A Murderous Yarn Read online

  Betsy said, “I saw the models at Stitchville USA, and decided to order three kits; they’re gorgeous. And I could sell them if I had a model. Would you be willing, Shelly?”

  “Not me! His bugs are enough for me; those kingfishers are murder! Maybe you should ask the Turbo Stitcher.”

  Bitsy Busby had earned that nickname because she could plow through even a large and complex counted pattern in a week or ten days. A chronic insomniac, she sat up most nights watching old movies on cable and stitching. Despite her speed, her patterns were beautifully worked. She was especially fond of linen, particularly coffee-dyed linen. Godwin had once joked that the reason she was an insomniac was because she absorbed caffeine from the yards of fabric that passed through her fingers.

  “Well, I’d better go see what’s going on out there,” said Betsy. “Wish me luck.”

  “God bless us every one.”

  4

  The temperature had risen ten degrees in the little while Betsy had been gone. Used to the dry heat of southern California, she was disconcerted by how warm seventy-eight humid degrees could be. Her favorite pant suit, cotton khaki with touches of lace, was too much clothing for this weather even with its short sleeves. She could feel it wilting as she walked to the booth.

  One of the women was saying to the man, “. . . a ’14 Hupmobile, he wants fifteen thousand for it.” She had a phone to her ear, but she was talking to the man.

  The man replied, “In running condition?”

  “He says it is.” She shrugged, showing doubt. “I haven’t seen it.” The phone made a faint sound, and she replied into it, “Yes, standing by.”

  Betsy said, “Do you mean there really was a car called a Hupmobile? I’ve heard that name, but I thought it was a joke.”

  The man looked at her. “No, it was founded by brothers named Hupp in 1908 and they made cars until 1940. The early ones are collector’s items.”

  The woman said, “It’s a Hupmobile on the back of the old ten-dollar bills. Take a look sometime.”

  “I’ll do that,” promised Betsy. “Is fifteen thousand dollars a lot of money for a Hupmobile? I mean, I would have thought so a few months ago, until a friend paid seventeen thousand for a Stanley Steamer.”

  The man said, “Was it Dr. Fine’s?”

  “How did—” Then Betsy smiled. “Oh, you must have been bidding on it, too.”

  But he shook his head. “I like rarities, but I wouldn’t own a steamer on a bet. It’s just that the world of antique cars, especially the crowd that drives them as opposed to just shows them—is very small. I’m Adam Smith, by the way, and this is Lucille Ziegfield, called Ceil.” He bent his head sideways toward the woman standing beside him. Still listening to her cell phone, she nodded at Betsy.

  “How do you do?” said Betsy. “This is so interesting and exciting! I had no idea there were people who did this. I’m wondering what makes a person decide to get into these old cars. My friend who bought the Stanley is totally focused on the thing, hardly talks about anything else. That’s typical of him, but is that typical of antique car owners?”

  Ceil, still listening but apparently to dead air, said, “He has just the one?”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Then he’s not typical. Most of the people who get into this hobby wind up with several, sometimes several dozen. It’s not a hobby, it’s a sickness. My husband owns seven, all Packards. And not all antiques—the latest model he owns is from 1954.”

  Betsy wasn’t sure whether to smile or offer condolences. What would Lars be like with half a dozen Stanleys? “Judging from the time Lars spends working on his one, I don’t see where anyone would find the time to build up a collection,” Betsy said.

  Adam said, “Well, usually one of them is hogging most of the attention. The owner works on it until it’s fixed or he can’t stand looking at it anymore, and goes on to another.”

  “A CASITA,” nodded Betsy.

  “ ‘Casita’?”

  “In needlework, sometimes one project demands all the attention until it turns into a CASITA, you CAn’t Stand IT Anymore. So you go on to something else.”

  Adam nodding, laughed. “Who would have thought antique cars and needlework would have something in common?”

  “I never even thought ordinary people could own antique cars,” said Betsy. “I mean, I thought they were all in museums. Well, except Jay Leno, I know he owns some. But I certainly didn’t know there were clubs of people who drive them.”

  Ceil said into her phone, “Well, that’s politics,” folded up her phone, and said to Adam, “The Studebaker the governor was riding in broke down on Selby, so he got out and went home.”

