Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery Read online

  “Sounds good, Tony.” She clicked off.

  “Why does he have to move back?” Anne asked.

  “It’s a good opportunity. His mentor at the shipyard is retiring and he wants Tony to take over for him. Tony was his apprentice for ten years. He learned everything about restoring yachts from him. I understand the allure of working on beautiful works of art and living in southern Italy.”

  “Well, CC, like you were quick to tell me, I think you should let Tony know your feelings.”

  “Well, Anne, if he asks me to go I think I’ll go.”

  “What about the Spoon Sisters? What about me? Are you going to leave me behind?”

  “Let’s cross that bridge when we get to it.” CC looked at her phone. “This is strange.” She had a text from Betsy Buttersworth. “Betsy wants us to come for brunch tomorrow.”

  “She’s not getting the plates.” Anne crossed her arms over her chest.

  CC sighed. “Let’s go and see what she wants.”

  Chapter Four

  They arrived at Betsy’s historic Frank Lloyd Wright prairie home in the near west Chicago suburb of Oak Park. The Sunday morning gawkers with their walking tour headphones stopped politely to admire the brass plaque that adorned Betsy’s front door. The short walk up to the building was lined with fall mums. Anne hesitated halfway up the stairs. “CC, you’re sure this is a good idea? Every time we get involved with Buttersworth, something bad happens.” Anne was decked out for brunch in a silk shantung two-piece suit, white gloves and a large straw hat with a pink ribbon. CC was wearing the wide wale corduroys with a turtleneck. She was carrying a bottle of her homemade cherry wine.

  Before Anne could change her mind, CC rang the doorbell. Moments later, Betsy Buttersworth appeared wearing a vintage Halston dress and saltwater pearls. She smiled at CC and then looked Anne up and down. The smile faded. “Come in.” She held the door open for CC and let it close slightly, rubbing against Anne as she walked through, pretending not to notice.

  The inside of Betsy’s home was as pristine as the exterior. Everything in it was era appropriate. FLW, as Betsy referred to him, would have approved. “Ladies, we’re going to have brunch in the sunroom. I have it all set up. Please follow me back.”

  As they walked on the slate tile, the stained glass window in the upstairs landing stole Anne’s gaze. The Sunday morning sun was shining through, painting the floor with reds, blues, greens and ambers silhouetting the oak stairs like a pulpit in a Baptist church. Anne imagined FLW standing at the pulpit preaching the gospel of prairie design. “Hillstrom, are you coming?” Betsy said from the hallway that narrowed through the kitchen and into the sunroom.

  Oh, last names again, Anne thought. That was one thing about Buttersworth that really irritated her. She’d known Buttersworth since they were kids, yet Betsy refused to call Anne by her first name. It was always Hillstrom, like Hillstrom was an insult.

  Following Betsy and CC into the sunroom, Anne saw the beautifully set table. It was adorned with vintage French linens and a lace embroidered tablecloth covering the leather top round oak table.

  “Please sit down, ladies.”

  Betsy walked over to the sideboard and retrieved a crystal pitcher full of orange juice. She filled three Lalique champagne flutes with Dom Perignon and a splash of orange juice. She sat down and neatly creased her dress. “Let’s have a toast, shall we? To old friends, the best kind of friend.”

  Anne tentatively sipped. She kept waiting for Buttersworth to bring up the china. She knew that’s what this was all about. What else could it be? She couldn’t contain herself anymore. The pressure was too much; the waiting, the worrying, the stress level was unbearable. “You can’t have the china,” she blurted out, and then downed her Mimosa like it was a true Swedish toast.

  “Hillstrom, what china are you talking about?”

  “Okay, Buttersworth, you can stop with the games. You know you brought us here to try to take back the china from the rummage sale. It’s not going to happen. You had your chance, you passed on it, it’s mine, end of story.” Anne set her glass down on the table with a thud and stood up.

  “Oh, Anne, you’re a riot,” Betsy said with a noticeably fake laugh. “I wanted to wait until after we ate to tell you why I asked you here. We can talk about it now.” Betsy twisted the ring on her finger so the stone was facing up and waved it in the air. The light was blinding. “Steven’s asked me to marry him.”

  “Oh, congratulations,” CC said, admiring the ring. “It’s beautiful.”

