Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery

by Vicki Vass

  Three young boys buzzed around her like fireflies, except these she didn’t swat. She just screamed at them to settle down. The young boys had their mother’s red hair and freckles. They also had the devil’s energy. CC thought about what it’d be like to be in that house at bedtime and a cold shiver went down her spine. It made her glad that she’d never had kids.

  The woman sipped her ice tea. “You ladies lookin’ for something in particular? We got everything.”

  “You’re our first stop,” Anne said.

  The Wal-Mart lady said, “You don’t want to regret not buying something when you see it. Things go fast during the Lincoln Yard Sale. Last year, I was sold out after two days.”

  CC noticed an old Ford tractor peeking out from behind the house. “Excuse me, I noticed your tractor back there. Is that an 9N?”

  “You got a good eye. It sure is. That’s my grandfather’s 1940 Ford. Is that the kind of thing you’re looking for?”

  “I like any farm or industrial tools.”

  “We haven’t farmed this land since my grandfather passed. There’s some stuff in the barn that you might be interested in.” The Wal-Mart lady struggled to get out of the lawn chair. The legs bowed and creaked as she was finally released from its hold. The waffle tattoo on the back of her thighs was the lawn chair’s revenge.

  CC followed her to the barn, watching the tattoo disappear and her breathing get louder. When she reached the barn door, the Wal-Mart lady turned and said, “The roof’s a little leaky, so be careful.”

  She opened the door, and it gave a loud creak. She brushed away the cobwebs. The sunlight rushed into the barn, highlighting the rusty traps hanging from the ceiling. The walls were lined with pitchforks, rakes, milk pails, shovels, and bales of barbed wire. Engine parts and tires lined one side of the barn. CC stepped carefully, avoiding the raccoon droppings. She could feel a thousand beady red eyes looking at her from dark corners of the barn. “How old is that barbed wire?” CC asked, pointing. She walked over to examine it more closely.

  “That was here when my grandfather was a little boy. It’s been here as far back as I can remember. We never strung any barbed wire, but my grandfather wasn’t one for throwing anything away,” The Wal-Mart lady said.

  CC recognized the pattern of the wire as an early example of Lucien B. Smith’s work, which was very collectible. Dating back to 1886, Smith was the first to patent barbed wire. “Is this something you’d consider selling?” CC asked the woman.

  She did not hesitate. “What do you think it’s worth?”

  CC paused. “It’s been sitting here under the raccoon poop for how many decades? It’s not something you’re going to use. I have to tell you that it’s worth money to the right collector.” CC could never take advantage of someone who didn’t know what they had. “I’d give you a hundred for the one bale,” CC said.

  The Wal-Mart lady appeared quite pleased with the number. CC ran back to the car to get her wallet and her leather workman’s gloves that she always carried.

  While CC was in the barn, Anne perused the tables, thoughtfully picking up various items and then setting them back down. Her eyes settled on a water-stained cardboard box. Opening it, she found a collection of daguerreotypes. These early photographs were composed on a mirror-like surface of silver and reflected back either light or dark, depending on the process. An early example of photography, these late 1800s images were very collectible and one of the items on their list. The masking tape price tag said $35.

  CC and the Wal-Mart lady returned from the barn, CC carefully carrying the barbed wire. “Anne, I’m going to put this in the trunk,” she called over.

  “Okay,” Anne said, waving her off, holding the cardboard box in her hands. “Hi, I’m interested in this box,” Anne said to the Wal-Mart lady who’d settled back in the lawn chair.

  “What do I have that marked?” The lady peered at the tag.

  “Would you be willing to take $20?” Anne asked.

  “Those are real old. They’ve been in my family a long time. I got to get at least $30 for them.”

  “Okay,” Anne quickly agreed. She opened up her wallet and handed the woman the money. “Do you have anything I can wrap these in? We have a long drive.”

