Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (13 page)

“I got plans to restore her. I got some extra parts in the back of the barn.” He  hooked his thumbs threw his overalls.

“How long have you owned it?”

“About 20 years.”

“After having it sit like this for 20 years, you still plan on fixing it up?”

“I guess you have a point. I’d consider an offer if the number was right.”

CC pulled out her iPhone and went to
oldbug.com
. There were mint restored 1968 microbuses going for $16,000. She’d taken several shop classes at the College of DuPage after her divorce and had actually become a pretty fair shade tree mechanic. She had the tools and she could read a repair manual as good as the next fellow. “I’ll give you $2,000,” she said.

The farmer thought for a second and smiled. “The parts are worth more than that. I can part it out and get $3,500.”

“What about this? We’ve got all the stuff we piled up at your table. We got the butter churn, the milk pail, some old folk arty things, and the almanacs. What if we give you $3,000 for everything?” Anne said.

“I can do that,” the farmer said, shaking both their hands.

The girls paid him and made arrangements to have the van picked up. They took what they could carry in the car and left the rest in the van.

Leaving the barn sale, they followed the yard sale signs into Champaign, home of the University of Illinois. “Let’s have dinner,” CC said, knowing they’d find something decent around the campus and that most of the sales would be closing by now.

“One more sale?” Anne asked, giving CC a hopeful look.

They drove through the university campus, admiring the historic buildings, which ran right through the town. The whole town was built around the university.

“I’m starving. Let’s stop and get something to eat before Moreland,” CC said.

“Just one more sale, please, and then we can eat,” Anne said.

“How about that one right there?” CC pointed to a two-story brick Georgian. Its front lawn had tables of household wares and what appeared to be boxes of books. She pulled the car over.

Anne ran out and walked over to the tables. CC rifled through the boxes, checking out all the history books. There were a lot of textbooks, biographies, and all things that she enjoyed reading. She started a pile. As she was looking, a white-haired petite woman wearing a cotton sundress walked up to her. “Hello,” the woman said. “Can I help you find anything?”

“I’d like to take it all. You have such a great collection of books,” CC said, holding a large stack in her arms.

“I can’t take credit for that. Those are mostly my husband’s. He’s retired now. He taught history at the university. Hold on.” She walked to the house and came back out carrying a book. “This is his.” She flipped the book to reveal a political tome. “This is one of the ones he wrote on pre-1850s American history.”

CC took the book out of her hand, and read the flyleaf. “This is really interesting. I’d love to buy a copy.”

“Of course.”

“Do you think he would sign it for me?”

“Of course. He’s in his study. Why don’t you come in the house? I’m sure he’d love to meet you.”

CC followed her up the concrete steps into the house. “Daniel, this young lady would like you to sign one of your books,” the woman called out.

A distinguished looking man with a shock of unruly white hair came out of a room off the front of the house. He walked with a bit of a shuffle and a little bit of a shake. He gave a big warm smile. He grabbed CC’s hand in both of his. “So nice to meet you. I’m Professor Elliott. I see you have my book on American history.”

“Yes, I’m fascinated by early American history,” CC said.

Mrs. Elliott came back in the door with Anne. Professor Elliott took a fountain pen out of his shirt pocket. “What would you like me to write?”

“Just say, ‘To CC Muller’.”

As he signed it, he asked, “Are you from the area?”

“No, we came down from Chicago for the yard sale.”

“Chicago. I love Chicago. I have many friends up there.”

“We’re on our way to Moreland to find out some information about an antique we picked up at an estate sale,” CC said.

“Yes, a spoon,” Anne said. She ran out of the house to the car. Moments later, she came back in and unwrapped the spoon from its cotton handkerchief.

Professor Elliott took his glasses from around his neck and put them on his nose to get a better look. “Very interesting.” He turned the spoon over in his hand to get a closer look at the signature. “Can we go into my study? I have my loupe there,” the professor said, leading the way into a book-lined room. The walls were covered floor to ceiling with dark wood bookcases lined with books. An elaborate wood fireplace stood out on one wall. An oak desk was at the far end near a bay window. Behind the desk, was a red leather desk chair. The girls sat in the chairs across from his desk. He pulled a loupe out of his draw, holding it to his eye, as he examined the back of the spoon. “Incredible,” he murmured. “This looks like a Paul Revere die stamp. The bottom of the
R
is faded.”

“I’m familiar with Paul Revere’s work, and I’ve never seen any spoon of his that looked like this. Most of his pieces are very utilitarian,” CC said. “He wasn’t very skilled at scrollwork or engraving.”

