Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (7 page)

Chapter Eleven

Randall Bement’s house was a few blocks off of Main Street. It was a simple, unassuming one-story home. A wooden ramp had been built over the stairs leading to the front door. The front door was open; the screen door wasn’t. CC knocked and called inside. “Randall, it’s CC. Earl sent us!” Anne peeked over her shoulder, anxious to take a look around inside.

They could hear the hum of the motorized wheelchair as Randall made his way around the piles of junk that cluttered the living room. Randall arrived at the door wearing his oxygen cannula and his NASCAR baseball cap. Unlike his friend Earl, Randall was very slight in stature. He smiled a yellow grin and unlatched the screen door.

Years of smoking
, CC thought. “Ladies, come in please.” Randall put the chair in reverse to make room for Anne and CC. He seemed to know his way around the slalom without having to look. “Earl told me you bought my whole table. That’s wonderful. You got some really good pieces.”

“I know. We were excited to find them and we’re hoping you might have more.”

“Take a look around. I’ve been picking for 50 years.”

CC glanced around the crowded room and saw stacks of tobacco tins, old advertising leaflets and cigar cutters. “I take it you collect tobacco-related items?”

“My family’s been in the tobacco business since before the war,” Randall replied.

“Which war was that?” Anne asked as she eyed a marble-topped antebellum cherry wood side table. In her head, she calculated the dimensions to see if it would fit in the VW and her already cluttered living room.

“Honey, you’re in the south; there’s only one war,” Randall said.

Then she eyed the 16-inch tall table globe that was encased in rosewood. Its fittings were brass. She walked over to it and spun it around. “Is this from the war?”

“It was at my family’s tobacco plantation. My ancestor brought it over from England. It’s a rare globe. The capitals are real rubies.”

“It’s beautiful.” Anne ran her hand over it. “Would you be willing to sell it?” Anne thought about Mr. Gunter, the business executive and philanthropist, who was always looking for unique pieces for his collection. He displayed these pieces at his museum located inside the turn-of-the-century house he had restored in downtown Chicago. This would be perfect for the smoking room. Then she laughed out loud and thought,
Smoking
! How appropriate.

“I’m not ready to part with it yet.” Randall shook his head. “I only sold the tobacco cards because I needed money for George.”

“George?” CC asked.

Randall did a 180 in the chair and waved for the girls to follow him. He went into the kitchen where a big orange tabby lay on the checkerboard linoleum under the hickory table. “This is George. He hasn’t been feeling too well.”

Anne bent down to pet the tabby. His eyes opened a bit and then closed. Cats normally purred when Anne was around; this was unusual. “Poor dear. You’re not feeling so well, are you?” Anne noticed his whiskers were crusty as though he had been throwing up. “Has George gotten into something outside in the back yard? Some plants?”

“George never goes out. He’s strictly a house cat. I’ve been feeding him the same food for ten years. He’s been real tired and threw up a couple times.”

Spotting more cigarette cards on the table, CC said, “Do you mind if I look at those?” At his nod, she sat down and leafed through them.

Anne walked around the kitchen. “Has George been to the vet?”

“When he first started throwing up, I brought him to the clinic. They did some tests. They didn’t find anything wrong. They said to make sure he drank water and watch him.”

Anne walked over to the kitchen back door, which opened to the large backyard. The old wooden door had a beautiful leaded-glass window that encompassed more than half of it. “This door is beautiful.”

“I brought that from the plantation, too. That’s got to be early 1800s. It took a lot of work to fit it.”

Anne stared out through the glass. The afternoon sun was breaching the roof of the house, the shadows in the yard were running away as the first ray of light struck the cut glass. She had to cover her eyes from the glare. “It’s like a magnifying glass. That’s really bright.”

Behind her was a walk-in pantry which was completely dark except for the beam of light coming through the door.
It was like a beacon,
Anne thought, so she followed it. At the back of the dark pantry, behind boxes of oatmeal and grits, was a wooden bin. That’s when Anne figured out what George’s problem was. Above the potato bin, the bags of brown sugar were trickling down onto the potatoes. The light from the afternoon sun focused on the potatoes and had turned them green from the chlorophyll.

