by Vicki Vass
Betsy gave the pants a onceover but didn’t say a word. They walked into the living room. “Sit down. Can I get you something to drink?” She looked Anne up and down. “Perhaps a Diet Coke?” She emphasized the word Diet.
Anne’s blood started to boil but she bit her tongue. “I’m fine.” Anne unwrapped the twelve-inch vase from the towel and placed it on the coffee table.
Betsy glanced at it with a disdainful look. “This is what you want to show me? A Phoenix vase?”
“Take a closer look at it,” Anne urged.
Betsy lifted up the vase, twisting and turning it into the light. She examined the mark on the bottom and then placed it back down. “It’s a very good copy. I recognize the pattern because I have the original.”
Anne said, “Yes I know. I remember seeing you carry it at the Whitmore estate sale.”
“Don’t tell me you were fooled by the copy and were cheated?”
Anne restrained her temper and bit her tongue. As she counted to ten silently in her head, she noticed the alabaster Egyptian vase in the corner of the living room. Ignoring Betsy, she walked over to take a closer look. “Where’d you get this?” Anne asked.
Betsy walked over. “This is a very special piece. I bought it from Mr. Ripley.”
“I don’t remember seeing it at the Whitmore or Packwall sale, and those are the only ones he’s held recently.”
“Oh, no; this came from his private collection. He saves some of his best estate pieces for his preferred customers.” Anne’s puzzled look made Betsy continue. “Very pricy items. I’m afraid, Hillstrom, they’d be a bit out of your price range.”
“Who are these preferred customers?”
“Not people you’d know for the most part. Some ladies from my country club, others from the Gold Coast and North Shore and even some politicians’ wives. It’s a very select list.” Betsy waved her manicured nails. “In fact, Nancy Packwall was a preferred customer. I was a little disappointed that Mr. Ripley didn’t have those pants available before the public estate sale.”
Anne’s temper cooled. After all, she was wearing the pants.
“What’s this all about?” Betsy said.
“Nothing. I just really liked the vase and was hoping maybe you’d sell me the original.”
“Where’d you get that copy anyway?”
“I got it from Banning.”
“I can’t believe that he’d sell you a fake,” Betsy said. “My friends and I have bought many antiques from Banning. They’ve all been top quality. He’s helped decorate many of my friends from book club’s homes. Most of the customers on the preferred list have been very pleased with Banning. You know, Anne, you should be more careful. I’m sure this was a mistake.”
Anne had a sour look on her face.
Betsy gave a pointed look at the pants. “I’d never sell the original vase but I would entertain a fair trade.”
“I would never sell these pants.” Anne made for the front door and headed to her car.
“Wait! You forgot your Phoenix vase,” Betsy said in a snide tone, standing in the doorway holding the fake Phoenix glass vase like it was contagious.
Anne got out of her car, stomped back across the driveway, grabbed the vase from Betsy’s hand and stormed off back to her car. She headed immediately to CC’s.
Chapter Forty-Three
CC and Anne sat in the gazebo, sipping iced tea. CC wanted Anne to calm herself before getting into a conversation. Anne hyperventilated when she was worked up. “Take deep breaths, Anne; count to ten. Have a little tea. It’s sun tea. I had it out all morning. I added a little sugar and mint,” CC said.
As they sat, they watched the monarch butterflies floating around the milkweed. “Anne, look at the monarchs. I read somewhere a couple weeks back that the monarchs are becoming extinct in Illinois because of the shortage of milkweed plants. A lot of people think milkweed are not attractive because they’re weeds. But it’s where monarchs lay their eggs,” CC continued. “I was amazed that days after I planted it, the monarchs came. I’ve seen some eggs.”
Anne took a big gulp of her iced tea. “Yes, the butterflies are nice.”
Bandit stormed off the deck and chased the monarchs away. They weren’t as tasty as bumblebees but he had to try. He lay down next to CC, panting in the summer heat.
“So, what’s going on?” CC asked.
“I went over to Buttersworth’s house. I showed her the vase, and she did have the original. She also had the exact same alabaster Egyptian vase we saw at the warehouse but hers was real too.” Anne talked very fast trying to catch her breath.
