Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery (11 page)

Chapter Twenty

The girls quickly dressed. The newspaper office was a few blocks away from the Hermitage. Bradley offered to walk with them and bring an umbrella in case it rained. “No, thank you,” CC said before Anne could accept his help. CC was starting to worry about the bill and how much Bradley would cost by the time Anne was done. Then she wondered if Anne would ever be done with him.

Arriving at the newspaper office, CC explained their mission to the receptionist who led them to a small conference room, which contained microfilm of the newspaper’s archives. CC scrolled through them until she came upon the papers from 1890. She scanned  through, stopping when she found a brief obituary dated June 16, 1890. The obituary read, “Local business owner Randall Bement died of natural causes. He is survived by wife, Ada, and one son, Randall, Jr.” There was no mention of his estate.

“When did his wife die?” Anne asked.

CC scrolled through the film looking for mention of Ada Bement. She found it in a later paper from 1901. “Look, Anne. Ada’s obituary said she was survived by her son, Randall, Jr., who lives in North Carolina. It says here her estate will be handled by the firm of Goodlet and Sons.”

“CC, keep looking; there has to be an advertisement for the estate sale.”

Searching through the microfilm, CC found the advertisement in a paper from a few days later. In the ad, Goodlet and Sons announced the auction of the estate of Mrs. Randall Bement. Items highlighted included silver-plate, bone china and Indian artifacts.

“Indian artifacts? That’s it!” Anne exclaimed. “That’s it. It’s got to include the crystal.”

“We should look up Goodlet and Sons,” CC said, making a note. She Googled their name. The company was still in business, advertising that they were a fourth-generation antiques and collectibles dealer with a booth at the Gaslight Antiques Mall near Vanderbilt University.

“We have to go,” Anne insisted. “We can find antiques for Betsy. We can track down the crystal for John Blackbear.”

“Hang on, Anne. Let me look up Clarence Riddle.” CC returned the microfilm from the nineteenth century and pulled up the ones from the 1960s. She searched for anything related to the Opry. There were hundreds of photos and articles but no mention of Clarence Riddle. “Let me try Brent’s grandfather, Wilkins.”

“This is taking so long. Isn’t this all computerized?” Anne asked, thinking about getting to the Gaslight.

“I like looking this way. It’s original. Something could have been lost when they scanned it. Plus, I like the feel of the machine.” CC spun the dial of the microfilm like a seasoned slot machine player.

She finally came to a series of black and white photographs from 1968. There were several musicians standing outside the Ryman Auditorium. The caption read, “Hank Williams, Jr., Johnny Cash, Dickel Wilkins.” “Hey, that’s Brent’s grandfather!” CC could see the family resemblance. The fourth person was named Clarence Riddle. “That’s him!” The picture was grainy but she now knew what Riddle looked like. He looked familiar but she couldn’t place the face.

Anne peered over CC’s shoulder. “Hey, that looks like my guitar case. Does it say anything more about him?”

“No, just his name. That’s it. There’s no other information.”

“Can we go now? Can we go to the Gaslight?” Anne had already looked at the antique store’s website for its hours. She had put the address into her Google maps. She was primed and ready for the hunt. She had the scent.

“Let’s get something to eat before we head there. I’m starving,” CC said as she returned the microfilm to the receptionist.

“Bradley packed us a lunch,” Anne said as they left the newspaper office. They sat on a wooden bench outside. Anne pulled two elegantly wrapped paper bags out of her Prada bag. Bradley had taken fresh-baked bread and precisely cut the crusts. Inside the bread was honey-cured ham with Gouda and an herb-infused mayonnaise. There were also linen napkins encased in bone china napkin rings and a small bottle of sparkling water. CC just stared. “I love Bradley,” Anne said. CC thought about the bill once again.

After lunch, they walked back to the Hermitage and retrieved the VW from the parking garage. Bradley had the valet wash it and placed two bottled waters in the cup holders. Anne fought the urge to hug and kiss him. CC worried her friend was getting spoiled. She would be even harder to live with after this Bradley treatment.

They followed the GPS, which led them to a Staples parking lot. “This is strange,” Anne said. “I think the address must be wrong.” She looked around and around, craning her head this way and that until she caught a glimpse of an old fashioned gaslight and a sign with an arrow pointing around the corner. “There it is!” she proclaimed with a sigh of relief.