Anne walked out of the pantry, holding a green potato that had been nibbled at. “Randall, I think I found what’s been bothering George. That little beam coming through the kitchen door turns the potatoes green. That green on the potato is caused by chlorophyll which is not toxic, but the light exposure also increased the production of an alkaloid called solanine.” She paused and put the potato down on the table. “The more intense the light, the more solanine is produced. That door window acts like a magnifying glass and strengthens the beam. Consuming solanine can make you pretty sick. The highest concentration is in the skin of the potato. These potatoes have a high concentration. Normally, they would taste bitter and George would take one nibble and walk away, but some brown sugar dusted them, making them taste sweet.”

“My dear George.” Randall rolled over to George. “I forgot those potatoes were even in there. I can’t get that far back into the pantry in this wheelchair. What do I do?” he turned to Anne.

“It doesn’t look like George ingested a lot. I think the best thing is to continue to watch him. Give him some high protein Lysine.” She pulled a foil-wrapped package out of her large orange Prada bag. “This will help his immune system. CC and I will clean up the potatoes for you so George doesn’t get tempted again.”

“How can I ever thank you?” Randall asked. Anne could see his eyes tearing up. She could tell how much George meant to him. She understood because she felt the same about her white Persian, Sassy. She would be devastated if anything happened to her. When they had finished cleaning the pantry, Randall offered them some ice tea. They sat at the kitchen table. “Anything you want, just take,” he said.

“I couldn’t do that,” CC said. “I want to give you a fair price. I have someone who would love these tobacco cards.”

Anne looked over his shoulder at the marble side table. It would fit in her living room if she moved a few things. It wouldn’t fit in the bus. That’s when she saw the blue uniform on a chair in the corner. Walking over the piles that made her feel at home, she held up the pristine navy wool coat with gold buttons.

“That belonged to my four times grandfather,” Randall said. “He was a federal soldier. Are you interested in military memorabilia? I have some of his swords. Most of his possessions are promised to the Lenoir-Rhyne University collection. I have many of his letters also. He was a very eloquent man. He kept a journal during the 1838 evacuation.”

Anne stopped, staring at the uniform. “Evacuation?”

“The Cherokee removal project as it was known.”

Anne took a breath. “May I see it?”

He rolled over to the small bookcase in the living room and handed Anne a worn, leather-bound brown book. Its pages were yellowed and the writing faded. Inside was a daguerreotype of young Private Randall Bement standing next to a Cherokee Indian.

Anne read out loud, “This is my account of what happened. I was born in Catawba County, North Carolina, the only son to Jebediah Bement, a tobacco farmer outside of Hickory. As a boy, I hunted and fished these lands. I grew up alongside many Cherokee. They taught me to hunt the wild boar and timber wolves and to speak their language.” She paused and looked at Randall. “This is incredible. I’d love to read this.” She thought for a moment. “Is there anyway I could take it with me, make copies and send it back?”

Randall sat back in his chair and thought for a minute. “You know what, hon, I have a copy right here. I promised the actual journal to the historical society but I made a copy.” He reached into a kitchen drawer and pulled out a stack of papers. They appeared to be photocopies of the journal held together with a binder clip. He handed it to her.

Anne could make out the scribbled handwriting. It was faint but still legible. “Thank you. This is wonderful.”

Behind her, CC coughed and nodded at her watch. “Randall, thanks so much for letting us stop by and sharing your history with us,” Anne said. “We have to get going.”

Randall watched them leave. Anne and CC loaded their purchases into the VW bus. “If we buy much more, we’re going to need to rent a U-Haul,” CC said as she started the ignition.

Anne was not opposed to the idea. She pulled out her smart phone and Googled U-Haul trucks. When CC gave her a look, she put her phone down and pulled out the copy of the journal. “Hey, CC, some of these pages are a little easier to read than others. Listen to this: When I was hunting one year, I found a young Cherokee squaw. She had been shot by hunters and left for dead. I tended her wound and carried her to the spring. When she was able to continue, I took her to my hunting lodge and cared for her until she was strong enough. I learned her name was Immookalee, which means
waterfall
in English. We became friends and she taught me her language.

“When she had recovered enough to travel, I took her to her people. Her father was the great chief and was grateful to me. He let me stay in the village.” The papers flew out of Anne’s hand scattering across the floorboards as CC slammed on the brakes to avoid missing a gas tanker who was swerving around a slow moving car.

“Watch it, CC,” Anne said. “Now I’ve lost my place.” While Anne was picking up the scattered pages of the journal, her text message alert sounded. She reached into her large orange Prada bag and pulled out her phone. The text was from Nigel.

“Who is it, Anne?” CC asked.

