Murder by the Spoonful: An Antique Hunters Mystery (17 page)

Chapter Thirty-Six

CC was taking pictures of items they’d found and emailing them to people on the list, when Anne burst into her house. Catching her breath, she plopped down next to a surprised CC who looked up from her laptop. Anne caught her breath. “CC, I’ve tested the spoon! It’s definitely not a Paul Revere spoon,” Anne said. “It’s not even sterling silver.”

“Anne, I was afraid of that. I’m very sorry.” CC said, closing her laptop.

“I noticed,” she said as she pulled the spoon out of her purse, “that only the bowl is tarnished. There’s little discoloration on the rest of the spoon. So I took a sample at the lab. It came back with large traces––deadly traces––of arsenic.”

“Arsenic is common in silver.”

“Not at these levels. These levels are enough to stop your heart,” Anne said, pausing. “How did Tim Whitmore die?”

CC opened her laptop, clicked on Google and searched for Tim Whitmore’s obituary. “It says he was only 53 when he died of an apparent heart attack.” Both girls sat silent as the words
heart attack
sunk in. “Are you saying Tim was murdered?” CC asked.

“I’m not saying that, but how else do you explain the arsenic on the spoon? How else do you explain someone breaking into my house and taking nothing? How else would you explain Whitmore’s antique dealer, Banning, being frantic about finding the spoon?”

“Anne, you can’t prove any of that.”

Anne sat back in the chair. “This is all wrong.” The spoon was a fake. Tim Whitmore was dead. She needed to figure out how it all was connected. This wasn’t a fast-moving train out of the Orient or hounds of the Baskervilles, but it was her chance to bring the puzzle pieces together. She’d spent her life breaking down elements to their purest form, understanding how parts come together to make a whole. Now she’d do the same for this problem. Like any formula, putting the right ingredients together creates the solution. “CC, we need to work backwards from what we know to what we don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?”

“We need to find out why someone would murder Tim Whitmore.”

“No, what we need to do is go to the cops.”

“You said it yourself. There’s no proof. What are we going to tell them?”

“You can show them the spoon.”

Anne pulled out her cell phone and dialed Detective Towers. “Nigel,” she said into the phone.

“Nigel?” CC questioned, giving Anne a sharp glance.

Anne corrected herself. “Detective Towers, it’s Anne Hillstrom.”

“Hello, Anne.”

“Detective, I wanted to come talk to you more about the spoon.”

“Anne, I’m sorry that the spoon is a fake. There’s not much more I can do for you.”

“That’s not it. I tested the spoon,” she said. “I found large quantities of arsenic.”

“Did you find old lace also?” he said with dry British humor.

“Nigel, I’m not kidding,” Anne said.

“Anne, after you showed me the spoon, I checked on Tim Whitmore’s file. He died of natural causes. He had a history of heart problems. There’s no evidence of foul play.”

“Then how do you explain the arsenic?”

“I don’t, Anne, but that’s not my department. That would be homicide. The case has already been closed. And, I’ll tell you, it would take a lot to open it again. They just don’t have the manpower.” He paused. “Besides that, Tim Whitmore was cremated a week ago. Without a body, there’s no crime.”

“Thanks, detective; sorry to have bothered you.” Anne hung up the phone. She turned and looked at CC. “Tim was cremated.” She paused. “That doesn’t matter anyway, because arsenic would have dissolved by now.”

CC thought for a moment. “None of that matters with what we’ve read about Tim Whitmore; he was a heavy smoker and drinker. Detective Towers said he had a history of heart problems. He might have been one cigarette or one cheeseburger away from a heart attack anyway.” She paused and asked, “What do you think we should do?”

“CC, I never told you where I found the spoon. I was rummaging––I mean looking––around Tim’s bedroom.”

“It was off limits. Why’d you go in there?”

“Just curiosity. I was admiring some of his collections and I happened to notice an ashtray next to the bed on his nightstand. It was a beautiful ashtray made from Milano hand-blown glass,” Anne recalled. “Oh, and I saw something sticking out from under the bed. It was a linen courier pouch like the re-enactors had in Springfield, remember?”

“Yes?”

