Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (20 page)

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.”

“Mr. Ripley, we intend on exposing Banning as a embezzler,” CC said. “This could impact your reputation.”

“Why don’t you go to the police?”

CC and Anne looked at each other. “They didn’t believe us.”

“How do you want me to help you?” Mr. Ripley asked.

“You can tell Banning that we bought the spoon by mistake for five dollars. We know it’s worth a lot more money. We’re willing to sell it back to him for the right price,” CC said.

“I think you should call him yourself directly. I don’t want to be involved. I have a reputation to protect,” said Mr. Ripley. He stood up, put his tea back in his pocket. “Good day, ladies.” He walked back into the house, closing the French door with a loud click.

Anne and CC looked at each other again. It had never occurred to them to call Banning themselves.

Driving down Route 14 on the way home, Anne screamed, “CC, look! An antique store!” They’d just entered the small town of Richmond, Illinois. Anne was pointing at a large two-story Victorian painted lady that held a sign reading
Emporium
in large yellow letters. “Can we stop?”

CC parked in the front of the building. They walked into the old home that had been transformed into an antique hunter’s dream. Shelves were overflowing with teacups, vases, silverware and all sorts of knick-knacks. Pictures and paintings hung haphazardly on the wall.

“This is great.” Anne smelled bargains in the dusty, crowded store. She picked up a silver decorative monkey, picturing it on her mantle.

CC browsed selectively and made her way through the myriad of rooms at a much quicker pace than Anne. Little interested her but she did find a birdhouse crafted from tin that she had to have for her garden.

Anne hovered over a long glass-front case, eyeing the display of vintage jewelry, admiring the amber bead necklace, delicate cameo pins, and marcasite rings. She was struck by the chunky amber necklace and strained to see a price on it. The price tag was hidden from view, a pet peeve of Anne’s. She didn’t like wasting time finding someone to tell her how much something cost. She punished shop owners by leaving and never returning. In Anne’s world of antiquing, it was a capital offense.

CC stepped up behind Anne, gazing into the case. “See anything?” she asked.

“I was looking at that necklace,” Anne said, pointing at the butterscotch amber necklace.

“It’s pretty,” CC said.

“Yes, but I can’t see the price.”

“Let’s find someone to help,” CC said.

“It’s too late now. I’ve lost interest.”

CC added another
Anne-syncrasie
to the running list in her head, right after her time management skills and her distorted view of finance.

Anne walked to the front desk where she paid for the monkey and a pair of lapis lazuli earrings. Placing their purchases in the car, they walked the few storefronts to the old-fashioned drug store that also had a lunch counter. They opted to sit at the counter on the tall red vinyl stools instead of waiting for a table. They both ordered Green River floats and grilled cheese sandwiches.

While they waited for their order, Anne wandered around, investigating the novelty items and jars of penny candies. They had all Anne’s favorites from when she was a little girl, like bulls eyes, wax juice bottles, pixie straws, licorice pipes and dots on the paper. She filled a bag with a selection of all of them.

She stopped to test the hand cream made locally by a beekeeper. She walked past the penny scale that told your fortune. She knew her fortune would be bad if she stood on the scale after going off her diet the last few days. On the back wall were hickory walking sticks, old-fashioned crutches and a vintage wheelchair made out of wicker. Everything had a price tag dangling from it.

“Anne, the food’s here!” CC called over to her.

Anne hurried back and sat on the stool next to CC, swiveling back and forth on the seat. She was very excited about moving on to the next antique store. CC took a bite and sighed, “This is so good, Anne, It’s Gruyere, cheddar and Swiss. It’s full of gooey goodness.”

“They’ve got some really incredible antique medical supplies. I saw a leather doctor’s bag. It had to be from the 1800s,” Anne said.

They finished their lunch. Anne swiveled facing CC. “What’s the plan?”

“We contact Banning and let him know we have the spoon and it’s for sale,” CC said.

“Sounds good. Can we stop at the other little shop I saw on the way out of town?”

CC sighed, exasperated. “Okay, but only for a few minutes.” They paid for their lunch and walked onto the next shop.

Chapter Forty-Six

Anne set the video camera on top of the refrigerator in her kitchen. She looked through the viewfinder to make sure it was the perfect angle to see CC sitting at the table. She placed an art deco silver napkin holder in front of it. “All set,” she said to CC.

The doorbell rang. They looked at each other. “Are we really going to do this?” Anne asked.

CC nodded at her. They answered the door together. Banning stood straight-faced on the other side, holding a briefcase. He didn’t say a word.

“Mr. Banning, please come in,” CC said.

He followed her into the kitchen. Banning sat down at the table and placed the briefcase next to him on the floor. From above, Sassy uttered a low growl, her tail rocking like a pendulum. She looked like a Kit-Cat clock perched on the shelf.

“I understand that you were mistakenly sold a very expensive spoon,” Banning said.

“Yes, Paul Revere’s Midnight Ride spoon,” Anne said.

“May I see it?” Banning asked.

Anne took the spoon out of her large orange Prada bag, unwrapped it from the cotton cloth and handed it to Banning.

He took out an eye loupe and looked the spoon over carefully. “How did you know what the spoon was?”

