’s great,” Anne said.

  “It is great, but a lot of people are asking for our help. There’s a woman from Holland who’s looking for a Rosenthal plate. There’s a man from Hobart looking for a pre-World War II Martin guitar,” CC said, skimming through the comments.

  “Why are they asking us? Why don’t they just go to eBay or auctions?” Anne said.

  “Most of them are nervous about purchasing items without the help of an expert eye, especially after reading about Ida,” CC said. “I guess they feel they can trust us.”

  “That’s great. Make a list. Let’s go shopping.”

  “That’s the other reason I called. Do you have any plans for this Saturday?” CC continued.

  “Not as far as I know. What’s up?” Anne replied.

  “Something right up your alley. There’s an estate sale in Sauganash,” CC said. An old established neighborhood on Chicago’s far north side, Sauganash residents teetered on the edge of the North Shore. Most residents believed they were the North Shore, but the true North Shorians had something else to say about it.

  “What’s at the sale?” Anne asked, perking up.

  “Lots of furniture, jewelry, crystal––the pictures look high end, very collectible. And she collected bears,” CC said

  “I am so there, CC. Pick me up at seven,” Anne said with a renewed enthusiasm in her voice.

  That Saturday, on the way to the sale at Sauganash, Anne and CC stopped at a few garage sales they spotted along the way. Anne was on a mission to find the items on the growing list of requests from their fans as CC called them. CC hoped that when the time came for Anne to part with her purchases she’d be able to.

  Noticing a large sign advertising a rummage sale on the corner of Pulaski Road, CC turned down a side street. They could hear the sounds of Polish music before even arriving in front of a church. This north side Chicago neighborhood consisted of a large Polish population. Outside of Warsaw, Chicago boasted the largest population of Polish people in the world. CC hoped to find something on their list.

  The church parking lot was closed to parking, its blacktopped surface lined with individual tents, similar to a flea market. In the church’s side yard, children were playing soccer. A food truck was parked selling Polish specialties including Kielbasa and sauerkraut, cabbage rolls and potato pancakes.

  After quickly scanning items at the first table, Anne and CC walked away. It had been a large collection of children’s toys, clothes and worn shoes. Not worth their time. The next tent had a long table cluttered with household items including glasses, pots and pans and mismatched silverware.

  CC and Anne walked up and down the tables, looking carefully at the selection. At one table, they found a shoebox holding a mishmash of jewelry. CC sorted through it and pulled out what appeared to be a medallion. “Anne, look at these. They’re scapular medals,” CC said, holding them up to Anne. One side of the medal bore an image of Jesus. “It’s marked medalik szkaplerzny. That’s Polish for scapular.” CC turned the medallion over and they could see the Virgin Mary. “It’s seen normal wear from being rubbed over the years. This has to date back to the early 1900s.”

  Anne picked one up and rubbed it between her fingers. “What kind of metal is this?”

  “It’s aluminum.”

  “It can’t be worth a lot if it’s aluminum.”

  “Actually, during that time period, aluminum was very valuable. It was worth a lot of money.”

  “What do you think we should offer?” Anne asked, sorting though the box, pulling out similar medals.

  CC reached into her purse and pulled out her reporter’s notebook. Scanning down the list, she remembered the name John Wilson. “Anne, Mr. Wilson––he’s in Kalamazoo. He collects war medals and medallions. He’s looking for European medallions. This might cover both. The Polish soldiers carried these into battle in World War I and II for protection.”

  “Let’s get them then,” Anne said.

  Taking the medals to the woman holding the cash box, Anne and CC negotiated a price for the entire box. Anne slipped one into her pocket, hoping CC would not notice.

  CC stopped to listen to the polka band and watch the folk dancers in their colorful native costumes. She noticed a table set up in front of a rusty delivery truck. Its faded lettering read, “Lock Service.” A large elderly man sat on a folding chair behind the table, smoking a rolled cigarette. CC walked over. The table was piled high with padlocks, lock-picking tools, and combination locks, some new, some very old. CC stopped when she saw the padlock. It was an 1880s Trenton lock and hardware. CC held the cool metal in her hands and looked at him. He smiled. “You know your locks. That is a John Chinaman. Do you know the story?”

  CC did but let him continue.

  “It’s called a story lock because of the image depicted on it. A Chinese fellow is attempting to steal a flask of whiskey through the window. The shopkeeper’s dog catches him and bites his ankle. The lock was used as a restraining lock to lock up thieves,” he explained.

  “It’s a beautiful example of their work. It’s in great shape,” CC said. “I’d love to have it. And this is the original key, isn’t it?”

  He nodded and rolled up another cigarette.

  CC couldn’t quite place his accent, but she’d smelled his tobacco before. It smelled Turkish. She picked up another lock. It was a 1910 post office combination lock used on mailbags. It was a five-cylinder model which was pretty rare. She gently spun the cylinders, which rotated smoothly. “I cleaned that one just recently,” the man said.

  “How much are you asking for these?”

  “Why don’t you start a pile? I think you’re going to be here a while.”

