A Murderous Yarn Read online

  Two men were poking under the hoods and one was on his back doing something to the undercarriage, paying tribute to the experimental nature of these engines and drive mechanisms, but the rest stood in gleaming perfection while people gathered to ask questions or take pictures. The Stanley was leaking steam from several sources, but Lars seemed unconcerned and was boasting to a trio of young men about his trip. He had a bad scald on the back of one hand.

  Betsy shook her head, at him and at all the drivers. Seeing these old, old cars, and knowing they’d been driven here from St. Paul, was like finding that your great-grandfather was not only still around, but decked out in white flannel trousers and using a wooden racket, capable of the occasional game of tennis.

  She gave the clipboard to Adam and went to see how things were going in Crewel World.

  It was a huge relief to step out of the glare into the air-conditioned interior. Even better, there were a fair number of customers—a few, by their costumes, from the antique car group.

  Godwin wasn’t in sight. Betsy raised an inquiring eyebrow at Shelly, who pointed with a sideways nod of her head toward the back of the shop. Betsy went into the little storeroom and heard the sound of weeping coming from the small rest room off it. She tapped lightly on the door. “Godwin?” she called.

  “Oh, go away!”

  “Why don’t you go home?”

  “Because I haven’t got a home.”

  “How long have you been in there?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, you’re not doing us any good holed up like this.”

  “I won’t ask you to pay me for the time.”

  “Oh, for goodness’ sake, Godwin, that’s not what I mean! Go over to Shelly’s house, you idiot!”

  “I know what you mean. I just wish—”

  “What do you wish?”

  “I wish I could stop feeling sorry for myself.”

  “Here’s an idea. Come out of there and take a walk down Lake Street. You should see these wonderful old cars! They are so beautiful and exotic, just the sort of thing you’d love. And some of the people who ride in them are in period dress.” Godwin loved costume parties.

  But he only said, “Uh-huh,” in a very disinterested voice.

  “All right, then go down to the art fair. See if you can find Irene.” Irene Potter was sitting with Mark Duggan of Excelsior’s Water Street Gallery. Irene’s blizzard piece was supposed to be prominently featured, its price a breathtaking six thousand dollars. It was not expected to sell; this was Mr. Duggan’s way of introducing the art world to Irene. Irene had done several more pieces and been written up in the Excelsior Bay Times, and was behaving badly about being “discovered.”

  “It’s too hot to be walking around in the sun,” said Godwin pettishly, though he’d been telling everyone that he was the first to see her potential as a Serious Artist.

  “Well, then how about I take you and Shelly out to dinner tonight? It’ll probably be late, I don’t know how long I’ll be in St. Paul, but if you can wait, I’ll take you anywhere you want to go.”

  There was the sound of a nose being blown. “Well,” said Godwin in a voice not quite so disinterested, “how about Ichiban’s, that Japanese restaurant where they juggle choppers and cook your shrimp right in front of you?”

  “Fine, if we can get in without a reservation. Because I really don’t know what time I’ll be back.”

  “We can call from Shelly’s before we leave,” suggested Godwin, giving up his struggle to sound sad.

  “Fine.” Betsy went back out into the shop. Shelly was talking to a man trying to pick something for a birthday present. “All I know is, she pulls the cloth tight in a round wooden thing, and then sews all over it,” he was saying. And Caitlin was helping a woman put together the wools she needed for a needlepoint Christmas stocking.

  A woman in an ankle-length white cotton dress trimmed in heavy lace was looking around and not finding whatever she was wanting. “May I help you?” asked Betsy.

  The woman turned. “Oh, hello again!” She smiled at Betsy’s blank face and said, “You clocked us in just a few minutes ago. The 1910 Maxwell? I was wearing a big hat?”

  “Oh!” said Betsy. “Yes, now I remember you! Wow, you went costumed all the way, didn’t you? First that big coat and hat, now this wonderful dress! Who do you get to make them for you?”

  “The coat is a replica, but this dress and the hat are originals.” She did a professional model’s turn.

  “They are?”

