Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (15 page)

Chapter Thirty-one

Anne and CC got back in the VW and headed towards Franklin. It was a small suburb of Nashville. The urban landscape turned into farmettes and then into gravel back roads until they reached a small, two-bedroom, aluminum-sided house.

Its owner, Marsha Casper, walked down the stairs to greet them. “It’s so nice to meet you,” Marsha said. “Thank you for driving out here. We’re back in the woods here as you can tell. I’m glad you could find it.”

“Thank you for having us. We’re excited about looking at the garage,” CC said.

“Let me take you over.” She walked over to the large, oversized garage, located behind the house and lifted one of the three doors. “As I told you on the phone, my husband Bob passed a few years ago.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you. He didn’t throw anything out. Any worksite he was on if someone didn’t want it, it was his. Nothing’s organized. Be careful.”

“Oh, we’re antique hunters. We know our way around clutter.” Anne pictured her living room.

The first thing that caught CC’s eye was an old leather swivel barstool. “This looks pretty old. Like 1960s.”

“Hold on,” Marsha said. “Kind of a funny story. Bob was fixing the refrigeration unit at the Dewdrop Inn in Murfreesboro and Merle Haggard came in for a beer. He wound up on that stool all night drinking. Bob matched him beer for beer. Merle became a regular at that bar, always sitting on that stool. Eventually, Bob was able to talk Merle into autographing it. The bar owner gave it to Bob as payment. There’s a picture inside the house of Merle sitting on the stool. The only thing left of the bar is the stool.”

CC looked at Anne with a big smile. “Let’s put this in our pile.” The next thing CC saw was a pink nose sticking out from underneath some pieces of wood. She moved the wood away and nearly jumped back. It was a stuffed possum. She picked it up, examined it and saw George Jones’ signature. “I have to ask. Where did Bob get the possum?”

“That’s another funny story.” Marsha smiled at the memory. “Bob was on a fishing trip on Old Hickory when him and his buddies stopped at the taxidermy. He wanted to have his bass mounted. He walked in and George Jones was picking up a fish he had mounted. Bob got to talking. Bob was really good at talking. He told George that he was a big fan. The taxidermist had this possum and Bob bought it from him. Bob asked George––you know George’s nickname is the possum––to sign it. Bob named the possum George. He used to be on our mantle but I moved him out to the garage. He scared me in the middle of the night when I went for my midnight snack.”

“This goes in the pile.” CC moved the possum to the corner where she had placed the barstool. CC poked through a cardboard box, which held picture frames, baseball cards and old tools. She found a trucker cap with the Texas flag on the bill. CC held it up. “What’s with the hat?”

“Look around back,” Marsha said.

CC turned it around. It was signed by Willie Nelson.

“Bob was working at West End Studios in Nashville. He was putting in a bathroom and Willie Nelson was recording. They got to talking as he would do. Willie liked Bob’s hat. It said Bob’s Construction. Willie said he would trade hats with him. I got a picture of Willie wearing that exact hat at Farm Aid.”

CC looked at Anne. “I can’t stop.”

Peeking in the corner, Anne removed a sheet that was covering a large farm table. On the table were old Mammy cookie jars, salt and pepper shakers and a large sign.

“Oh, dear, I never liked those much. They were my grandmother’s,” Marsha said, shuddering. “I couldn’t throw them out. I keep them out here in the garage.”

“I’ve got someone on my list,” Anne said, pulling the notebook from her large orange Prada bag. She skimmed through it and found Professor Frank Barton from the University of Alabama. He’s writing a book about the way
mammy
was depicted throughout the years. These would be perfect for his collection. “Would you be willing to part with these?”

Marsha paused for a moment. “They were my grandmother’s. Even though I don’t care for them, they
are
part of my family history.”

“It’s got a lot of historical value that my client, a professor, will pass on to his students. He teaches African American studies. How long have these been under that sheet out here?”

Marsha thought. “At least 20 years. We moved them out of the house when my kids were little.”