  “Damn!” muttered Adam, snapping his fingers.

  Ceil continued to Betsy, “It’s mostly men who get into this. It’s not just the money—it takes a working knowledge of machinery, lots of heavy lifting, and a willingness to get really dirty. You’ll see some fellow coming out of a shed in the evening with greasy clothes and disgusting fingernails, and only on second look realize he’s the richest man in town.”

  “Who’s the richest man in town?” asked a new voice, and Betsy turned to see Joe Mickels standing close behind her, an expression of deep suspicion on his face. A short, bandy-legged man, he had a wide, thin mouth under a great beak of a nose flanked by large white sideburns. He was in, for him, casual summer wear: light blue suit, white canvas shoes, white shirt, light blue necktie. Joe was the richest man in Excelsior, though he didn’t want that fact generally known. He had dated Betsy for a short while earlier in the year, and had, in what he considered a tender moment, confided his financial status. Now that the brief romance was over, he constantly suspected her of talking about him, sharing the facts of his wealth with all and sundry.

  “I have no idea,” replied Betsy coldly. “We were talking about wealthy men who behave like garage mechanics around their antique automobiles.”

  “How old does a car have to be before it’s an antique?” asked Joe.

  Adam replied, “Well, for this year’s run it’s 1912 or earlier.”

  “Well, then, I’ve got an antique car.”

  Betsy had seen Joe’s car. It was an immaculate 1969 Lincoln, old but hardly an antique. She frowned at him, and he twinkled at her as if telling her to watch him at work. He said to Adam, “She’s seen my Lincoln, but I also have a 1909 McIntyre.”

  “I didn’t know that!” said Betsy.

  “There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” said Joe, twinkling more broadly, and continued to Adam, “My grandfather bought it new, then my uncle owned it, then my brother, and now it’s mine.”

  “Does it run?” asked Adam, and Betsy heard a slight change in Adam’s voice. Though he was trying to sound casual, it seemed he was very interested in Joe’s reply.

  “Oh, yes, I started it up last Thursday. It’s up on blocks, because it’s got these funny big wheels, like wagon wheels, that used to have hard rubber around the rims, but they’re worn right down to the metal. But it runs. I cranked her up and ran her for fifteen minutes, then shut her down again. I start her up once a month spring, summer, and fall, run her long enough to circulate the oil and water, then in November I drain the radiator, crankcase, and gas tank, and fill it all up again in the spring, and recharge the battery. That’s what my uncle did. I used to help him when I was a boy. I understand some of these old cars are valuable, so I mean to keep her in running order.”

  “I wish I’d known you had an old car,” said Betsy.

  “Then I don’t see why you didn’t ask me,” said Joe indifferently, turning a shoulder to her as he focused on Adam. “Of course, I couldn’t have taken her for a ride, not without tires, and I don’t know where to buy them.”

  “I could probably give you a source,” said Adam. “If you’re interested.”

  “Well, I don’t know. The old car’s useless, really. I was just keeping her out of sentiment. My Uncle Frank learned to drive with that car, and he used to give m
e and my cousins rides in it in the summer days of my youth. I think he’d halfway forgotten he had it, and my brother never drove it at all. I found it in an old barn a few years ago and had it moved to a heated shed, because I remembered a magazine article from somewhere that said some of them are valuable to collectors. I don’t know if she’s of any real value, since she’s a McIntyre, and I never heard of that brand, not like the Maxwell, or a Cadillac or a Model T.”

  “How much of it is original?” asked Adam.

  Joe shrugged. “All of it. The engine, chassis, transmission, even the paint job, though it looks a little scabby in places. Original wheels, original seat covers, original glass in the windows. And everything works, except the headlights. My uncle wouldn’t drive it at night because the lights were so weak, and now they won’t light at all.”

  “What kind of headlights?”

  “Big ’uns, made of brass. There’s no lightbulbs in ’em, but I don’t know who took ’em out.” He scratched an earnest eyebrow to hide the wink he gave Betsy from under his hand.

  Adam said, “If they’re original, the lights are acetylene, not electric. That kind doesn’t use bulbs.”

