Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (2 page)

Chapter Three

Dave Southwell’s death shocked the country music world. A week had passed since the
Mayhem in Naperville
tragedy as Anne referred to it. She was still not able to get the picture out of her mind. The Spoon Sisters’ blog’s fans shared their grief, but life went on. Anne had to return to the serious work of antique hunting.

She arrived at CC’s house early Saturday morning. The front of the suburban split-level was decorated with corn stalks, pumpkins, gourds and a scarecrow couple CC had made in her craft room. The scarecrow couple was very sad and coming apart at the seams.
Craft room
, Anne thought.
CC threw that word around kind of loosely.
Anne sat down on the cement bench that CC’s ex husband had built, the only handyman project left standing. Scattered around it were orange mums in decorative planters.

Normally, Anne resented getting up this early, but weekends were a different story. Saturdays and Sundays were spent shopping––and not just any shopping––true antique hunting. On the weekends, Anne and CC scoured antique stores, estate sales, flea markets, garage and barn sales searching for items on their lists of
fan
requests. They went where the bargains were.

For the occasion, Anne was wearing her antique hunting uniform, a pair of flowered Capri pants once worn by 1960s Hollywood starlet Stevie Vann. The flowered pants had become a Spoon Sisters’ symbol of empowerment, plus they looked damned good on her.

Since starting the Spoon Sisters’ blog, their fan base had exploded. Hundreds of requests came in every week and Anne took a personal interest in each one. On a weekly basis, she scanned and mapped out their shopping expeditions, reading the classifieds, Craigslist and estatesales.net. She reviewed the photos and descriptions, comparing them against listings on eBay, Sotheby’s and her own personal database, which was larger than both. She cataloged all her purchases in handwritten notebooks, which were organized by date, item, location and how much she had paid, also the estimated value. This was almost a full-time job. To keep up with the demand, she had switched her daytime job as a research chemist to part time. She had found her true calling––antique hunting.

CC and Bandit walked up behind her, disturbing Anne’s thoughts. “Anne, you’re early,” CC said.

Anne jumped. “I was anxious to get started today. In fact, I couldn’t sleep.”

“How’s Nigel? Did he like the poster?” CC asked after Anne’s friend, the very tall and very British Chicago police detective Nigel Towers.

“He thought it was fabulous,” Anne enthused, recalling Nigel’s delight when she had given him an original Maltese Falcon movie poster. Nigel shared Anne’s love of film noir.

CC opened the front door and took off Bandit’s leash. She deposited it in a basket. Anne followed her into the house. “Sit down. I want to show you something,” CC said.

Anne sat down at the dining room table, a 1960s-era Danish modern. Not Anne’s taste, but it catered to CC’s pragmatism and love of clean lines. Anne preferred her furniture more ornate.

CC pulled the photos out of her backpack and handed them to Anne. “What am I looking at?” Anne asked.

CC handed her the loupe. “Look closely at the overhead lights. Do you notice anything?”

Anne took a closer look through the loupe. “Not really.”

“Look again.” CC wondered if her imagination was playing tricks on her. She was starting to doubt her journalistic eye. “Check out the safety wires over Dave Southwell’s head. They’re not connected to the lights. If they were, it might have saved his life.”

Anne pulled the loupe back up to her eye and examined the photo again. “I can kind of see it.” She put the photo down on the table.

CC sat down next to her. “I went to the Riverwalk and showed it to Roger, the roadie who kicked us off the stage.”

“What did he say about it?”

“He didn’t see it either. He said all the lights were checked and secure.”

“Obviously they weren’t secure otherwise Dave would still be alive,” Anne said.

“The official report says that the motorized halo light was not balanced correctly, and the weight pulled down the rest of the lights. I have a friend who works for the city of Naperville. She gave me a copy of the police report. Officially, they’re calling it an accident.” CC cradled her coffee cup.

“You don’t feel it was?” Anne asked.