“It’s Nigel. I forgot to tell him that I was going out of town. He wants to go to the movies tonight.”

“Anne, really? Isn’t it time you told Nigel how you really feel? You’re not being fair to him, are you?”

“CC, I don’t know what to say. I enjoy his company. I like going out with him but he doesn’t make me feel like . . .” She stopped, realizing she hadn’t explained to CC what had happened last night at the reservation.

“Feel like what, Anne?”

“You know. Exciting. Tingly.”

CC wanted to end the conversation right there.

“I’ll text him.”

“Anne, you can’t do that. You owe it to him to tell him in person.”

“All right.” Anne texted back. “I’d love to go to the show but I’m on my way to Nashville. Wish you were here,” she read aloud as she typed. “There. See.”

CC swerved slightly on the highway. “Watch out,” Anne said.

“I was looking at the mountains. Anne, they’re so beautiful,” CC said, pointing to the tall mountain looming in front of them. The smoke billowed at the top creating a blue fog. “You know, Anne, the Smoky Mountains were the first national park in the entire system.”

“That’s great, CC.” Anne clutched the armrest, hanging on for dear life as trucks flew by, going around zigzag turns with enough
g
force to lift their tires off the ground. CC seemed unconcerned about the rain that had started. She kept looking right and left at the view rather than at the road.

“You know, Anne, the Smoky Mountain range is the heaviest forested range in the world. And there are two black bears for every square mile.”

“We’ve already had our quota of black bears. Watch the road,” Anne said. The VW bus hydroplaned over the pavement, gliding. Anne was truly terrified now. She had gone from mildly upset to downright nauseous. “CC, don’t you think you should slow down?”

“Anne, this old bus was built for the Autobahn.” A Dually F250 with rebel flags in the rear window and more rebels in the bed flew by, one of them waving at CC who smiled back at the young shirtless farm boys. The gentle rain gave way to a blue rainbow as the sun broke through the fog on the mountains. Anne saw a billboard that read
Tobacco Barn
,
area’s largest antique store, 70,000 square feet with over 70 dealers
.

Anne’s nerves settled. Finally, a calm in the storm. “CC, did you see the billboard?”

“Yes, Anne. I’m going to pull off at the Asheville exit. We have to stop.”

Chapter Twelve

They drove down the exit ramp onto the two-lane street that bordered the river and led into Asheville. They pulled up to the Tobacco Barn, an old warehouse that was once used as a tobacco factory. In a Mercedes springer van next to them, a road-weary family from Florida piled out. Three screaming blond-haired children jumped out first, followed by a haggard mother. Anne popped some Tylenol. The father ignored the children, motioning to a young Spanish nanny to corral them and keep them quiet. Anne popped a few more Tylenol. Between the children and CC’s driving, her nerves had reached a critical state.

Outside of the large steel delivery doors were hundreds of wrought iron gates, some as small as three feet, others 20 feet wide by eight feet tall. CC stopped to gaze longingly at them, picturing them in her garden.

“I’m going inside,” Anne said, walking through the large overhead door. She was greeted by the smell of tobacco and must. She marveled at the expanse of the warehouse. The first thing Anne came across was a table piled high with hurricane lanterns––some iron, some brass. Surrounding them was a mishmash of garden art and cement lawn statutes. Every aisle was packed full with antiques and salvaged sconces, stained glass windows, leaded-glass doors and lots and lots of furniture.

Anne walked up to a long table with linen. The sign read “lace linen.” The handwritten tag on a tablecloth read “$300, 1920s hand-sewn Irish lace.”

A young couple next to Anne was looking at an ivory tablecloth embroidered with red and green leaves. Anne could tell immediately that it wasn’t old. She overheard the young woman say it would be perfect for their new home. Apparently, they had just gotten married. “Excuse me,” Anne said. “Are you going to buy that tablecloth?”

The young woman was wearing a short orange dress and high, matching, orange wedge heels. Her face beamed. “Yes, it’s absolutely beautiful. My parents gave us a dining room set for a wedding present and this would be perfect on it.”

“You know it’s not authentic, right?” Anne said.

“No, I didn’t.”

“Smell it. What does it smell like?”

The young woman held the linen up to her nose and took a deep whiff. “It smells like tea.”

“Yes, sometimes dealers take a new linen that resembles the original and they soak it in tea to give it an aged patina,” Anne explained.

The girl smelled it again. “I didn’t notice it. The whole building smells like tobacco. I never would have thought of sniffing it.”