  “Acetylene? You mean like a welding torch?”

  Adam nodded. “I’d kind of like to see that car.”

  “Sure, but it’s not for sale.”

  “Who said anything about buying it? I saw one at a show a few years ago, where they asked me to judge. I didn’t like the instruments on the dashboard—they were reproductions—and I’d like to see a set of originals.”

  Joe produced a business card from an inside pocket. “Give me a call sometime. I’ll be glad to show it to you.” He walked away.

  Ceil snorted softly. “Of course you’re not interested in a 1909 McIntyre with all original parts!”

  Adam shrugged, eyebrows raised in a show of innocence. “Well, now you mention it, I do know a couple of people who might pay good money to buy that car—from me.” He looked at the card, pulled out his wallet, and slid it into a pocket.

  “If you manage to pry that vehicle out of Joe Mickels’s hands for a nickel less than it’s worth, you’re a better man than most!” she said, laughing.

  Betsy decided not to warn Adam after all that Joe’s apparently fortuitous appearance at the booth was, in all likelihood, the first move in a plan to sell his McIntyre for at the very least what it was worth. Joe never parted with anything for less than its true value. Moreover, she doubted that sentimental story of it being handed down three generations. Joe? Sentimental? Ha!

  There was the sprightly sound of “Fu¨r Elise,” and Ceil, still smiling, pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Excelsior,” she said into it. “Ah!” She checked her watch. “Thanks!” she added, and disconnected. “The Winton just came onto Minnetonka Boulevard. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”

  “Not the Stanley?” asked Betsy.

  “Why the Stanley?” replied the woman.

  “Well, I just thought, because Stanleys are so fast.”

  The woman laughed. “Yes, for about twenty-five miles. Then they have to stop for water. Every blinking twenty-five miles they have to stop for water. And of course, if they blow a gasket, or the pilot light goes out, or they run out of steam, then the delays really mount up.”

  Betsy flashed on Lars laughing as he chuffed around the table in Crewel World, calling “Get a horse!” to imaginary internal combustion cars. Apparently the laugh was not entirely his alone.

  She had her clipboard ready when a soft-yellow car with brown fenders came up the street. It didn’t look like a car from the teens, but more like something out of an early-thirties movie, with its sleek modeling, long hood, and deeply purring motor. A solidly built, prosperous-looking man in a cream suit was driving, and a very pretty woman wearing a cloche hat sat beside him. They both smiled at Betsy as the car pulled up.

  “Number ten,” he announced, and Betsy checked off Number Ten, a 1912 Winton, on her list, noting the time beside it.

  “Are we the first?” asked the man, though that was obviously the case; there were no other cars in sight.

  “Yes, sir, you are,” said Betsy. She pointed with her pen at the booth. “Please check in with Adam Smith. He’ll tell you where to park.”

  The Winton had only just moved on down the street when Betsy heard the now-familiar loud and breathy whistle of Lars’s Stanley. She looked around and saw it, wreathed in steam, rolling smoothly up Lake toward her. She waited until he pulled up beside her, all smiles, before noting the time. He was one minute, twelve seconds behind the leader.

  “Beat ’em all,” he announced. “I told you the Stanley was a fast one. I bet number two won’t be here for—” He broke off, staring up the street at the Winton pulling up to the curb a little beyond the booth.

  “Sorry,” said Betsy. But she was smiling.

  “Oh, well, like they say, this isn’t a race,” said Lars, but his smile was now forced.

  “How’d she run?” asked Betsy.

  “Sweet as milk, and smooth as silk,” said Lars. “But I’m thinking I should’ve looked around for a 1914 model; they have condensers in them, so you don’t need to stop every thousand yards to take on water. Someone in St. Paul says he heard there’s a guy with one—”

  “No, no!” said Betsy. “You don’t want to sell this one already! You just got it all restored!”

  “Oh, I would never sell this one,” Lars replied. “But the 1914, with a condenser. . .” His eyes had gone dreamy. Then he shook himself. “Do I just go up and park behind that yellow car?”

  “No, check in at the booth first. Mr. Smith will tell you where to park. And Lars, this time talk to Jill first before you buy another Stanley.” But she was talking to his back and he blew his whistle before she’d finished.