  CC knew she was going to have to pay dearly for this. There was no hiding her enthusiasm. She made a large pile of the locks on the table. When she was done, CC made the calculations in her head. She knew she had to start at least at five hundred dollars. She didn’t want to insult him, but she also wanted a good deal. Antique locks were on her list, but these would probably stay in her collection. She’d worry about that later. She took another whiff of the tobacco again and realized it wasn’t Turkish. “Kolko Struva.”

  “Very good.” He smiled and nodded. “You speak Bulgarian.”

  CC laughed. “No, I’m sorry I don’t, but I finally recognized the accent. The tobacco had me fooled. I thought it was Turkish.”

  He shook his head. “God, no. I’m Bulgarian. Eleven hundred for everything,” he said.

  “I couldn’t give you more than $400.”

  “That’s not enough. The story lock is worth more than that by itself.”

  “$450?”

  “You’re a very nice lady, and I appreciate you speaking Bulgarian.” He bit the tip of his cigarette and spat it out on the ground. “Tell you what, you make it $500 and I will give you something special for free.” He got up and went into his van. He came back holding a large ring of skeleton keys. “These keys are very special. Some of these I cut myself. They will fit almost
any padlock.”

  “Deal,” CC said. She shook his hand and gave him her cash. She wrapped everything up in a large grocery bag and went to find Anne. She found Anne covered in powdered sugar, a large plate of kolacky in her hand.

  “We have go to the sale in Sauganash. It ends soon,” CC said.

  Later, when they arrived in Sauganash, they pulled up to a brown brick bungalow on Chicago’s far north side. It was typical of Chicago’s 1920s homes and similar to Anne’s. They walked up the cement steps and onto the porch. The front door was open, so they walked in. The home boasted its original oak wood trim and a brick fireplace. The oak floors creaked underneath their feet.

  Anne was intoxicated by the smell of antiquity. CC headed directly for the basement. It smelled musty, a scent not unpleasing to CC. Ductwork and electrical conduit twisted its way along the open rafters down below ground. There was an eight-foot long homemade pine bar with four plush stools. CC sat down, staring at the eight-foot long beveled mirror that hung behind a hundred or so assorted bottles of whiskeys, liquors and vodkas. Somebody had a great time in this basement, CC thought. Next to the bottles were German beer steins, a bowling pin whiskey decanter and a little 1960s Hawaiian girl who could be coaxed to hula and shake your drink if you put a quarter in a slot. CC wanted everything. She thought about the scene from one of her favorite scary movies, The Shining. At first, it was fun talking to the ghostly bartender. Then she remembered the rest of the movie and jumped off the barstool quickly.

  She went into the furnace room where there was a long steel cabinet that ran the length of the wall next to the oil boiler. The long skinny wooden drawers were filled with rusty tools. There were 20 mason jars filled with assorted screws, nuts and bolts, and nails. Attached to the top of the counter was an old hand-cranked vise. Above it, on the wall, a rusty handsaw hung. CC said out loud, “Somebody had a good time in here, too.” She caught the attention of the estate sale employee working the basement and negotiated a price for all the items. The employee helped her carry them upstairs to the living room.

  Anne went upstairs to one of the three small bedrooms. In the third bedroom, she found a collection of bears, ranging from beanie babies to a giant stuffed panda. In the middle was a small, perfectly cared for Steiff bear. Anne checked the button tag on its ear and the corresponding tag on its chest. Both looked to be original and intact. The only wear the bear showed was from being loved a lot. The fur was a bit matted where some little girl had held it close to her heart. Maybe it belonged to the owner when she was a little girl. No matter its story, it deserved to be loved.

  CC poked her head in the bedroom. She was carrying German beer steins. “Anne, check these out. These are pre-World War II from Oktoberfest in Munich. They’re awesome!”

  Anne turned around to look at CC. Anne held up the bear so CC could see it.

  “It’s perfect.” CC pulled out her iPhone, snapped a picture and then emailed it to Ida.

  Feeling satisfied with their day’s purchases, they stopped for lunch at Portillo’s, a famous Chicago chain known for its Italian beef and hotdogs. Anne was not able to stay on her low carb diet. With all the excitement going on, she ordered a beef and cheddar croissant, wet––as true Chicagoans call extra gravy. She complemented the order with fresh-cut onion rings.

  CC ordered a salad and a glass of water. She gave Anne a disapproving look at her choice of lunch.

  “Really, after all that’s happened, you’re going to begrudge me a little comfort food?” Anne asked, taking a large bite out of her soppy sandwich.

  CC didn’t say a word, pulling her mason jar out of her purse and sprinkling it onto her salad. “It makes everything better,” CC said before Anne could even comment.

  Anne paused long enough to take the first bite of her chocolate cake.

  “You know why Portillo’s cake is so moist, don’t you?” CC asked. “It’s because they add mayonnaise to the batter.”

  Anne just nodded her head, her mouth full of chocolate cake.

  After dropping Anne off at her house, CC went home and walked Bandit. Taking out their day’s purchases, she photographed the items they’d found that were on the list and mailed them off to the various requesters. She then blogged about their day’s adventures.