“It’s a good rule of thumb if you’re looking at antique linens.”

“Do you work here?” the girl asked, setting the tablecloth back on the table.

“Oh, no.” Anne retrieved her card from the bottom of her purse. “I’m an antique hunter. We can help you find whatever you need.”

The young woman looked at her new husband and then back at Anne. “Ma’am.”

“You can call me, Anne.”

“Would you mind helping us look around?”

“Not at all; it would be fun.”

Before they could move to the next booth, a middle-aged woman tapped on Anne’s shoulder. “I’m so sorry. I overheard your whole explanation to her. I was wondering if you would mind looking at this vase. It’s marked
Chinese
and priced $500. Can you tell me if this is authentic? It says it’s over 300 years old.”

Anne picked up the 23-inch colorful vase decorated with dogwood branches. She held it up to her mouth and licked it. The woman stared in shock. “I’m checking the temperature of it to see if there’s been any restoration done,” Anne said.

The woman didn’t know how to respond and watched fascinated. When Anne was done, she handed the vase back to the woman. “Some of the vase is authentic; some is not.”

“What do you mean?” The woman gave her a quizzical look.

“Sometimes a dealer has an authentic antique. They break it into pieces and incorporate those pieces and make several replicas from the original antique. It’s almost impossible to see where it was glued together. The difference in the thickness of the material will transfer heat differently. That’s how I can tell it’s been restored.”

“Thank you so much. Do you mind if I tag along?” Anne led the couple and the woman throughout the store. When they reached the fine china there was an older couple, who were both wearing leather motorcycle vests. Anne thought they were cute; she had seen their three-wheeler out in front. The biker granny chick was holding a porcelain dinner plate. The young couple said to the granny, “You should have Anne look at that for you.”

The granny biker chick smiled at Anne and handed her the plate. Anne pulled out a small penlight. She held the plate up over her head and shined the light through it. “Fine porcelain should be translucent. You can see where this plate has been restored. Where the light doesn’t shine through is where they fixed the crack.”

CC finished looking at the iron gates. She walked into the tobacco barn. In the center of the aisle, she saw a crowd of people zig-zagging up and down like a dragon float at a Chinese New Year parade. CC asked the young girl at the register, “What’s going on down there?”

The girl shrugged.

By the time CC reached the end of the warehouse, she saw Anne climb onto the top of a soapbox. “I’d be glad to help everyone but you have to wait your turn. Maybe we could do the larger items first. Who’s here for the stained glass windows?” Several people raised their hands. “Who’s here for furniture? There’s a lovely Renaissance Belgian server with some lovely stained glass. It’s a real bargain.” Anne thought. She should know she coveted it herself.

CC made her way through the crowd and stood in front of Anne who was handing out business cards. “What are you doing?” She grabbed her arm and pulled her off her soapbox.

“CC, this is a real opportunity. I’ve handed out forty cards. I’ve already had people ask for help.”

“Anne, I appreciate you trying to promote us. I just don’t know how we’re going to take on this extra work. Our focus has to be on Betsy.”

“I found a bluegrass poster. It looks like a tent revival with some famous artists. I think it would be nice for Betsy’s wall,” Anne said. “Let me show you where it is.” Anne walked through the crowd like she was Joan of Arc. She felt lifted. People touched her as she walked by. She felt like blessing them as she walked, but it was a faded fantasy.

“Here it is, CC––the poster I was telling you about.” Anne stopped at a small booth which had crates full of record albums, 8 x 10 black and white photographs, some signed.

CC thumbed through the albums and admired the posters. She walked over to the small glass curio cabinet. Inside it was a 12-inch four-song EP self-titled Dave Southwell. “Anne, look at this!” CC said, pointing to the album behind the glass.

“I’ve never seen that album before. I have all Dave’s CDs,” Anne said. “Let’s look at it.” She flagged down the girl from the cash register who opened the case.

“They’re asking $500. The price went up recently,” the girl said.

Anne and CC gave each other knowing looks.

The register girl flipped it over to reveal Dave Southwell’s signature. “This was a promotional EP that Dave put out before he was signed. It was never released. Real old school, recording on vinyl. I like that.”

“May I take a look?” CC asked.

The girl handed it over to CC.

CC read the back cover. It said “Recorded at West End Studios, Nashville. Sound engineer: L. Walters.” CC looked at Anne. “I think Betsy would love to have this.” She turned back to the girl and they negotiated a price.