“That’s where I found the spoon. There was a leather pouch inside with tea leaves in it. We have to go back. I have to test those leaves for arsenic. That would be the proof we need to take to the police.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

As they pulled up in front of the Whitmore estate, they saw a woman clad in a business suit attaching a
For Sale
sign onto the wrought iron gate. They drove past, trying not to seem suspicious and watched her from the end of the road. The gates opened, and the woman in the black Lexus drove in.

“Here’s our chance,” Anne said.

They got out of the car and walked in before the double gates closed. Making their way along the wooded driveway, staying off the main path and ducking behind bushes and trees. “This is ridiculous,” CC said.

“Ssh,” Anne said, holding her finger over her lips.

“Anne, why did you have to wear those pants? You can be seen from a mile away.”

“They’re my lucky pants,” Anne retorted.

They watched from the safety of the knock-out rosebushes as the real estate lady opened curtains and windows. They waited in the bushes for what seemed like hours. “So, what are we going to do now?”

“I brought some packing tape. We’ll put a little tape over the door lock so the hammer doesn’t close all the way when she leaves,” Anne said.

“Okay,” CC replied.

“Then I brought flashlights and these plastic booties to put over our shoes so we don’t leave footprints. And here’s your gloves.” Anne reached into her backpack.

“Is this all necessary? Our fingerprints are probably already all over the house from the sale.”

“To catch a criminal, we have to think like a criminal.”

“Okay.”

“Now we have to wait until she leaves.” Anne reached into her bag. “I brought two-way radios so we can search the whole house and talk to each other.”

“But. . ..”

“CC, I told you we have to think like criminals. . .”

“But, she’s having an open house. There are cars coming. We can just walk in,” CC said, pointing to the driveway where a few high-end luxury cars were pulling in.

Anne turned around to see agents with prospective buyers entering the mansion. She was actually disappointed. She didn’t like when plans changed and had no tolerance for it. The attractive agent met CC and Anne at the door. “Hi, we saw the
For Sale
sign and we wanted to take a look around,” Anne said.

“Are you an agent? Are you looking for yourself? Do you have an agent?” She smiled politely.

“We don’t have an agent, but we’re very interested in the property.”

“Come on in; here’s my card. I’m Rita.” She handed them a business card as they walked past her into the large entryway. She gave Anne a sideways glance. “I really like your pants. Are those Lily Pulitzer?”

“Oh, no; they’re one of a kind,” Anne said, giving CC a look of
I told you so
.

“Lovely,” Rita replied, looking over her shoulder as she walked past them back to the kitchen.

They headed to the bedroom upstairs but were waylaid by a hand-carved teak Chinese trunk. “I don’t remember seeing this at the estate sale.” Anne ran her hand along the ornate carved lines. The house had been cleared out from the sale, but as they walked they found other new antiques. “I don’t remember seeing this either.” Anne pointed at an alabaster urn filled with silk willow reeds. It was on the landing. “Tim Whitmore had a really good eye for antiques. These are nice pieces.”

“Oh, those are all for sale also. Let me know if there’s something you’re interested in; I can contact Mr. Ripley for you. He’s the estate sales manager,” Rita called up to them from the bottom of the stairs.

“Yes, we were at the sale. We didn’t see these pieces then,” Anne said.

“A lot of Mr. Whitmore’s collection was stored in his warehouse, and Mr. Ripley just brought them over for staging,” Rita replied.

“These are very nice pieces. Mr. Whitmore was quite a collector,” CC said.

“Actually, his antique dealer, Mr. Banning, bought all the pieces. Mr. Whitmore hired him right after he won the Powerball. I see a lot of houses on the North Shore. I actually sold this house to Tim. Let’s just say he was more at home in a trailer park than on the North Shore, but he wanted to fit in so he hired Banning to decorate the house. If you’re interested in these pieces, there’s a warehouse filled with antiques but I’d have to put you in touch with Banning.”

“Thank you. We’re just going to take a quick look upstairs.”

“Certainly. I’m here if you need me.”

“I hope it’s still here,” Anne whispered as they reached the top landing. Entering the master bedroom, she glanced around. The room had been emptied out but the four-poster bed remained. Anne rushed over and knelt down looking underneath it. She retrieved the carrier pouch. “It’s here!” she held the pouch up triumphantly.

“Put that away before someone sees us,” CC hissed.

Anne stuffed the pouch into her large orange Prada bag. “Let’s get out of here,” CC said, grabbing Anne’s hand and leading her back down the stairs.