“After the year we had last year, I don’t want to take anything at face value,” CC said.

Anne agreed with her friend but wasn’t sure what the next steps would be.

CC put the photos back in her backpack and stood up. “I’m going to make breakfast for us. You can map out our route for today.”

While CC cut up onions and mushrooms and sautéed them in a pan, Anne sat at the kitchen table with a notebook and pen. She had a large Rand McNally atlas spread out on the table. “You know I have a GPS, right?” CC said over her shoulder.

“I hate that whiny voice. They’re always yelling at me,” Anne replied, using a compass to determine areas within a 50-mile radius of CC’s home.

CC beat the eggs, added some cream and then the vegetables. She stirred them all together and put them in a cast iron skillet. When Anne wasn’t looking, she added a dash of her ghost pepper mixture into the batter. CC’s crop of hot peppers found its way into most of her meals. Even when dining out, she carried a small vial in her purse. As she was known to say, “It makes everything better.” She put the frittata in the oven and then plopped some whole-wheat toast in the toaster.

When it was ready, she prepared some plates, adding strawberries with mint leaves and brought them over to the table. She poured them both a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and coffee made from her authentic French press.

While they ate, Anne kept her eyes on her notebook and phone. She had several items she was watching on eBay. It was her primary leisure activity. She did very little buying online but considered it research.

When they were finished with their breakfast, they enjoyed their coffee in CC’s 1960s era Frankoma coffee mugs. Anne, unable to contain herself any longer, burst out, “Can we go now? We have to be at the first sale before the doors open.”             

CC smiled. “What are we looking for today?”

“I combed through the list of requests you printed out for me and I cross referenced it with all the estate, garage, yard, rummage sales in the area this weekend, and I think our best bet is the Lake Forest Presbyterian Church rummage sale.”

CC sighed. “Anne, you have to be kidding. Do you remember last year? Thousands of people, no parking and the lines. Oh, and what about the port-a- potty? What kind of church doesn’t let you use their washroom? I don’t remember reading anything in the Bible about port-a-potties.”

“Just go before we get there,” Anne said. “I know for sure at least ten items we’re looking for will be there. The treasure room alone should have several sets of china including Rosenthal, Wedgwood or possibly Tiffany. And, there’s a rumor that there’s a Flora Danica china set. If I can find that at a good price, that alone is worth the trip. I’d sell Sassy for a Flora Danica salad bowl.”

This was serious indeed
, CC thought. If Anne was willing to part with her beloved white Persian over this china set, then it must truly be special.

As they reached downtown Lake Forest, the first signs for shuttle bus pick-up appeared. Parking was at a premium and Anne could already see people walking toward the church. She bit her nails, a childhood habit that had returned to her after the stress of the past year. “Anne, this is crazy. It’s way too crowded,” CC complained as they drove around looking for a parking space.

“Why don’t we at least drive by the church and see how bad the lines are?” Anne said.

CC reluctantly agreed. They turned down the tree-lined street. The large parking lot across from the church was filled. The Lake Forest police officers were waving cars past. “Oh, dear,” Anne said. That’s when she caught a glimpse of periwinkle blue. “Stop! Stop the car, CC. Stop right now!” she yelled. She tried to jump out of the car but was restrained by the seatbelt. She stuck her head out the window and looked over the roof of the VW. Her worst fear was realized. In the small VIP parking lot behind the church, sat a periwinkle blue Aston Martin with the vanity plate,
Bets’ Aston
. “Buttersworth!” she screamed, causing the birds in the trees to fly away and several passerby to turn their heads.

“Sit down,” CC said as people honked behind them. “I have to move the car.”

Anne managed to unbuckle her seatbelt and kick the door open with her foot. She exited the car while it was still in motion. “Just leave me here!” she shouted over her shoulder as she darted across the street, running towards the entrance. Her large orange Prada bag flew behind her trying to catch up. Cars squealed and swerved around her, the drivers yelling language not fit for church.