“From what I know, you are correct. Most of his spoons are very simple, but this is definitely his hallmark. Of course, you need a more knowledgeable expert to verify if this is an authentic Paul Revere.” The professor handed the spoon back to Anne.

She looked closer at what she thought was a
P
on the back of the spoon. “CC, it’s an
R
. The bottom part is worn off. That is definitely an
R
. I can see it now.”

“I know someone.” He reached into his drawer and pulled out a card. “Wayne Muscarello; he’s a colleague at the University of Chicago who’d know more about this.”

Anne interrupted. “I know Wayne.”

“He also works at the Field Museum, and he’d be able to confirm if this is a Paul Revere spoon. We’ve collaborated on some of my books on the Revolution. He’d be the one to verify if this is authentic or not.” The professor handed them a business card.

Anne took the card. “Thank you so much, Professor. We will visit him when we get back to Chicago.”

Anne and CC thanked the professor and paid for their books. Both still in shock, neither one of them said a word as they walked back to the car.

They ate at a small diner across from the campus. Anne ate with one hand, clutching her purse, the spoon safely hidden inside. “CC, what do we do now? CC, what if this is a Paul Revere spoon? Should I even be carrying this around?”

“Let’s start with Whitmore’s nephew first,” CC said.

Anne nodded in agreement. She was terrified it would be a fake but even more terrified that it was real.

After their dinner, they drove the approximately 45-minute drive to Moreland. Moreland was one of those towns that was a mere dot on the map. One of those towns where if you blinked, you’d miss it.

While only 216 miles from Chicago, it was a hundred years away. The town boasted of a one-mile long main strip. Most of the shops were closed, but Anne was delighted to see one antique store. She strained to look in its windows as they drove past.

They arrived at the old-fashioned Moreland Inn. After checking them in at the front desk, CC drove the car to the parking space directly in front of their room.

They walked into the room, lugging Anne’s monstrous suitcase to find twin beds and not much else. It looked like the room hadn’t been decorated since the 1970s. CC turned to Anne and said, “It’s just a place to sleep. We’re not going to be in the room that much.”

Anne sighed and sat down on the springy mattress.

Chapter Twenty-Six

After a good night’s sleep, they walked over to the adjoining coffee shop, The Moreland Grind. Anne had changed into the flowered pants. “Did you bring any other clothes or is this your new thing?” CC asked.

“These pants are so comfortable.”

The two walked into the coffee shop where they were greeted by MaryAnne, the waitress, a woman in her 60s who apparently ate a lot of free pie. She was holding a pot of coffee and some napkins. “Morning, ladies, would you like a table or a booth?”

“Booth is fine,” Anne said.

“I like your pants,” MaryAnne said, brushing past them, heading towards a booth.

“Hmmp,” CC said as they walked over to the booth and settled in.

MaryAnne fluttered around the tables.
For a large woman, she was quite graceful
, CC thought. “I think our first stop should be public records or the courthouse so we can track down Jared Whitmore,” CC said. “We can look at public tax records. Maybe stop at the local newspaper and see if there are any articles. Here, I’ve made up a list.” CC pulled a reporter’s notebook out of her purse.

MaryAnne came up to the table as CC was continuing. “I have another idea,” Anne said, turning to MaryAnne. “MaryAnne, we’re looking for Jared Whitmore.”

“Are you friends or family?” MaryAnne said.

“We knew his uncle.”

“What a shame. You know, Tim grew up here. I actually went to high school with him,” MaryAnne said. “He was kind of goofy but nice. You know, once he moved to Chicago we didn’t see him much. He was never quite the same after winning the Powerball.” She paused. “Jared has a place about six miles south of town off of 19.”

“Great, MaryAnne, thank you.”

“Would you like to order now?” MaryAnne said.

After their breakfast arrived, CC pulled a tiny glass jar out of her purse. She sprinkled the hot peppery mix on her scrambled eggs. Noticing Anne’s look, CC said, “It makes everything better.”

“I don’t know how you can eat that,” Anne said. “My eyes are watering over here just smelling it.”

While CC finished her coffee, Anne looked through the classifieds in the local paper. “CC, there’s not much going on here, but there is one thing that sounds interesting.”

“Anne, let’s keep to the plan.” CC finished her coffee, and they headed down 19, a two-lane highway. As they were driving, they spotted a mailbox on the side of a gravel road. Sticking her head out the window, Anne made out the name
Whitmore
on the mailbox. CC turned down the gravel road that disappeared into the woods. It was a much less pleasant winding road than the one they’d driven to the other Whitmore house. CC had a feeling that Jared Whitmore’s house wasn’t as pleasant either.