“Wait. I want to look around a little bit to see if we missed anything else,” Anne protested, stopping and bumping into a couple wandering around the house.

“Are you crazy?” CC asked. “We have to get out of here.” She opened the front door and pulled Anne down the stairs behind her. They were in such a hurry that they weren’t watching where they were walking. As they opened  the door, they bumped straight into Banning.

Anne dropped her large orange Prada bag. Banning knelt down and picked it up. Holding the purse tightly in both hands, he stared at Anne with what appeared to be a deep sense of recognition that made Anne feel uncomfortable. She murmured, “Thank you,” in a timid voice and reached for her purse.

Banning hesitated and handed it back to her without a word. He then walked into the house.

Anne and CC rushed to the car and headed straight to the lab.

Anne completed her chemical analysis of the tea leaves and, as she suspected, they were laced with arsenic––a heavy dose of arsenic. “What do we do now?” Anne asked CC.

“We have to bring everything to the police. Tim Whitmore was murdered,” CC said, staring over Anne’s shoulder at the results of the chemical analysis on the computer screen.

“I still don’t think there’s enough to convince them.”

“It’s not our job to convince them,” CC said.

But Anne wasn’t listening. Anne was realizing the woman she wanted to be. The little girl who  imagined herself as Nancy Drew had suddenly become a woman imagining herself as Miss Marple. All her childhood books and adolescent dreams were becoming reality. It was frightening, but exciting. For the first time in many years, Anne felt a purpose. She felt all her years unraveling small mysteries in a lab had not been wasted. She could make a difference, she would make a difference!

“CC, the real estate agent said that Whitmore had a warehouse full of antiques,” Anne said. “Tim Whitmore’s murder must be connected to his collection. All roads lead to Banning. We just have to go to that warehouse!”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

It wasn’t hard for CC to locate Tim Whitmore’s storage facility. It was a two-story building in a rundown Chicago neighborhood. Many of the nearby apartment buildings were vacant and boarded up. The only inhabitants on the streets were feral cats and dogs and, of course, the giant Chicago sewer rats. “Why would he pick this neighborhood to store valuable antiques?” Anne asked, looking at the two-story brick fortress that had once been home to a cosmetics manufacturer. It was located behind the overhead EL tracks, a perfect lair to hide secrets. The frequent cackle of the Chicago EL train helped cover their noise.

Anne had learned her lesson from their last attempted break in and didn’t wear her flowered pants today. She was wearing a Michael Kors velour tracksuit––all in black––and she’d wrapped a black Muslim hijab scarf around her neck to hide her pasty white Swedish skin.

CC shot her a glance and said, “It’s a good place to hide something that you don’t want to be found. Who’s going to want to come down here?”

The two-story building was surrounded by a 10-foot-high wrought iron fence with curled barbed wire at the top. The girls waited in the shadows until after midnight. It just seemed like the right time to break into the warehouse. It was late enough where there wouldn’t be any foot traffic, but not too late so as to look suspicious. The sliding chain link gate was held closed by a thick chain and lock.

The lone streetlight that hung near the front of the gate was too much of a risk. Anne and CC followed the fence around to the back of the warehouse. CC pulled out her bolt cutter, but it barely made a dent in the wrought iron. She nodded at Anne who opened her aluminum briefcase, putting on her protective gloves and goggles. She then pulled out a small bottle of liquid nitrogen. “Stand back,” she said to CC. She carefully poured the liquid nitrogen onto one of the iron bars. In seconds, the bars shrunk and started to shred. With one snap of the bolt cutters, they were in.

The heavy steel door of the old factory presented a bigger challenge. It had a skeleton key hole. CC came well prepared. From the city blueprints CC had pulled, she knew the best way to break in. She pulled a large ring of keys from her bag, the ones she’d purchased in Sauganash. She found the right one and the door clicked open.

They turned on their flashlights. “What’s that smell?” Anne asked, walking into the building. It had a chemical undertone but she couldn’t make it out.

CC sniffed. “It could be acetone. This building was used to manufacture nail polish and other cosmetics. Acetone is used in polish remover. Even though it’s been closed, the smell lingers.”

Scanning the room with their flashlights, the large cement floor was empty except for a couple of overturned wooden pallets and broken shipping crates. “There’s nothing here,” Anne whispered.