Pushing through the crowds, Anne ran up the staircase and down the narrow hallway. A sign in front of a classroom read
Treasure Room
. There were already nine people in line waiting for the door to open. Anne nervously poked her head left and right around the heads in front of her like a pigeon. As the door opened, she saw the back of a head with a perfect $300 coiffure rush in.
Buttersworth
, she thought.

When Anne finally entered the room, her gaze was immediately drawn to a low table. There it sat in all its glory, rim trimmed in pure gold, a five-piece place setting of Flora Danica. It would be hers. After her heart started beating again, she caught her breath and made her way to the setting. Laser focused, she did not see the manicured hand with a five-carat pink diamond engagement ring reaching for it.

The room stilled as Betsy Buttersworth turned with a smile holding the dinner plate in one hand and her vintage Hermes Birkin bag in the other. “Buttersworth!” Anne screamed. The stained glass church window might have rattled a bit.

“Hillstrom,” was the reply from Anne’s antique hunting nemesis, Betsy Buttersworth, no relation to the syrup but as always a very sticky problem for Anne. “It’s been a while, Hillstrom.”

Anne counted to ten in her head without realizing she was still moving her lips. When her blood pressure reached a manageable level, she said, “I came here today specifically for the Flora Danica set. It’s number one on my request list for the Spoon Sisters blog.”             

Betsy listened respectfully trying not to smirk. She thought for a moment and handed it to Anne. “Well, then you must have it, mustn’t you?”

Anne dropped the plate, thankfully recovering it when it was just an inch from the floor. She froze, holding it for a second and then rose slowly. “Buttersworth, why?”

“Anne, we’re friends, aren’t we? And friends help each other, don’t they, Anne?”

“Yes, Betsy. Yes, they do,” Anne’s voice quivered, her pupils dilated.

“I want you to have this because it means so much to you and because it’s so important to you. I, as your friend, want you to have this beautiful set of china.”

“Here you are!” CC called out as she entered the room. “How could you have taken off like that?”

Betsy smiled at CC before walking away. Anne watched her, her mouth wide open, the china plate cradled in her arms.

“What was that all about?” CC asked Anne.

“Hell froze over,” Anne replied.

“In church, Anne? Really?” CC looked at her. “Do you need more china?”

“It’s number one on our list. It’s the Flora Danica set I was telling you about. This could be worth $8,000, and they have priced it at $200.”

“Are you sure it’s not imitation? That’s really a discounted price.”

“It’s not an imitation. That’s real gold trim. Betsy let me have it.”

“What do you mean Betsy let you have it?”

“She was holding it first and I told her how much it meant to me and she let me have it.” Anne stared after Betsy who was holding up a silver vase. She could tell from here that it wasn’t real silver-plate. Maybe she should warn her but,
unnh
she thought, shrugging her shoulders.

“Betsy? Betsy Buttersworth?”

“Yes.” Anne pulled her Coach wallet out of her large orange Prada bag. It wasn’t a Hermes but still a luxury item. Maybe a poor man’s luxury item but luxury nonetheless. She gathered the twenties, singles and fives along with her baggie of change. She paid for the place setting and asked them to hold it for her while she walked around.

After an hour of wandering, she found CC in the designer clothing room in the basement trying on a pair of wide-wale corduroy pants. “No, those aren’t for you,” Anne said.

“You’re going to talk about pants, are you?” CC gave a pointed look at Anne’s flowered capris.

Anne plowed through the basket of scarves looking for a vintage Chanel or Vuitton, something worth her time, not these cheap polyester knockoffs. Down at the very bottom, she found a Burberry silk scarf in an original Nova Check pattern––navy, white and red checkers on a tan background. She held it up and slid it through her fingers.
This scarf found me,
she thought,
we are meant to be
. She wrapped it around her neck, unafraid that it would clash with her flowered pants.