“Did she buy that from the Whitmore sale, too?”
“No, she bought it from Mr. Ripley at a pre-sale for the Whitmore estate. She‘s on a ‘so-called’ preferred customers list. A select la-di-da la-di-da,” Anne said with a sarcastic tone. “If there are copies of all these antiques, CC, then someone has the real Paul Revere spoon.”
“If they have the real spoon, why do you think they came after your fake?”
“That’s what we have to find out.”
“We can’t go to the police. They’ll ask us where we got the vase from. We can’t tell them we broke into Tim Whitmore’s warehouse,” CC said.
“I’ve got an idea.” Anne said.
Chapter Forty-Four
Anne stood in front of her full-length 1890s cherry wood mirror––excuse me––looking glass. She’d bought the vintage Diane von Furstenberg wrap dress a size smaller than she’d been a few weeks ago. She’d planned on fitting into it as a reward for sticking to her low-carb diet. She turned sideways to look at her profile. The wrap tugged a little at her waist and hugged her hips a little too closely. She walked to the corner of the living room and plugged in the treadmill, removing the blouses lying on the handlebars. She walked back to the looking glass and moved Sassy who was staring at her reflection. She really loved the feel of the champagne silk against her skin. She hadn’t dressed for a man in many years. She took off the dress and put on a dandelion yellow sundress that was more forgiving. Anne half-twirled left and right, watching the skirt float around. Even with all her cheating she’d managed to lose eight pounds and thought she looked pretty good. She’d tried to give up the one thing most dear to a Swede’s heart––butter.
She’d called Detective Towers––Nigel––and told him she wanted to return the favor and take him to her favorite restaurant, Ann Sather’s. They’d arranged to meet for lunch.
Anne rushed into the storefront restaurant on Chicago’s north side. She’d forgotten how difficult finding parking in the Lakeview neighborhood was. She scanned the room, looking for him. The back wall was decorated with Swedish folk dancers. Nigel was sitting at a table underneath them. Anne walked over to him. Nigel had been waiting for 20 minutes. He stood up, bumping his knee on the small wooden table. “Hello, Anne,” he said.
Anne gave him a big smile. “Nigel, I’m so sorry I kept you waiting.”
“Nonsense; you’re right on time.” He rushed around the table and held her chair out. Anne sat down and he pushed her chair in under the table.
“Have you ever been here before?” Anne asked, placing her napkin in her lap.
“No, I haven’t. It’s quite charming,” he said.
“I’ve been coming here since I was a little girl, but it was open long before then. It’s one of Chicago’s best Swedish restaurants,” Anne said. “Everything here is made from scratch. I grew up in Lakeview. It’s a big Swedish community.”
“I thought by your last name you were Swedish,” Nigel said.
Anne nodded. “My father was a professor in Sweden and came here to teach history at North Park University. That’s why I was late. When I couldn’t find parking on the street, I went and parked at North Park, using my dad’s parking pass.”
“Oh, is your dad still teaching?”
“No. Both my parents are dead.”
“Sorry to hear that,” Nigel said.
“Tack S
a Mycket, thank you very much,” Anne said. The waitress came over and poured Anne a cup of coffee. She refilled Nigel’s cup. They placed their order.
“So, Nigel, I have to admit I have another reason for asking you to lunch,” Anne said, leaning forward against the table.
Nigel smiled. “I felt something, too.”
Anne gave him a quizzical look. “Oh, no, I meant I wanted to ask for your help.”
Nigel’s face turned bright red. “Yes, of course.”
The waitress brought their order. Anne’s Swedish meatballs were dripping with gravy over the hot buttered noodles. She cut a slice of the still warm limpa bread and slathered on a generous helping of creamy, sweet butter. She took a bite, closed her eyes and made a sigh of delight. Nigel turned a brighter red. “Nigel, you have to try the limpa bread. It’s delicious,” she said. Anne then remembered her purpose for meeting with him. “So, Nigel, I found this vase. I can’t really tell you where. Wait, let me get it,” She reached into her large, orange Prada bag and pulled out the fake Phoenix glass vase.