  “Oh, yes. I collect antique clothes. I like to wear them, so it keeps me on my diet.” She laughed and brushed at the tiny bits of floss clinging to her skirts. “I’m also a stitcher, as you can see. Do you know if this store has the Santa of the Forest?”

  “We did, but I sold the last one yesterday. I’ve got more on order, but they won’t come in for a week or two, probably.”

  “ ‘We’? You work here?”

  “Yes, ma’am. In fact, this is my shop. I’m Betsy Devonshire.”

  “Well, how do you do? I’m Charlotte Birmingham. I’d be out there helping Bill with the Maxwell, but I don’t know one end of a wrench from another. I see you have knitting yarns as well. I used to knit, but that was a long time ago. Things have changed a great deal since my time.” She shook her head as she glanced around at the baskets of knitting yarn. “Back in my teens, there was embroidery floss and there was wool for crewel, and wool or acrylic for knitting.” She picked up a skein of silver-gray yarn of grossly varying thickness. “This is different. But what on earth can you make with it?”

  “Look up there,” said Betsy, gesturing at a shawl suspended on strings from the ceiling. She had nearly broken her neck fastening that up there.

  “Why, it’s lovely!” Charlotte exclaimed, and it was, all delicate open work, the uneven yarn making it look as if it were knit from fog. She reached up to feel the edge between a thumb and forefinger. “Oooooh, soft!”

  “It’s surprisingly easy to work with,” said Betsy, who had also knit the shawl.

  “Really?” said Charlotte. Then she glanced at the price tag on the yarn and hastily put it back in the basket. “Actually, I came in for some DMC 285. It’s a metallic, silver. I couldn’t find it at Michael’s.”

  “My counted cross stitch materials are in the back. Come with me, I’ll show you.” The back third of Betsy’s shop was devoted solely to counted. It was set off from the front by a ceiling-high pair of box shelves. Charlotte went to a tall spinner rack of DMC floss, but Betsy said, “No, that metallic comes on a spool. Over here.”

  A small rack in one of the “boxes” held spools of metallic floss. “Here it is,” said Betsy.

  “Thank you. So long as we’re back here, do you have cashel?”

  “Certainly. What color are you looking for?” Betsy didn’t have the enormous selection of fabric that Stitchville USA had, but she was proud to have a wide selection, rather than restricting her shop to Aida and linen.

  A while later, Betsy rang up a substantial sale—Charlotte was like many stitchers. She couldn’t resist poking through the patterns and the rack of stitching accessories, and adding to her initial purchase.

  And then, riffling the sale basket of painted needlepoint canvases next to the cash register, Charlotte found a painted canvas of a gray hen that would look “darling” made into a tea cozy, so then Betsy had to help her select the gray, taupe, white, yellow, and red yarns needed to complete the pattern. She added the customary free needle and needle threader to the bag.

  “Are you from around here?” asked Betsy after Charlotte had paid for her additional selections. “We have a group that meets every Monday afternoon in the shop to stitch. They do all kinds of needlework so you can bring whatever you’re working on.”

  “Oh, that sounds nice,” said Charlotte wistfully. “But we live in Roseville, clear the other side of the Cities, which makes an awfully long drive.”

  Reminded, Betsy checked her watch and
made an exclamation. “We’d better get back out there. It’s almost time to start back to St. Paul.”

  Charlotte said, “I’m not going to ride back in the Maxwell. It’s too hot, and the jiggle was making me sick.”

  “ ‘Jiggle’?”

  “It’s a two-cylinder and it jiggles all the time. Especially when it’s not running well. After a while you begin to think your stomach will never be right again.”

  “Then how are you going to get home?”

  “Oh, I’ll ask Ceil or Adam or Nancy if I can ride with them to St. Paul. I can help out in the booth until Bill gets back. Then I’ll help him put the Max into the trailer for the trip home.”

  “Well, I’m supposed to go over there, too. Would you care to ride with me?” After all, Charlotte, who had come in looking for a two-dollar item, had just spent nearly seventy dollars.

  “Why, thank you, I’d like that very much. Let me go tell Bill.”