  “It’s very big,” Anne said, giving it a glance.

  “Steven will be moving to Chicago,” Betsy said, accenting her point with hand motions. “We’ve been flying back and forth, making time between our busy schedules.”

  “Do you have a wedding date?” CC said, tapping Anne’s foot under the table.

  “Not quite yet. We’re still working out the details.”

  “That’s why you want the china,” Anne said.

  “Oh, Anne, you are funny. I don’t need your china. What I would like is to commission you to help me with a project. I’m converting my coach house in back to a studio for Steven. I envision a combination office and music room. I would like to keep it authentic like the main house. Early 1900s antiques but with a music theme like vintage guitars, radios, microphones, posters. I want a lot of Nashville memorabilia. I want him to feel at home.”

  “Why us?” Anne asked, biting at her fingernail.

  “Steven was very impressed that you were able to find that microphone for Dave Southwell.” Betsy paused. “What a tragedy. Dave was signed to one of Steven’s subsidiaries. Anyway, I’d like to hire you exclusively to furnish my coach house. Between planning the wedding and my charity work, I don’t have time to do it myself. Besides, we have a history. You know what I like and I trust your eye. It’s going to be a surprise for Steven so I’m under a time constraint. I’d like to get the whole house done before Steven is back from Nashville. I have several leads from various sources. Some antique dealers, some musicians who might want to sell some of their equipment. It’ll give you a good start. Of course, I’ll pay you a hefty commission.”

  “Betsy, we’d love to help you but we both have full-time jobs,” CC said. “We couldn’t take off that much . . . .”

  “Don’t be silly,” Anne interrupted, jumping at the chance of an adventure like this. “Of course, we can. This is a great opportunity for the Spoon Sisters to grow our business. And, of course, we want to help Betsy. We’re all old friends.”

  “Thank you, Anne, I’m glad you feel that way.”

  CC hesitated. “I guess I can file my stories from Nashville just as easily as from Chicago. I’ll have to work it out with my boss but it’s a possibility.”

  Betsy refilled all three glasses with just a touch of orange juice and a larger splash of champagne. “Here’s to the Spoon Sisters and a successful hunt!” she declared.

  Chapter Five

  CC arrived at the Italian Village, a Chicago landmark. Tony was already waiting. He had reserved a special booth in a quiet corner on the second floor. The twinkling white string lights wrapped around the booth, creating a romantic atmosphere. Tony stood up to greet CC as she reached the top of the stairs. He was wearing the sport coat he had worn the first time they saw each other on the Metra train over a year ago. It made her smile to see that he remembered that day. A glance from a stranger had turned into something more.

  He kissed her cheek and handed her a single red rose. He escorted her back to the booth. He sat down and she sat across from him. Before he could speak, the waiter came by. “Can I get you a drink?”

  Tony ordered a fine bottle of wine in Italian. “I love this place,” CC said as she gazed around the room. “Did you know that this restaurant is almost 90 years old? Imagine we could be sitting in a booth where Al Capone ate. Frank Sinatra had his wedding celebration here.”

  “That’s very interesting, CC.” Tony took her hand in his. “I wa
nted to talk with you about Italy. When I sail the Baglietto back to Italy, I’m going to take Angelo’s offer. I’ve found a villa overlooking the Mediterranean close to the shipyard.”

  CC looked down and broke off a piece of bread. “I understand. You’re a master craftsman. These beautiful boats are your life’s work. It’s a wonderful opportunity. I’m very happy for you.”

  “It’s been a tough decision. I have a lot to leave behind.” Tony paused and sipped his wine. “I’ve come to really care about you. In fact, I love you. I don’t want to return to Italy without you.”

  “Are you asking me to marry you?”

  Tony’s silence was CC’s answer. “It’s not that I don’t want to share my life with you. I do. After my wife died, I didn’t want to continue on. As much as you’ve brought joy into my life, I still have that sorrow that stays with me. I don’t know if it’s possible to love twice in a lifetime the same way I loved her, but I’d like to try and find that kind of love with you.”

  “Tony, I love you, too. I think moving to Italy with you and sharing your life and your boats would be wonderful.” She paused. “You’re asking me to leave everything I know behind to take a chance at a life with you and you’re not even sure that you can commit to me. That’s something I can’t do.”