CC parked the bus and Anne jumped out of it. They entered the building. Anne immediately felt at home. She thought to herself,
Nashville isn’t that bad.
The antique store was on the second level. Portraits were displayed on the wall of the staircase. She could feel the eyes follow her as she made her ascent. Anne stopped to admire them. Then she continued her climb up the stairway to heaven. She stopped at the top to catch her breath. In a raspy voice, she said, “Treadmill.”

“What? What did you say?” CC asked.

Anne waved her off. “Nothing.” She scanned the row after row of cluttered antiques. This was definitely familiar territory. The first booths held enormous collections of jewelry, silver-plate and rare Rookwood pottery.

As she moved farther into the mall, she found themed booths. One booth held all music antiques. Her eyes were immediately drawn to a turn of the century music stand that had a twisted wrought iron base and a solid oak top. A brass bar used to hold the sheet music in place was absolutely gorgeous. “CC, come here. This would be great for Betsy,” Anne said, looking at the price tag.

In the same booth, there was a 1920s Zenith tabletop radio. There was a Gibson resonator guitar in excellent condition with mother of pearl fret inlays. “Look at this, CC.” Anne pointed out all the items, including an oil painting of some of the Grand Ole Opry stars. In a glass case, there was a signed letter from Johnny Cash to an old friend. The first paragraph was the actual lyrics to “I’ve been Everywhere.” “We have to buy this booth, CC,” Anne enthused.

“Anne, calm down; we don’t want them to know that we’re excited,” CC said.

“Oh, look! There’s an old cassette player. Let’s get that, too, so we can listen to the tape.” Anne pointed to a corner where the small cassette deck sat.

“What cassette tape?” CC asked.

“The one that was in the guitar case.”

The girls negotiated with the store manager to purchase the whole booth. They then continued browsing up and down the aisles. Anne wandered to whatever caught her fancy but was still careful not to miss anything. CC went in a more precise line. She found the Goodlet and Sons booth. It filled a whole corner of the room with a large black and white sign that read, “Goodlet and Sons, Fine Antiquities.” She called Anne over.

The booth contained all of Anne’s favorite things––fine china, silver and beautiful crystal. Anne’s eyes were drawn to a low art deco brass planter still with its original insert that matched the one that she carried in her purse, now for protection. It had served her well. She admired the gilded lady who adorned both sides and felt its heavy weight under her hand. This would have to be added to her personal collection.

Next she found a matching set of 1920 brass Viking book ends depicting ships at sea. She had been watching a similar set on eBay but these were in great condition and better priced. She picked those up, too. Her arm was starting to get heavy from the weight of her large bag. She looked around for help but couldn’t find any. She thought about calling Bradley, but CC would probably yell at her.

Just when she thought she’d seen every item in every nook and cranny, she saw something sparkle in the corner cabinet where the sunlight burst through the tempered glass skylight. She moved three large rolled-up oriental rugs that were leaning against a small curio cabinet. And there it was––unassuming, underpriced, perfect. The tag read simply, “Crystal, $5.” Anne picked up the seven-pointed morning star crystal. She closed her eyes; she imagined Private Bement under a full moon, his saber drawn fighting off masked marauders, defending his Indian princess. She felt the power of the morning star crystal that she was holding––the most sacred artifact of the Cherokee people. She felt John Blackbear’s strong arms around her. The rapid beating of her heart sounded like the beating of war drums in her head.

Chapter Twenty-one

CC pulled the VW in front of Brent’s house and parked on the street. He was sitting on the porch playing guitar. As they sauntered up the walkway, Anne whispered, “He is really cute.”

“Sshh,” CC said, balancing the cassette deck in her arms.

“Come on in.” Brent stood up and took the deck out from CC. He opened the door with his foot. CC walked in followed by Anne.

Anne looked around the small house. It was serviceable.

Brent set the cassette deck on his dining room table and grabbed two bookshelf speakers and a small power amp. After he was done setting everything up, CC handed him the cassette tape. He held it for a moment. “I haven’t seen one of these in a while. You found it in the guitar case with the sheet music?” He turned the cassette over in his hands; it said, “West End Studios” with the initials CR added. He took a pencil and unwound the tape, straightening out the tangles and then tightened it again. He put it in the tape deck, turned it on and sat down next to CC at the dining room table. They all stared at the tape deck as if they were watching a show on the television, waiting for something to happen.