  There was a new comment waiting for her. CC read it, “Hi, I’m Martha Thart, a freelance writer for the Chicago Tribune. My aunt, Susan, who summers in New Buffalo, sent me the story about you and the bear. I pitched it to our feature editor, and she gave me the go-ahead to write your story. I’d like to arrange an interview.”

  CC hadn’t expected this level of interest, but she was interested. She wrote back, “I work close to Tribune Tower. Could we meet for lunch somewhere on Michigan Avenue?”

  She was tired, but she’d promised herself she would write five pages every night of her novel-in-progress. It had been ten years in the making now. She’d started writing it while she was still married. She found it a good release from reality. It had started out as a mystery about a journalist who solved murders and towards the end it became more of a romance novel. Romance was what she’d been missing in her marriage and in her life.

  Chapter Seventeen

  The phone rang, startling Anne from her thoughts. Looking at caller ID, she didn’t recognize the number but decided to answer it anyway. “Hello,” she said tentatively.

  “Hello, Miss Hillstrom. This is Detective Towers,” the British voice said on the other end.

  “Oh, Detective Towers, how are you? You can call me Anne.” She sat up in her chair. “What did you find out about my ring?”

  “I went to Metro Sales and talked to the owner, Seth. He claims he bought the ring from a homeless man who said he found it on the street. He couldn’t remember what the guy looked like, and he didn’t have an ID,” Towers said.

  “There must be something you can do,” Anne said.

  “I spoke with the Glencoe police. The ring wasn’t reported stolen, and without a bill of sale, there’s no way to prove that it belonged to your aunt.”

  Anne was quiet for a moment. “Can I have my ring back?”

  “Of course, Miss Hillstrom.” He paused, and then said, “It’s at the station. You can come sign for it. Or, it’s my day off; I could meet you somewhere.”

  Anne half listened to Detective Towers. She was thinking about her aunt and the day she’d found her dead on the floor. She was thinking about the ring. She wasn’t going to let this go. She owed it to Sybil. “Excuse me?” Anne asked, her train of thought screeching to a stop.

  “I said, Anne, would you like to meet me for lunch? I can bring your ring.”

  “That would be fine.”

  As Detective Towers was talking, Anne’s call waiting clicked. She saw CC’s face. “I have to go. I have another call.”

  The line for Paradise Pup was long as always. It was well worth it. No one in line complained about waiting. They made the best charbroiled half-pound burgers in the Chicago area. The trick was grilled onions, Merkt’s sharp cheddar cheese, German rye bread and an owner addicted to quality. Anne stood next to Detective Towers. Their difference in stature was almost comedic, yet they seemed very comfortable next to each other. Anne was surprised to see Detective Towers in his day-off clothes––white linen shorts and a salmon-colored polo shirt. For the first time, Anne thought, this guy is kind of cute.

  When it came her turn to order, she ordered a half-pound cheeseburger with extra grilled onions and the loaded fries topped with Merkt’s cheese, bacon and sour cream. Detective Towers smiled and ordered the same. Anne pulled out her wallet. “Put that away. I’ve got this,” Detective Towers said.

  They gathered their food and sat at a metal table outside the small building. A red and white umbrella provided coverage from the afternoon sun.

  “How’d you find this place?” Anne asked.

  “About two years ago, I was doing security at the Allstate Arena Theater. Oasis concert.”

  “Really? I like
them. What ever happened to them? They were quite good,” Anne said.

  “Yes, they were quite good. One of the Rosemont officers working security told me about this place. Since then, I’ve come here at least once a week.” Detective Towers unwrapped his steaming burger. He took a bite and continued, “I’m sorry about the ring. I wish I could have found more information about it.” He took the ring out of his pocket and handed it to her.

  Anne watched a little dollop of ketchup on his cheek bounce as he talked. She found it rather charming. “You know,” she said, “after we got off the phone, I remembered that on the way to the pawnshop, a homeless guy came up to me asking for money. He said he was trying to buy some shoes. His shoes were tattered up. He said he’d just been released from the 51st street station.”

  “Would you recognize him if you saw him again?”

  “Yes, he made an impression on me.” Anne dipped her fry in the cheese. Anne described the homeless man to Nigel Towers, right down to the color of his shoelaces. Her eye for detail had been honed by years of antique hunting.

  “I’ll check to see if anyone matches his description,” Detective Towers accented his sentence by sticking his tongue out the corner of his mouth and catching the ketchup dollop.

  “I have to know about the accent. Obviously you’re British. How’d you wind up as a Chicago cop?”

  “I was born in Liverpool. My father was a lieutenant in Scotland Yard. He wasn’t around a lot growing up,” Detective Towers said. “I spent more time with my mum. She loved American movies. We spent a lot of weekends at the cinema. Many black and white classics––Casablanca and Bringing up Baby. Our favorite movie was The Maltese Falcon.”

  “I love that movie,” Anne interjected, sipping her Oreo cookie shake.

  “It’s ironic. My father was in one of the world’s most famous detective departments, but I learned everything about police work from watching American films.”