“That’s beautiful,” he said, looking up from his potato sausage.
“It would be if it were real,” Anne said. “That’s where I need your help. CC and I stumbled across the vase and a whole building full of fake replicas of all kinds of different antiques––paintings, statutes, vases, everything you can imagine.”
“Anne, where is this building?” Nigel said.
“Well,” she paused for a moment and decided it was best to be vague. “That’s part of the problem. The building isn’t there anymore.”
Nigel put his fork down and gave her a harsh look. “The building disappeared?”
“It kind of burned to the ground.”
“Anne, I don’t think you should tell me anymore.”
“We didn’t burn it down,” Anne said. “It’s all about the spoon.”
“We’re back to the spoon again. Anne, you said yourself that the spoon is fake.”
“That’s the point. The spoon is fake. This vase is fake. Everything in the building was fake, and they were replicas of antiques sold at Tim Whitmore’s estate sale.”
After they had cleared their dinner plates, the waitress set down a plate with two large cinnamon rolls with white creamy icing dripping down the sides, fresh from the oven before them. Anne was momentarily diverted as she reached for one, her attention turned back to the task at hand. “We think––that is CC and I––believe that Banning, Tim Whitmore’s antique dealer, murdered him because Tim found out that Banning was swindling him. He was replacing all the millions of dollars of antiques that he was purchasing on Whitmore’s behalf with all these cheap imitations. Banning knew Tim wouldn’t know the difference.”
“Anne, after you told me about the spoon the first time, I did follow up with the Kenilworth police. There is no open homicide case for Tim Whitmore. I looked at the medical records myself. He had extensive artery blockage.”
“What about Banning?” Anne asked.
“When you told me that you’d found arsenic on the spoon and someone had broken into your house to find it, I considered that Banning might be a person of interest,” Nigel said. “Anne, he checks out; he has no criminal record. He’s a well-respected businessman.”
“But, Nigel. . .”
He interrupted her. “That’s enough. You have to stop this obsessing about the spoon.”
Anne took a bite of her cinnamon roll in silence. Its taste wasn’t quite so sweet anymore.
Chapter Forty-Five
The road to Lake Geneva, Wisconsin, was a short drive over the Illinois border. At this time of year, it was packed with summer tourists. The beautiful lake was surrounded by luxury resorts and multimillion-dollar vacation homes. One of them was for sale. That’s where CC and Anne were headed––the Kirby estate. Brian Kirby was a wealthy banker. When all the savings and loans in Chicago had gone belly up in the 1980s, Brian had gotten out when the getting was good. He’d sold his 80 brick and mortars to a national bank. His 20,000 square-foot Italian-style villa was nestled on a bluff overlooking the deep, crystal blue waters of one of Wisconsin’s largest lakes. Anne had learned from Buttersworth that Mr. Ripley was holding a preferred customer presale for the estate over the weekend.
Mr. Ripley looked dapper as always in his gray summer-weight Armani suit, accented with a white carnation in the lapel. “Excuse me, ladies,” he said to Anne and CC as they walked toward the front door. “This sale is invitation only. I didn’t see your names on my list.” He checked the clipboard in his hand.
“Mr. Ripley, we really need to talk to you about something important,” CC said.
He hesitated. “Since you are valued customers, why don’t you come in and look around? We can talk when I have a free moment.”
“Yes, yes, definitely, we will,” Anne said, impatient to get inside.
“Stay focused,” CC whispered as they walked through the double-arched doors. A stained glass chandelier dangled down, illuminating the Italian travertine floors. The foyer was dripping with gold, including gold-leafed wallpaper. Tuscany colors were everywhere. A round marble table stood center stage in the middle of the foyer. Anne stopped to admire it. Instead of flowers, a large gold cherub was holding court on its surface. The foyer exited through 30-foot high roman pillars into a great room which had floor to ceiling sliding windows overlooking the lake. A large marble fireplace and white Italian leather furniture decorated the room. CC went to sit on the veranda.