  The woman handed Anne some napkins and Wal-Mart bags. Anne very carefully wrapped each photographic image in the napkins and the bags before putting them back in the box. “Thank you,” she said, walking to the car where CC was waiting.

  “What’d you find?” CC asked after Anne had settled back in the passenger seat. She’d gently placed the box on the floor of the back seat.

  “I found a box of daguerreotypes. A box of ten of them. I think one or two might be African American images. I can sell each one on eBay for a few hundred dollars, and I only paid $30 for the whole box,” Anne said. “And, they are one of the items on our list.”

  The next several houses they drove past because they had baby clothes, children’s toys and rusty bicycles––nothing on their list and nothing they’d be interested in. Throughout the day, they stopped at various houses, picking up different items including a McCoy planter, a wooden barn birdhouse, a case of green mason jars, spools and a silk scarf, checking off items as they went along.

  “This is so exciting. All these people depending on us to make their dreams come true,” Anne said, reviewing the pages and pages of CC’s cramped handwriting on the list.

  “I don’t know if it’s that dramatic.”

  “Think about it. Think about how you felt when you found your dining room set. How’d you feel?”

  “I felt good. It was exactly what I wanted. I was happy to get it.”

  “Exactly. The harder it is to find, the sweeter the reward,” Anne said. “Right? How many times do you just sit and stare at your 1920s slag glass lamp? How do you feel when you read one of your biographies?”

  “I feel good. I feel connected to it. It’s special.”

  “Exactly. Just like you and me. We’re unique.”

  “Yes, Anne, we are unique.”

  “I could see us making a living out of this. We quit our jobs––do this full time. Travel the country just like those guys on that show you like to watch. Except prettier.”

  CC laughed. “Yes, prettier.”

  “Stop, stop, pull over!” Anne shouted. On the edge of a cornfield, there was a tractor with a sign on the side saying Barn Sale. “Yes, Barn Sale; two of my favorite words.”

  The gravel kicked up under CC’s Grand Am as she spun down the winding road leading to a red barn with a large American flag painted on its side. Several cars were parked out in front along with a farmer who was parked behind a folding table.

  The outside was cluttered with milk pails, concrete lawn animals, hand-held farm tools and corn-stalk scarecrows. Anne got out of the car and picked up a scarecrow with a straw hat. “This is really charming.”

  Inside were copper cowbell wind chimes that clanked in the afternoon breeze. A pile of old almanacs were clustered on a wooden table. CC thumbed through them. They dated back to the 1860s and were in excellent condition. She piled them up in her arm. Anne came along, dragging a butter churn and milk pail. They stopped and looked at each other. “How are we going to fit all this in the car?”

  “We can ship it home.”

  “That’s crazy. We’re going to spend more in shipping than this stuff is worth.”

  “We can pay for it and then come back later.”

  “I’m not driving another 12 hours back here.”

  They brought their items out to the farmer and asked him to hold them while they continued to look. “CC, come here!” Anne was waving madly from a table near the barn entrance.

  CC walked over.

  “I think these are authentic. I think it’s John Zadzora.” Anne held up a winged wall packet that appeared to have been hand carved.

  “He was a famous tramp artist,” CC said, taking the piece from Anne and examining it. “You know tramp comes from the Ge
rman trampen, which acknowledged the craftsmen’s’ apprenticeship in medieval times. It came into its own in the 1850s when cigars became popular. Artists would use their cigar boxes to carve various items using a pocketknife.”

  “Yes, I know all that,” Anne interrupted her. “I think this is one of the items on our list.”

  CC pulled the list out of her purse and scanned it. “Yes, it is. Let’s add it to our pile,” she said, taking the piece outside and to the farmer. They split up again and walked around the overfilled barn, picking up occasional pieces here and there. Anne’s pile was growing with additional finds including an early copy of The Wizard of Oz complete with the original illustrations, a pink Fostoria vase and some children’s wooden spinning tops. This was the best stop of the day. As she carried items out to the table, she could tell the farmer thought so, too.