The first
Do Not Enter
sign popped up as they turned a corner. It was full of bullet holes. “Anne, I think this might not be a good idea,” CC said, looking at Anne, who was staring out the window.

The second
Do Not Enter
sign was crudely made and larger than the first. “I’m getting the impression that we might not be welcome,” CC said, stopping the car.

“We can’t stop now. We’ve come this far,” Anne said.

CC continued on. When they reached the end of the gravel road, they came upon a rundown farmhouse. It wasn’t much to look at. Its whitewash had faded to gray, its black shutters dangled off their hinges, the windows were broken in places, and the screen door smiled a toothless grin. They pulled up and got out of the car. They walked up the wooden stairs and looked through the hole in the screen door. “See; the door’s open,” Anne said.

“Are you crazy?” CC asked. “I don’t feel good about this.” She gazed around, waving off the buzzing flies.

Anne walked over to the porch window and put her face up to the window, shading the sun with her hands. Anne swatted at the flies buzzing around her face. “I don’t see anyone,” she said.

A clatter of metal sounded from somewhere behind them. They rushed back down the porch. CC started towards the car and Anne walked towards the noise. In a hushed voice, CC said, “C’mon, what are you doing? We need to get out of here.”

“I just want to take a look.” Anne crept slowly around the corner of the house, making herself appear as small as possible.

CC sighed and followed her around the back of the house. About 50 yards into the woods, they saw a little shack with smoke rising up out of it. They heard the rattle of metal pans. “They’re probably just cooking dinner,” Anne said.

“Why would you be cooking in a shack behind the house, not in the house?” CC said, stopping in her tracks.

Anne walked into a beer can trip wire sounding an alarm. A young man with shaggy blonde hair, wearing a torn sleeveless shirt came rushing out of the shed, brandishing a shotgun in his heavily tattooed arms. The girls froze, CC clutching Anne.

“What are you doing here? Who are you?” the man asked, pointing the shotgun at them.

“We knew your uncle. We’re here to talk to you about him,” CC said.

Jared lowered the shotgun, eyeballing the women. “You knew my uncle, Tim, did you?”

“We didn’t know him personally but we were at his estate sale. We’re trying to identify one of the items we bought,” CC said, nudging Anne. Anne slowly reached into her purse and brought the spoon out.

Jared rested the shotgun against the shack and took the spoon. He looked it over and handed it back. “Never seen it before. Why’s it so important?”

“We overheard the estate sale manager talking to some man named Banning. He said that you were asking about it,” Anne said.

Jared stopped and thought. “Oh, Banning, he’s my uncle’s antique dealer. He bought and sold a lot of stuff for him.”

“What kind of stuff?” Anne asked.

“You know––antiques––that crap he had all over his house. Banning advised him and purchased things for him.”

“Your uncle had a very extensive collection,” CC said.

“Uncle Tim didn’t know anything about collecting,” Jared said, rubbing his jaw, spitting into the red clay and looking angry. “Banning told him what to buy. Cost Uncle Tim a fortune, all he left me was an old gun.”

“I thought your uncle won millions from the Powerball. Where’d it all go?” Anne asked.

“Wish I knew,” Jared said.

“What about the house and his collection? We were at the estate sale and saw everything he had,” Anne said.

“Uncle Tim left a lot of debt. He liked to gamble, and he liked to buy fancy junk. He was trying to fit in with those North Shore snobs,” Jared said. “He was ashamed of where he came from.”

“Let me take a look at the gun,” CC said. Anne grabbed the spoon back out of his hand.

“Follow me.” He walked into the farmhouse. CC and Anne followed him in. Looking around, it was obvious he didn’t have his uncle’s eye for quality. Jared came back to the dark wood-paneled living room holding a long rifle.

CC took it out of his hands and inspected it with a knowing eye. “This is a Massachusetts Minuteman Rifle. It looks authentic.”

“Is it worth anything?” Jared asked.

“Depending on who owned it, it could be worth a lot of money,” CC said.

Jared took back the rifle. “It’s useless. There’s something wrong with the barrel. Doesn’t matter much. My uncle only shot blanks out of it anyway.”

“Why would he shoot blanks?” Anne asked, sitting on the arm of a tattered pink couch.

“Uncle Tim was into reenacting. You know, battles––especially Revolutionary War battles. He and his buddies would go out, dress up and play soldier,” Jared said. “I didn’t much care for it. I went with him a couple times.”

“Can I take the gun?” CC asked, pulling her business card out of her pocket. “I’d be glad to help you sell it. I’ve seen others in much worse condition sell for thousands of dollars.” CC turned the gun over, looking under the barrel.

Jared managed a bit of a smile. “Now, that’s what I want to hear.” He took a long look at them. He stared at CC’s business card and appeared deep in thought. “What does
antique hunters
mean?”