“We’re antique hunters. We know a great deal about history and artifacts. This is a very important spoon. It belongs in a museum,” CC said.

Anne gave her a sharp look.

“It holds a lot of sentimental value to the Whitmore family. They were very upset when they learned it was sold by mistake. They have authorized me to offer you $5,000 cash for the spoon.” He lifted his briefcase, snapped it open. With the top of the case facing the two women, he pulled out a stack of twenties still wrapped in a Federal Reserve band. He closed the briefcase, put it on the floor and placed the stack in the middle of the table waiting for a response.

Anne got very excited. CC slowly pushed the stack of money back to Banning’s side of the table. “It’s worth ten times that,” she said.

Banning lifted up his briefcase again and pulled out another stack. He placed it on top of the other, pushing it toward CC’s side of the table. “$10,000 is as much as I’m allowed to go.”

CC reached under the table and pulled out the imitation Phoenix vase and placed it next to the money. “How much would you give me for this vase?”

Banning’s expression turned ashen. “Where’d you get that?” he asked in a loud voice.

“From Tim Whitmore’s warehouse.”

“What is this?” he stammered. “You know the spoon is fake, don’t you? Are you trying to blackmail me?”

“We know that you were buying millions of dollars of antiques for Mr. Whitmore and replacing them with replicas,” CC said.

“We know your plan,” Anne added.

He reached into his briefcase and pulled out another stack of twenties. “Here, $15,000. Keep your mouths shut.”

“We’re antique hunters. We can’t be bought,” Anne said. “You’re a disgrace to antique lovers.”

Banning pounded the table. He grabbed the cash and stood up. Anne grabbed the spoon off the table and backed up against the sink counter, terrified. This time, Banning opened the briefcase and pulled out a gun. “All I want is the spoon. I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

“What about Tim Whitmore?”

“What about Tim? The fat slob died of a heart attack. What do you expect after eating all that fried hillbilly food,” Banning said, waving the gun around. “He didn’t have a clue that the antiques weren’t real. His idea of class was his framed autographed poster of Richard Petty.”

As CC and Banning spoke, Anne felt Sassy’s piercing stare. Over Banning’s head, Sassy arched her back, preparing to pounce at the sound of the can opener. Anne reached behind herself and pushed the lever down. The noise was startling.

Banning’s surprised look turned to terror when a 30-pound brass coffee grinder and a 20-pound Persian cat both landed on his head. He fell to the ground, knocked out cold.

Anne ran to a kitchen drawer and pulled out a roll of packing tape. Quickly, she and CC sealed Banning up into a cocoon. Anne then called Detective Towers who showed up a short while later.

“Okay, ladies, I’m sure there’s a very good explanation for all this. You said you caught the man who broke into your house. I take it this is him.” He looked down at Banning still tied up on the floor.

Banning tried to talk through the tape covering his mouth. Detective Towers peeled back the tape over Banning’s mouth. “These women are crazy!” Banning cried. “They called me over to look at an antique they wanted to sell. Next thing I know, they’re robbing me!”

Anne took out the stepstool, climbed up and took the video camera off the the top of the fridge. “That’s not true. We have proof.” Anne played back the whole scene for Detective Towers.

“You bi. . . .”

Before the
b
word could come out of Banning’s mouth, Nigel put the tape back over it. “Ladies, I have to say I was wrong.”

Anne then brought out the tea leaves. “These tea leaves are laced with arsenic. They were in the same bag with the spoon that Banning used to poison Tim Whitmore.”

Banning screamed something undecipherable through the tape. Nigel ripped it off again, along with a little bit of skin. “Okay; I’ll admit I stole from Whitmore. But I didn’t killed him! Why would I kill him? He was my golden goose!” Banning protested.

“Because he found out that you were charging him millions of dollars for cheap fakes,” CC said.

“He never knew. After he died, I was afraid that I might get caught, so I got rid of all the fakes except for that damn spoon. They were supposed to only sell the real antiques at the estate sale,” Banning said.

“How do you explain the warehouse?”

Banning grew quiet. “I want to call my attorney.”

Detective Towers cut the packing tape off completely and put Banning in handcuffs. “We can arrange for that,” he said. Detective Towers called for a squad car to take Banning. Two police officers came to the door and took him away. “I’ll need to take the spoon for evidence,” Detective Towers said.

Anne held onto the spoon. She was reluctant to let it go. CC nudged her shoulder. “I’ll make sure you get it back,” Detective Towers said.

Anne smiled at the thought of seeing Detective Towers again and handed him the spoon. For the first time since all the excitement had started, she noticed that his tie matched her pants. She wondered if it was a coincidence.

After Detective Towers left, Anne said, “I never showed you what I got from the Kirby sale.” She reached into her large orange Prada bag and pulled out a small glass case.

CC eyed the case.

“They’re commemorative stamps from the 1964 summer Olympics in Tokyo. They were only sold during the Olympics. I’m going to frame them and put them in my bathroom,” Anne said. “Neat, huh?”

“Yeah.”

“He had a lot of items from the 1964 Olympics in his office. He also had a lot of Japanese vases but this was all I could afford.”

“It’s funny because the rest of the house was very Italian,” CC said.