“Don’t you think it’s better they’re rescued and given a good home? You know my great aunt Sybil once called beautiful pieces like this
orphaned artifacts
. Left to their own, they would never have a family. We can give them a family now.”

“That sounds good. You can take them.”

“Did Bob do a lot of work at West End?” CC asked.

“He was over there all the time. He fixed their air conditioning, heating. Something was always breaking down there. The guy who owned it never seemed to have enough money to fix it right so he always had Bob patching stuff up. Bob never minded though. He liked meeting all the musicians. In fact, I’ve got some photographs of him with a lot of them. Follow me into the house.” Marsha led the way into the living room. One entire wall was covered with framed photos.

CC recognized one as Clarence Riddle sitting with his Martin guitar in front of a microphone at the studio––in the sound booth. She could make out Colonel Anderson and Walters, the engineer.

“Anne, look at this. Hopkins told us that Walters left Colonel Anderson to start West End Studios because he was angry with him. Here he is with the Colonel recording Clarence Riddle.” CC removed the picture from the wall and stared at it. “Can I buy this photo?”

Marsha nodded her agreement. “You can have this one. I’ve got so many.”

They sat down at her kitchen table and she poured glasses of sweet tea. She brought over a bowl of fresh honey. Anne took a spoonful. “This is delicious honey. Where’d you get this from?”

“Oh, I keep bees. It’s been a really bad year. I’ve lost a lot of bees. Something is killing them. I can’t figure it out. I used to sell the honey at the farmer’s market, but I don’t have enough this year. That’s part of the reason I’m selling off Bob’s stuff.”

As she spoke, CC noticed the burn mark on Marsha’s right hand. It was blistering. “Have you been in the garden today?”

“I was out there this morning, cleaning up some of the leaves.”

“Do you mind if I take a look? I’m a gardener too.” CC followed Marsha out to the garden. She examined the ground around the hives. She pushed some leaves around. Then she took out a napkin and wrapped something up. Marsha watched intensely. While CC was conducting her investigation, Anne was watching several items on eBay, including a blue multicolored Victorian-era Longwy candlestick. A steal at only $19.99.

They sat back at the kitchen table. CC placed the napkin on the table and unfolded it carefully, revealing a black bug. “Here’s your culprit,” CC said.

“What is it?”

“It’s called an American oil beetle. This is what’s been killing your bees.”

“Not bees again,” Anne moaned.

“What do you mean?” Marsha asked.

“We had a little trouble with bees about a year ago. It’s a long story but it involved honey bee pheromone.”

CC ignored her and kept talking, “American oil beetles are a type of blister beetle. When threatened, they emit a chemical called cantharidin that creates blisters and irritates human skin. I noticed the blisters on your hand. You must have brushed up against one in the garden. They’re usually more active in the spring, but I noticed one or two are still out there.”

“Do they eat my bees?”

“These beetles don’t fly. They’re really slow. The larvae are very devious. They sit on flowers waiting for a bee to land, then they latch onto the bee for a free ride to the hive. Once there, the beetle larvae feed on the bee larvae,” CC explained.

“I can’t believe that. It’s the first year I’ve ever had problems. What do I do about it?”

“First thing you can do is pick the beetles off your plants. Make sure you wear gloves. Next, leave a wide row between plantings and clear out the surrounding weeds. Blister beetles do not cross wide rows and they do not like to enter empty spaces. Here’s what I’ve found to be really effective, take some horseradish root, mix it in water and spray all your plants. It won’t harm your bees, but it will take care of your blister beetle problem.”

“How can I ever thank you?”

“No thanks are necessary. If you have any more questions, read my blog. I give gardening tips every week.”

Anne retrieved an antique hunters’ business card. “Here’s the URL for the blog. We’d love to have you as a fan.”

“I’m a fan already,” Marsha said, holding the card.

As she opened the front door to leave, CC paused. Sitting in the glass oak display case next to the couch was a 1942 German Luger. “Can I see that?” CC asked.