  “Where does that leave us?” he asked.

  “That leaves us with enjoying dinner tonight and whatever time we have together before you have to leave.” CC felt an aching in her heart as she pictured saying goodbye to him.

  Chapter Six

  Early Monday morning, Anne waited on the front porch of her Chicago brick bungalow for CC. Surrounding her was the pile of suitcases and bags that contained her essentials. It was day one of the Buttersworth hunt. Anne waved to Grandma Pat sweeping her front sidewalks. Pat Irwin, Grandma Pat as Cedar Avenue knew her, was the neighborhood watch. She was responsible for bringing the garbage cans up, delivering newspapers from the curb to the doorstep and keeping an eye out for the neighborhood. Pat waved at Anne and walked up her front stairs.

  “Anne, how are you? You’re up early.”

  “CC and I have a special project we’re working on,” Anne said. “We want to hit the highway before traffic gets bad. We’re heading to Nashville.”

  “Nashville? Why Nashville?”

  “We’re going to look at some vintage guitars and antiques. We’ve been commissioned by a client,” Anne said. “Pat, would you sit for minute? I have something to ask you.”

  Pat leaned her broom against the swing and sat in the white wicker rocker next to Anne. “Anne, if it’s about your leaves, I noticed you haven’t had a chance to get to them. I’d be more than happy to clean them up.”

  “No, Pat, that’s not it. I might be gone for a couple weeks. I was wondering if you could keep an eye on the house and maybe watch Sassy.”

  “I love Sassy. I’d be glad to do that. She’s a sweetheart.”

  Sassy, the white Persian, watched the whole conversation from the bay window. She knew they were talking about her but wasn’t sure what they were saying. She got tired of watching and returned to her work with the fuzzy mouse.

  “Anne, I haven’t seen that nice very tall and very British detective Nigel coming around much anymore. How are things?” Pat asked.

  Anne’s excitement turned to sadness. Grandma Pat placed a hand on her knee. “Are you okay?”

  “Well, Pat, Nigel asked me to go away with him for the weekend and I turned him down. I really care for him, but I don’t feel that way about him. I don’t feel the spark.”

  “Dear, I was married for 50 years and I had that spark from the day I met Gino, and I still feel it today even though he’s gone. If you don’t feel that way about Nigel, he’s not the right man for you.”

  CC pulled up in the light green and pearl two-tone VW bus and honked. Anne gave Grandma Pat a hug and ran down the stairs, carrying her large orange Prada bag and lugging her large roller bag down the stairs. She shoved it in the back of the VW bus and then went back for the rest.

  “What is all this?” CC asked from the window. “I told you to only bring what you needed.”

  “These are my essentials.” Anne shoved the other two suitcases and overnight bag into the back. “You never know what you’ll need. It could rain, be hot or snow in the mountains.”

  After leaving Bandit with CC’s brother, the Spoon Sisters hit the road. They drove out of Illinois into Indiana on the crowded tri-state toll way. “Where is everyone going?” Anne said, unfolding the Rand McNally atlas. “I’ve marked off a few interesting antique stores along the way where we can stop.”

  “I already have the route plotted out. It’s in the GPS,” CC said, turning on the navigation system. “We’re going to make a little detour on the way. We’re going to stop in Corbin, Kentucky,” CC added.

  “Why are we stopping there?”

  “I read an article in Guitar Player magazine.”

  “CC, when did you start reading Guitar Player magazine?”

  “I picked it up at the dentist office. The cover read steel guitar, and it caught my eye. There’s this old steel guitar player named Scooter Muscarello. I guess he was a big sideman back at the Grand Ole Opry in the early 1960s. He played in a lot of bluegrass bands. He had quite a collection of guitars. He passed away recently and his granddaughter is planning an estate sale.”

  “Oh, that sounds promising; when’s the sale?”

  “I contacted her and she’s going to let us come look before the sale.”

  “That’s a good find, CC.” Anne was impressed. She couldn’t have done better herself.

  “And since we’re in the area, we can stop at Cumberland Falls for the night. I made reservations for us.”

  “Why?” Anne was not an outdoorsy type.