  There was a half-hour gap before the rest of the cars started trickling in. The trickle grew quickly to a steady stream that as quickly diminished again to a trickle, until Betsy had checked off all but two cars. She was getting very warm standing out in the sun, and suspected her nose was getting sunburned. She wished she’d thought to wear a hat. And sunglasses.

  A rust-brown two-seater came up the street, its engine going diddle-diddle-hick-diddle. It was a Maxwell with black leather seats and black trim, the top half of its windshield folded down. The car’s wax finish shimmered in the bright sunlight as the engine idled unevenly.

  The couple driving the car had also dressed in period costumes, he in a big off-white coat called a “duster,” a pinch-brim hat in a tiny, dark-check pattern. Goggles with thick rubber edges covered his eyes. There was a dab of grease on his cheek. She wore a duster with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, a huge hat swathed in veils, and sunglasses.

  “We’re number twenty, the Birminghams, Bill and Charlotte,” said the woman, who was on Betsy’s side of the car—like most of these antiques, the steering wheel was on the right. The man stared straight ahead, his gauntleted hands tightly gripping the wheel.

  “How long do we have here before we start back?” asked Charlotte, pushing aside her veil so she could wipe her face with a handkerchief. Her face looked pale as well as sweaty—and no wonder, thought Betsy, swathed in fabric like that.

  “They’re asking the drivers to stay at least an hour,” replied Betsy. “And just so you know, there’s a reporter from the Excelsior Bay Times here, asking to interview some of you.”

  The driver shook his head and grunted, “No.”

  The woman apologized. “He’s feeling cranky. Something’s wrong with the engine, we had trouble the whole trip. He needs to tinker with it, or we’ll never make the return. I’m going to get out here,” she said to him. “I’ve got to shed a layer or two or I’ll just die. Where do we park?” she asked Betsy.

  “First you have to check in—up there, at the booth. Adam Smith will tell you where to park.”

  The woman hesitated, then sighed. “Oh, all right, I’ll ride up with you,” she said, replying to an unvoiced complaint
from Bill. Betsy smiled. Amusing how people who had been married for a long time could do things like that.

  The woman resettled herself, and the little car went diddle-hick-diddle up the street to the white booth.

  The last car in, a red-orange model, was small and light. It was a real horseless carriage, looking far more like a frail little buggy than a car. It had no hood, just a low dashboard that curved back toward the driver’s shins. He was a slim young man in a tight-fitting cream-colored suit, a high-collared white shirt with a small black bow tie, and a straw boater atop his dark auburn hair. He wasn’t behind a steering wheel, but had one hand on a “tiller,” a curved silver pipe that ran up from under the dash. The dust-white wheels of his automobile were the right size for bicycles, with wire spokes. The vehicle came to a trembling halt beside Betsy, whose mouth was open in delight. Here, in person, was the car embroidered in the center of Mildred Feeney’s quilt, the car that was the very symbol of the Antique Car Club. Before she could check her list to see who was driving it, the driver smiled and said, “Owen Carpenter. Driving a 1902 Oldsmobile, single cylinder.”

  Betsy made a checkmark beside Number Seven on her list, and wrote the time. She directed him to Adam Smith at the booth and stayed in place a minute to watch the Olds toddle down the street. Its little engine, located somewhere on the underside, sounded a very authoritative “Bap!” at brief intervals.

  Then, her work done, Betsy walked slowly to the booth and past it, looking from side to side at the veterans. That Oldsmobile she had just checked in was the oldest in today’s run, having survived its first century, but by definition all the cars here were pioneers, and the oldest ones looked like the buggies and wagons they shared the roads with when they were young. Some had names anyone would recognize: Ford, Oldsmobile, Cadillac. Some were unfamiliar: Everett, Schacht, Brush. Most were brightly painted, orange, yellow, red, blue, brown, green, but some wore basic black. All were surprisingly tall, with a running board to step up on, then another step up to the seats, which themselves were more like upholstered chairs or sofas than modern car seats. They all had brass trim and most featured alertly upright windshields. All but the Olds had wooden spokes on their wheels.