Free Pickin' Murder: An Antique Hunters Mystery by Vicki Vass

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