  “To see the waterfall. It’s been called the Niagara of the South or the Great Falls. The falls are 68 feet high and 125 feet wide with an average water flow of 3600 cubic feet per second.”

  Anne’s eyes glazed over. “And? And? And?”

  “I’m hoping we can get some pictures of the moon bow,” CC said.

  “Moon bow?” If possible, Anne’s eyes glazed even more.

  “On nights when the moon is full and the sky is clear, a moon bow appears. It’s a white arc starting at the base of the falls and covers the entire length. It’s the only one in the western hemisphere.” At the look on Anne’s face, CC added, “We’re just spending one night and then we’re on to Nashville.”

  For lunch, they stopped at Cousin’s hamburger restaurant located on the outskirts of Louisville, Kentucky. “I heard about this place on the Food Network. Best hamburgers in the Midwest, forty different toppings, everything made fresh,” CC said.

  They sat down and ate. Anne had the double cheeseburger piled high with Merkt’s cheese, onions, pickles, bacon, and a real vanilla milkshake. To accompany it, she had French fries three ways, bacon, sour cream and melted cheddar cheese. CC had the same.

  Heading back to the VW, Anne nibbled on her fresh-baked chocolate chip cookie.

  The flatlands of Illinois had given way to the rolling hills of Kentucky as they drove along the Blue Ridge Parkway. Heading off the highway into Corbin, they followed the winding road that was bordered by tall hemlocks and pines soaring 100 feet overhead. CC pulled the VW bus into the circle driveway in front of the DuPont Lodge. “You know, Anne, this was named after T. Coleman DuPont. He grew up here and gave the land to the state for a forest preserve.”

  Anne nodded as she stared at the rustic lodge. When she exited the VW, she saw the first of many bright yellow “Beware of Bear” signs. She pulled her large orange Prada bag closer to her. Walking inside, she found a large stone fireplace that was the centerpiece of the great room. It was surrounded by knotty pine bookshelves. Anne ran to the observation deck, which looked out over the Cumberland River while CC checked them in.

  After bringing their overnight bags to their room, CC grabbed her camera and hiking shoes. She l
ooked at Anne who was lounging on the bed, reading one of the guidebooks she had picked up. “Are you coming?”

  “I might stay here and rest.”

  “Anne, it’s only a half-mile walk.”

  Anne grabbed her large straw hat and her bag and slowly followed CC out of the room. She swatted at mosquitoes as they walked along the path. Sweat dripped off her brow; she was definitely not made for the outdoors. Passing by the gift shop, Anne gave it a longing glance. Leaving it behind, she trudged behind CC.

  While they walked, CC took pictures and nodded hello at other tourists. They stood at the top of the waterfall looking down. The waterfall was massive; the mist lofted up, cooling CC’s brow. Anne was still hot and fanned herself with the bear-warning pamphlet. “What’s over there?” CC pointed at a wood sign. It read “Lower Observation Area.”

  “Let’s go.” CC rushed down the steep uneven stairs, Anne followed behind.

  When they reached the bottom, it split off in two directions. They took the path that split to the right. It was a single file stone walkway. On one side of the walkway, jagged rocks dropped off a hundred feet; on the other side was the edge of the cliff with more jagged rocks poking out.Anne felt surrounded. She also felt concerned that something was going to jump out at her from under the rocks. She was not a nature lover. She swatted at the flies and mosquitoes that buzzed around her.

  When they reached the semicircular observation area, the sun was just setting. They climbed up the steps to the viewing area which was crowded with people pushing up against the railing to get a good look at the falls. As the sun set, the moon rose and so did the beautiful moon bow through the mist. “Anne, this is what we came here for.” CC wiggled her way to the corner of the viewing deck next to the rocks. She had to stretch way over the railing to look around to get a good shot of the moon bow. She climbed up on the railing and straddled it.

  Anne stood at the back of the crowd. She couldn’t get a good view of the moon bow. She was hot, sticky and she really didn’t care. Her feet ached and she was tired. This wasn’t part of her game plan. Then she heard a scream. She stood on tiptoe and looked over a tall man’s shoulder. People were frantic trying to reach over the railing to rescue CC who was dangling, clutching the support bracket under the railing with one arm. She was suspended a hundred feet over the crashing water.