  As the hours passed away, the sun shifted over to the American flag side of the barn and the sunlight came sifting in. That’s when CC saw it. Just a glimpse of the big VW illuminated by the afternoon light. It was rusty, the windows were broken, and all the tires were flat, but CC had never seen anything so beautiful. It was a 1968 Volkswagen microbus. It was the same model year that CC’s father had driven in Germany right before they moved to America. She threw open the sliding door of the van which didn’t give lightly and groaned with a metal on metal cry. The inside was in pretty good shape or at least the mice thought so as they scurried out. She climbed in and sat in the driver’s seat, caressing the leather-wrapped steering wheel. She imagined driving down the open road––no deadlines, no editors, and no problems. Anne poked her head in the passenger window. “This thing is huge inside. We could fit everything in here.”

  “That’s not going to happen now. It’s going to need a lot of restoration,” CC said.

  “Yeah, but it’s going to be awesome when we’re done, isn’t it?”

  CC nodded, still staring out the windshield, turning the steering wheel like she was already on the road.

  The farmer walked up to them. “Barn sale’s over. It’s almost five. You’re the last ones. I got to lock up,” he said.

  “Is the bus for sale?” CC asked, getting out of the van.

  “I got plans to restore her. I got some extra parts in the back of the barn.” He hooked his thumbs threw his overalls.

  “How long have you owned it?”

  “About 20 years.”

  “After having it sit like this for 20 years, you still plan on fixing it up?”

  “I guess you have a point. I’d consider an offer if the number was right.”

  CC pulled out her iPhone and went to oldbug.com. There were mint restored 1968 microbuses going for $16,000. She’d taken several shop classes at the College of DuPage after her divorce and had actually become a pretty fair shade tree mechanic. She had the tools and she could read a repair manual as good as the next fellow. “I’ll give you $2,000,” she said.

  The farmer thought for a second and smiled. “The parts are worth more than that. I can part it out and get $3,500.”

  “What about this? We’ve got all the stuff we piled up at your table. We got the butter churn, the milk pail, some old folk arty things, and the almanacs. What if we give you $3,000 for everything?” Anne said.

  “I can do that,” the farmer said, shaking both their hands.

  The girls paid him and made arrangements to have the van picked up. They took what they could carry in the car and left the rest in the van.

  Leaving the barn sale, they followed the yard sale signs into Champaign, home of the University of Illinois. “Let’s have dinner,” CC said, knowing they’d find something decent around the campus and that most of the sales would be closing by now.

  “One more sale?” Anne asked, giving CC a hopeful look.

  They drove through the university campus, admiring the historic buildings, which ran right through the town. The whole town was built around the university.

  “I’m starving. Let’s stop and get something to eat before Moreland,” CC said.

  “Just one more sale, please, and then we can eat,” Anne said.

  “How about that one right there?” CC pointed to a two-story brick Georgian. Its front lawn had tables of household wares and what appeared to be boxes of books. She pulled the car over.

  Anne ran out and walked over to the tables. CC rifled through the boxes, checking out all the history books. There were a lot of textbooks, biographies, and all things that she enjoyed reading. She started a pile. As she was looking, a white-haired petite woman wearing a cotton sundress walked up to her. “Hello,” the woman said. “Can I help you find anything?”

  “I’d like to take it all. You have such a great collection of books,” CC said, holding a large stack in her arms.

  “I can’t take credit for that. Those are mostly my husband’s. He’s retired now. He taught history at the university. Hold on.” She walked to the house and came back out carrying a book. “This is his.” She flipped the book to reveal a political tome. “This is one of the ones he wrote on pre-1850s American history.”

  CC took the book out of her hand, and read the flyleaf. “This is really interesting. I’d love to buy a copy.”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think he would sign it for me?”

  “Of course. He’s in his study. Why don’t you come in the house? I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

  CC followed her up the concrete steps into the house. “Daniel, this young lady would like you to sign one of your books,” the woman called out.