The tape hissed and popped. After several seconds, they heard Clarence Riddle talking to Walter, the sound engineer.

“Walter, can you bring the guitar up a little louder in the headphones?” they heard.

“Will do, Clarence,” was the reply.

Then Clarence played “Young Hearts.” After three and a half minutes, the tape hissed and popped, then tangled and locked. Brent stopped the tape deck. Anne, CC and Brent stared at each other, not speaking. After what seemed like hours, Brent pulled the tape out and eyed it again. “This says 1968,” he said. “That’s almost 50 years
before
Dave Southwell wrote, recorded and performed his biggest hit song––that song.”

“Are you saying that Dave Southwell stole this song?” Anne asked.

“Yeah, note for note,” Brent said.

Chapter Twenty-two

Anne sat in the lobby of the Hermitage waiting for John Blackbear. Balancing a silver service, Bradley brought her tea and cookies. “It looks like another rainy day, Miss Hillstrom. Will you be leaving? Do you need an umbrella?”

“No, Bradley. I’m waiting for someone.” Anne picked up one of the sugar cookies.

“Can I bring you anything else?”

“It’s rather cold in here.”

Bradley smiled. “Yes, the joke is that if you’re in Nashville and you’re going to the movies, don’t forget your coat. We like to turn the air conditioning up to get rid of the humidity.” He returned a short while later with a pashmina shawl that he wrapped around her shoulders.

“Bradley, this is lovely.” Anne felt the soft wool and eyed the beautiful paisley pattern. She wondered how much it cost.

“It’s available for sale in the gift shop, but you can use it for now.”

“Thank you, Bradley. That lunch yesterday was delicious.”

“Can I ask the chef to fix you something?”

Anne looked around to make sure CC wasn’t within earshot. “I would love a plate of pecan pancakes with warm maple syrup. And some sugar cured ham if it’s not too much trouble.”

Bradley smiled. “I’ll bring it over shortly.”

Anne sat back in the oversized chair and stared up at the stained glass mosaic ceiling. It had been restored to its original 1910 beauty. The crystal chandeliers gleamed in the morning light. There was more marble in this gorgeous lobby than in an Italian quarry.
Yes, this is I where I am meant to be, she thought.
A hundred years later or now, I can live this lifestyle. Just me and Bradley and the occasional visit from John Blackbear.

As she finished her last piece of sugar cured ham and sipped her fresh-squeezed orange juice, she heard footsteps coming up the stairs that split the main floor from the lobby. All she could see was the top of the pointy head that she recognized to be the very tall and no longer cowboy, Nigel Towers. He walked up to Anne and pointed to the chair across from her, motioning for approval to sit down. She nodded.

He sat down, bumping his knee on the edge of the Chippendale table. “Anne, I wanted to say goodbye before I head back to Chicago. I thought about what you said. I’m sorry things couldn’t work out between us. But I want you to know that your friendship is important to me. If all we can be is friends, then that’s all there is to say about that.” He managed a slight half smile, touched her hand and walked off.

As he walked down the stairs, John Blackbear was walking up. The two glanced at each other sideways, without recognition. Nigel gave the chief a polite nod and left the Hermitage.

When he reached Anne, John Blackbear knelt down and kissed her on the cheek, and then sat down across from her in the chair Nigel had just vacated. “Anne, it was so good to hear from you. It’s good to see you again.”

Anne smiled and nodded.

“On the phone, you said you had a lead on the morning star crystal. . .”

Anne stopped him. She couldn’t contain herself any longer. She reached into her large orange Prada bag and retrieved the morning star crystal that was wrapped in tissue paper. She placed it in the middle of the table and unwrapped it with a flourish as though it was the Holy Grail.

John Blackbear stared, not believing his eyes. “Anne, is this truly the morning star crystal?” He picked it up and held it up to the morning light. The seven points glistened and glowed. John Blackbear retrieved his iPhone and brought up the picture of the drawing from 1830. It appeared to be the exact piece, even down to the impurities in the crystals that lined up with the one in the photo like a road map. “Anne this is remarkable. This is our morning star crystal! How did you find it?”

“I’m an antique hunter. That’s what I do.” Anne sat back and sipped her Irish coffee.