“We connect people with treasures from the past, their childhood memories,” Anne said. “If they’re looking for it, we can find it.”

Cradling the rifle, CC interrupted Anne, “Do you have any mineral oil? Or anything that I can use to clean the rifle?”

“I got some dish soap,” Jared said.

“That’ll work.”

Jared came back from the kitchen carrying a bottle of dish soap. CC took a paper towel, moistened it and added a little soap. The dissected snake engraving on the barrel came alive, and she could make out the words
Join or Die
.

She said, “Anne, take a look.”

Anne brought her loupe up to her eye and examined the image. CC looked up at Jared with a smile on her face. “Sons of Liberty,” Anne said, getting excited.

Jared gave Anne and CC a blank stare. CC gave him a history lesson and said, “The Sons of Liberty were mostly local shopkeepers and tradesmen in Boston before the Revolutionary war. Sam Adams, Paul Revere, Patrick Henry and John Hancock were all members. This is their emblem.”

Jared continued to look confused. “You know about the Boston Tea Party?” CC said. “The Sons of Liberty planned and executed the Boston Tea Party to protest the Stamp Act. They met at the Green Dragon Tavern to plan their revolt. I visited the tavern when I was there once for a conference in Boston.”

“Is that so?” He scratched at the stubble on his chin. “You might want to talk to the guys that Uncle Tim played soldier with. They might be interested in buying the gun. They have a reenactment every Fourth of July in Springfield,” Jared said.

“Thank you, I’ll contact you once I find out more about your gun,” CC said, jotting down Jared’s phone number.

They walked outside and stood by their car on the gravel road. “Hold up a second,” Jared said, running toward the shack. He came back, carrying a Mason jar. “Here’s a little something for the road.”

Not wanting to insult him, CC took the jar. “Thank you.” She threw the jar in the back seat and drove off.

The two friends left Jared and headed back north toward Chicago. “Hey, look, we’re going to be driving right past Springfield,” Anne said, reading from one of her guidebooks. “It’s the state fair weekend. There’s a Revolutionary War reenactment that Jared mentioned. Let’s stop and find someone who knew Tim Whitmore. Maybe they can give us some answers about Tim and the spoon.” Anne paused. “Speaking of Jared.” She reached behind the passenger seat and picked up the Mason jar. “What are we going to do with this?” She unclasped the Mason jar and a foul odor immediately filled the car. Her eyes watered and her nostrils flared.

CC looked over with a horrified expression. “Close it!”

Anne panicked and dropped the Mason jar spilling it all over the car, causing CC to swerve into oncoming traffic. She pulled the car back hard to the right, overcompensating and running onto the shoulder, a split second before nearly driving head on into a semi-, whose horn was still blaring.

By the time she’d regained control of the car, a Springfield police officer was on her tail. The tilt-a-whirl police light filled her rear view mirror and the siren drowned out Anne’s screaming. CC pulled the car over to the shoulder, trying to figure out how to explain smelling like a hundred proof moonshine. And, she had to explain the rifle sitting up in the backseat.

Anne took out her lace handkerchief and desperately tried to dab away the moonshine smell. CC looked at her and said, “Really?”

The trooper tapped on the driver’s window. CC rolled it down. Both girls turned to the left with their biggest smiles. Anne stopped dabbing up the moonshine.

The trooper took a sniff. “Please exit the car, ma’am.”

“Officer, it’s not what you think,” CC said, reaching for the door handle.

“Ma’am, please exit the car,” the trooper repeated. Anne reached for her door handle. “Not you, ma’am. Just the driver.” CC got out of the car slowly.

The trooper took a step back and said something into the two-way radio clipped to his shoulder. “Ma’am, have you been drinking?”

“Officer, I have not. By mistake, there was a mason jar in the car. We didn’t know it had moonshine in it and it spilled,” CC said.

“Ma’am, moonshine is illegal in Illinois unless it’s stamped from a licensed distillery,” he said. “Any open alcohol in a vehicle is against the law. I need to see your driver’s license, proof of insurance and registration.”

CC had everything in her hand already and gave it to him.

“Ma’am, I need you to take a Breathalyzer test.”

“I realize you have probable cause. I’ve not been drinking, and I don’t want to take a Breathalyzer test. Statistics show that eight percent of breathalyzers are inconclusive or even worse false positives,” CC said.

The trooper called in CC’s information. “Ma’am, were you aware that you have three outstanding red light tickets?”

She hemmed. “I did receive some notices but I feel that they’re unconstitutional. Did you know there is a five percent variable error for red light cameras? It’s true. Google it.”