  A distinguished looking man with a shock of unruly white hair came out of a room off the front of the house. He walked with a bit of a shuffle and a little bit of a shake. He gave a big warm smile. He grabbed CC’s hand in both of his. “So nice to meet you. I’m Professor Elliott. I see you have my book on American history.”

  “Yes, I’m fascinated by early American history,” CC said.

  Mrs. Elliott came back in the door with Anne. Professor Elliott took a fountain pen out of his shirt pocket. “What would you like me to write?”

  “Just say, ‘To CC Muller’.”

  As he signed it, he asked, “Are you from the area?”

  “No, we came down from Chicago for the yard sale.”

  “Chicago. I love Chicago. I have many friends up there.”

  “We’re on our way to Moreland to find out some information about an antique we picked up at an estate sale,” CC said.

  “Yes, a spoon,” Anne said. She ran out of the house to the car. Moments later, she came back in and unwrapped the spoon from its cotton handkerchief.

  Professor Elliott took his glasses from around his neck and put them on his nose to get a better look. “Very interesting.” He turned the spoon over in his hand to get a closer look at the signature. “Can we go into my study? I have my loupe there,” the professor said, leading the way into a book-lined room. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with dark wood bookcases lined with books. An elaborate wood fireplace stood out on one wall. An oak desk was at the far end near a bay window. Behind the desk, was a red leather desk chair. The girls sat in the chairs across from his desk. He pulled a loupe out of his draw, holding it to his eye, as he examined the back of the spoon. “Incredible,” he murmured. “This looks like a Paul Revere die stamp. The bottom of the R is faded.”

  “I’m familiar with Paul Revere’s work, and I’ve never seen any spoon of his that looked like this. Most of his pieces are very utilitarian,” CC said. “He wasn’t very skilled at scrollwork or engraving.”

  “From what I know, you are correct. Most of his spoons are very simple, but this is definitely his hallmark. Of course, you need a more knowledgeable expert to verify if this is an authentic Paul Revere.” The professor handed the spoon back to Anne.

  She looked closer at what she thought was a P on the back of the spoon. “CC, it’s an R. The bottom part is worn off. That is definitely an R. I can see it now.”

  “I know som
eone.” He reached into his drawer and pulled out a card. “Wayne Muscarello; he’s a colleague at the University of Chicago who’d know more about this.”

  Anne interrupted. “I know Wayne.”

  “He also works at the Field Museum, and he’d be able to confirm if this is a Paul Revere spoon. We’ve collaborated on some of my books on the Revolution. He’d be the one to verify if this is authentic or not.” The professor handed them a business card.

  Anne took the card. “Thank you so much, Professor. We will visit him when we get back to Chicago.”

  Anne and CC thanked the professor and paid for their books. Both still in shock, neither one of them said a word as they walked back to the car.

  They ate at a small diner across from the campus. Anne ate with one hand, clutching her purse, the spoon safely hidden inside. “CC, what do we do now? CC, what if this is a Paul Revere spoon? Should I even be carrying this around?”

  “Let’s start with Whitmore’s nephew first,” CC said.

  Anne nodded in agreement. She was terrified it would be a fake but even more terrified that it was real.

  After their dinner, they drove the approximately 45-minute drive to Moreland. Moreland was one of those towns that was a mere dot on the map. One of those towns where if you blinked, you’d miss it.

  While only 216 miles from Chicago, it was a hundred years away. The town boasted of a one-mile long main strip. Most of the shops were closed, but Anne was delighted to see one antique store. She strained to look in its windows as they drove past.

  They arrived at the old-fashioned Moreland Inn. After checking them in at the front desk, CC drove the car to the parking space directly in front of their room.

  They walked into the room, lugging Anne’s monstrous suitcase to find twin beds and not much else. It looked like the room hadn’t been decorated since the 1970s. CC turned to Anne and said, “It’s just a place to sleep. We’re not going to be in the room that much.”