Marsha unlocked the case and brought the pistol out. She handed it to CC.

CC held it in her hand, admiring the ivory grips. It had an officer’s initials engraved on it in German, and the barrel was inlaid with semi-precious jewels. “This is beautiful. Do you know the story behind it?”

“Bob’s grandfather took it from a German officer he captured. The officer surrendered himself in Commerce, France. Bob’s grandfather was a private. He kept it as a souvenir and gave it to Bob.”

“It’s beautiful German craftsmanship,” CC said.

Anne watched. The pistol was pushing all CC’s buttons––German precision and steel. The only part Anne admired were the jewels. “Growing up in Germany, I shot a similar Luger. It was my grandfather’s,” CC said. “He was actually in the resistance in the Black Forest fighting the Nazis. He taught me how to shoot. I would love to shoot this gun. Would you consider selling it?”

“CC, you know that one of our clients collects military memorabilia and weapons. This hits both,” Anne interrupted.

CC gave Anne a stern look but then her practical side took over. “Marsha, would you consider parting with it? It will go to a good home. Our client is a decorated war veteran. I think he’d be excited to add it to his collection.”

Marsha eyed the gun and CC. “Bob would want it to go to a good home.”

“We need to bring it to a gun dealer so you can sign it over to me,” CC said after they settled on a price.

“There’s a gun range that Bob used ten minutes down the road if you want to go now. You can shoot it there too,” Marsha said.

CC’s face lit up. It was the best of both worlds. She would be able to shoot this German officer’s gun and fulfill one of her client’s wishes.

After the girls loaded the VW microbus with their finds from Marsha’s garage, they drove the short distance to the Franklin gun range, following Marsha at a safe pace. The gun range was located on the site of a former Civil War armory. The building still looked as if it could hold several Rebel cannons. The iron door opened with little resistance. Inside, the walls were lined with hunting rifles, paramilitary assault guns and several glass cases filled with handguns. It was not an unfamiliar sight to CC who appreciated any finely tuned machine.

Anne hung back, looking at the hats and the selection of beef jerky.

“May I help you, ladies?” asked a 50-ish woman with long bleached blonde hair. She was wearing a T-shirt that read
Franklin Guns
. Strapped to her belt was a pearl-handled stainless steel Kimber .45 automatic. Her name tag read
Blanche
.

Marsha placed the case with the Luger inside on the counter and opened it. Blanche smiled. “That’s quite a fancy Luger.”

“We’d like to transfer the ownership, and I’d like to shoot it first to make sure it’s in good working condition,” CC said.

“There’s a $10 fee for an instant background check, and we need to take your fingerprints. Are you from Tennessee?” Blanche handed her several forms.

“I’m from Illinois. I do have a conceal carry license, and I have a FBI profile from my years as an investigative reporter. I’ve worked with the FBI as an expert consultant.”

“When was that?” Anne said, over her shoulder.

CC ignored her.

“All I need is $10 and your fingerprints,” Blanche said.

As CC knew it would, her background check came back perfect. She bought a box of 9-millimeter bullets. Blanche gave her earphones and a target. The indoor gun range was empty except for one shooter in a stall. CC clipped the bull’s eye target onto the pulley. She pushed the button and the target flew down the range. She stopped at 25 feet, thought about it and pushed it again. She stopped it at 50 feet. She loaded the clip. It slid in and engaged smoothly like she knew it would. Bob had taken great care of it. She could smell the oil and the grease. She aimed, held her breath and gently squeezed the trigger. The trigger pulled with little effort. After six shots, she had a perfect quarter-sized grouping around the bull’s eye. She finished the 50 rounds and then returned to the front.

“So, how’d you like it?” Blanche asked.

CC pulled her earphones off and smiled. “It’s great.” She looked over at Anne who shook her head no.

The girls loaded up their car and headed back to the Hermitage. Clutching her small mason jar of honey, Anne thought about calling Bradley on the way to prepare her bath. But she didn’t want CC to hear her. She would have to wait.