“I’m going to look around a little bit,” Anne said. After the living room, she wandered through the kitchen, admiring the copper pots and pans hanging over the large quartz island. The huge dining room shared the same passion for gold and gilt as the entryway. A small door led off the dining room. Anne entered an office. On the wall were pictures of Cragin Bank, the first savings and loan that Kirby had acquired in Chicago. There were pictures of corporate outings, Brian with Mayor Richard J. Daley, a framed diploma from Yale and a young Brian Kirby on the Yale swim team dated 1963. On the wall behind the desk were family photos and boating pictures. It was a lifetime up on the wall. Now he was gone and the pictures hung silent, like a ghost in the corner.
Anne sat down at the desk trying to estimate its size to see if it would fit through her door. Of course, the hundred-year-old oak carved desk was twice as wide as her front door but she still tried to do the math. She peeked out through the French doors and saw CC sitting with Mr. Ripley on the veranda.
CC sat on the veranda, waiting for Mr. Ripley, enjoying her freshly brewed espresso and Italian butter cookies. A 30-foot sailboat drifted by. She thought about Tony and the day on his boat and their time in the garden. Everywhere she looked she was reminded of him. She wondered if this was what it felt like to live in Italy. A shadow loomed in front of her. “I have a minute now if you wish to talk,” Mr. Ripley said.
CC hadn’t noticed his accent before. Surprising because normally she had a very good ear for accents. It was a slight accent that she could tell he tried not to reveal. It sounded eastern European. “Mr. Ripley, thank you, yes.”
He sat down across from CC. He motioned to the server who brought over a tea service and set it down in front of him. He waved the server off. “May I pour you some tea?”
“No, thank you, I’m having coffee.” CC held up the cup on the table in front of her.
Mr. Ripley reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope containing tealeaves. He placed them in a metal mesh tea ball and poured the hot water through the ball. He took the sugar tongs and pulled out a single sugar cube. He put the sugar cube in his mouth and sipped the tea through it, oblivious to CC’s intent gaze.
She watched the whole ritual. Not Slavic, Russian, CC thought. She’d spent time in the steel mills in the Vologda region of Russia, just outside of the Ukraine. Sipping tea through sugar cubes was a Russian custom. “This is a beautiful home. The view of the lake is gorgeous,” she said to Mr. Ripley.
“Mr. Kirby loved
the water. He had several homes but this was his favorite. That’s his boat.” Ripley pointed toward the dock where a wooden Chris-craft was docked––battered––a sizeable hole in the front of its hull.
“What happened there?” CC asked.
“He got caught in a storm on the lake. The boat was recovered, but he was never found. It’s very sad. He really loved the water.”
“Is the boat for sale? I know someone who might be interested.”
Anne walked out onto the veranda to join them, her arms overflowing. “CC, you’re not going to believe. . .”
“Anne, Mr. Ripley is ready to talk to us now,” CC said.
Anne plopped down onto the open chair next to CC. She pulled the vase out of her large orange Prada bag. She handed the vase to Mr. Ripley who looked it over for a moment.
“Is good imitation. What does it have to do with me?” he asked.
“Betsy Buttersworth bought the real vase that looked just like this one at the Whitmore estate sale. She also bought an alabaster Egyptian vase.”
“Yes, I remember selling that to Mrs. Buttersworth,” he interrupted. “She has very good taste.”
“We found replicas of many of Mr. Whitmore’s antiques at a warehouse owned by him,” CC said.
“I still don’t know what this has to do with me,” Mr. Ripley said.
Anne pulled out the spoon and held it up with a flourish. “This is the silver spoon that Banning is looking for. We believe that Banning was buying millions of dollars worth of antiques for Tim Whitmore and replacing them with fakes,” Anne said.
“I know nothing about this. Everything that I bought or sold from the Whitmore estate was authentic. I have the provenance on all the items. Banning is a very reputable buyer and refers me to many of his clients. Take a look around. Mr. Kirby was a long-time client of Banning’s. In fact, he brokered the purchase of the Chris-craft boat.”