Tiptoeing, they worked their way over to the steel staircase. Their footsteps echoed as they climbed to the second floor. This floor was packed to the ceiling with crates stenciled with the words
Fragile
and
Handle with Care
. Sliding into the room, CC bumped into a stack of boxes. They teetered, threatening to tumble. Anne hung onto them, wanting to protect the valuables inside.

A tall bronze statue of a timber wolf partially draped with a tarp stood in the center of the room. CC pulled off the tarp. “This is an Edward Kerney. The sculptor who did the lions at the Art Institute,” she marveled.

They shined both their flashlights on it to get a better look. CC had spent many hours at the Art Institute and many of those admiring the bronze lions that graced the museum’s entrance. She ran her finger delicately along the lines of the timber wolves’ back and tail. Unlike the lions, these curves were not as smooth and refined. She shined the light on the wolves’ eyes; they didn’t have the same depth, the same soul that the art institute lions had. “Anne, this is a fake,” CC said. She walked over to a half-opened crate and pulled out an Egyptian alabaster vase. “This isn’t Egyptian. It’s a replica. It’s not even alabaster.” She continued opening boxes, lifting tarps with all the same results. CC sat down cross-legged on an empty pallet. “It’s the island of misfit toys. Everything is a poor imitation of what it should be.”

Anne joined her on the pallet. “Why would Tim Whitmore have a warehouse full of fakes? He could afford the real thing. His house was full of the real thing.” Anne touched her head, something felt wet. “Something dripped on my head.” She sniffed her finger. “It doesn’t smell like nail polish remover.”

Together, they shined their flashlights up at the ceiling. The entire rafters of the second floor were spider webbed with cloth soaked in accelerant. Anne couldn’t make out the pungent odor. “What is that?” Anne asked.

“I don’t know but we better get out of here!”

They heard the slam of a door echoing throughout the hollow building.

By the time they made their way to the staircase, the bottom floor was engulfed in flames. The dark smoke billowed up the stairway. CC grabbed Anne’s arm and turned around, heading back up the stairs. Both held their hands over their mouths, trying to keep from breathing in the thickening smoke. “Anne, follow me!” CC ran to one of the barred windows. “We can’t go down the stairs. We’re going to have to climb out this way!”

Anne reached into her briefcase. “I’m out of liquid nitrogen.” She pulled the empty can out of the case.

CC pulled the bolt cutters out of her backpack. She ran her hand up and down the one-inch bars that guarded the window. “I’ll never be able to cut through these in time,” she said, reaching down to the bottom of one of the bars. “This building was built in 1940 during World War II. Steel was in such high demand for the war effort that the domestic steel was a lower grade,” CC said.

“Just hurry! Just cut it already,” Anne urged, looking back over her shoulder as the flames ripped through the wood floor. Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed the gleam of what appeared to be a Phoenix glass vase sticking up out of a crate. Bending down to pick it up, she wrapped it in the scarf from her neck and stuffed it in CC’s backpack.

“What are you doing?” CC asked.

“Evidence, CC, evidence,” Anne said.

“The welding points will be the weakest.” CC felt around the bars. “They should be somewhere at the bottom. Aha, here they are!” The two girls each grabbed a handle of the bolt cutter and pushed as hard as they could. The smoke was getting worse. The oak floor was starting to burn and fall apart in places. Flames shot up through the planks. With a final push, the welding point cracked. They snapped two more bars just enough to squeeze through and exit onto the narrow ledge that ran along the length of the building. Anne stuck halfway out the window. “Treadmill!” she screamed. “Treadmill!”

CC tugged until Anne was free and out the window by her side. “Look, the fire escape.” CC pointed to the drop-down staircase as they heard the wail of the fire engines in the distance. Clinging tightly to the ledge, they pigeon-walked over to the sliding fire escape ladder. “I can’t hold on much longer,” Anne said, huffing heavily.

Behind them a glass window exploded outwards from the pressure. Anne moved faster toward the ladder. Lifting her leg over the bar, CC stood on the landing and pulled the ladder down so it hovered just above ground level. She helped Anne climb onto the landing. They climbed down the ladder and disappeared into the night. If they hadn’t been in such a hurry, they would have seen a black Mercedes parked down the street.