  They went out together and up the sidewalk to the brown car with a man leaning over the engine revealed by a rooked-up hood. He, too, had removed his duster, and had wrapped a towel around his waist to protect his immaculate white flannel trousers from the grease he was getting on his hands and on his fine linen shirt. Another towel, liberally smeared with grease, was draped over a fender. His head was well under the hood and he was muttering under his breath.

  Charlotte came up behind him and said, “Bill, I’m riding to St. Paul with Betsy Devonshire here, one of the volunteers. All right?”

  “Okay,” grunted Bill. Metal clanged on metal. “Ow.”

  She bent over to murmur something to him, laughed softly at his unheard reply, touched him lightly on the top of his rump. “See you later,” she concluded, and went to open the passenger side door and haul out in one big armload a carpet bag with wooden handles, the duster she’d been wearing, and the big, well-wrapped hat.

  “Let’s go see if Adam will keep these in the booth for me,” she said. “And maybe he has something for me to do.”

  Adam sighed over the size of Charlotte’s bundle, but found a corner for it. And he didn’t have anything for her to do, not at the moment. “But say, if you want to assist Betsy in recording the departure times, that would be nice. They are supposed to tie their banners on the left side, but some interpret that to mean the driver’s side, and if their steering wheel is on the right, they put it there; and some don’t read the instructions at all and put it on the back end or forget to put it on at all.”

  Betsy said, “That’s right. I had to ask a lot of the drivers what their entry number was because it wasn’t where I could see it when they drove up.” One had had to get out of his car and dig it out of the wicker basket that served as a trunk, remarking he didn’t think it mattered until the actual run.

  “If you’ll stand so the cars run between you,” said Adam, “one of you is bound to see the number.”

  Betsy, remembering the wicker basket, asked, “Why does it matter? If it’s not a race, and they don’t get a medallion for finishing this run, who cares what time they leave here?”

  “We need to keep track,” replied Adam. “So if someone doesn’t show up at the other end, we know to go looking for him.”

  Ceil said, “They have special trucks that follow the route between New London and New Brighton, but they’re not here today. Someone could break down, and if we weren’t keeping track, they might not be missed until dark. Most of these cars shouldn’t be driven after dark.”

  Betsy nodded. “I see.”

  Ceil checked her watch. “The first arrivals can start back in about fifteen minutes. That will be the Winton and the Stanley.”

  Betsy said, “Not the Steamer.”

  Ceil asked, “Why not?”

  “He lives here, he just wanted to see if the car could make it from St. Paul. Kind of a tryout for the big run.”

  Adam asked, “His is the Steamer coming to the run, isn’t it?”

  Betsy nodded, then said, “I haven’t seen the whole list of people signed up. Is there only one Steamer?”

  Adam nodded. “Yes. Generally we get only one. The steam people have their own clubs. Their requirements and rules are different. Here, why don’t you sit inside the booth? It’s shade at least.”

  “Thanks.” Betsy and Charlotte came in. The booth was roomy enough, even with the big quilt on its stand taking up most of the center. The booth had a board running around three sides of it that made a counter. Handouts about the Antique Car Club of Minnesota made stacks along it. There were also a few maps of the route stapled to a three-page turn-by-turn printed guide, for drivers who had lost or mislaid theirs. Postcards featuring pictures of antique cars were for sale. Mildred had taken up a post, her cash box on one side and the immense roll of double raffle tickets on the other. By the number of tickets dropped into a big, clear plastic jug, business had not been brisk, but she professed herself satisfied.

  “Here, sit beside me,” she said to Betsy. “And you, too, of course,” she added to Charlotte.

  Charlotte sat on Mildred’s other side. She picked up a corner of the quilt and said, “Oh, it’s embroidery, not appliqué. That’s so much more work, isn’t it? How many of you worked on that quilt?”

  “It varies from year to year. Five of us did it this year. We start right after each run to work on next year’s. I hope you noticed that every car on it is a car that has actually been on the run. When we started out, we didn’t know much about antique cars. We got a book from the library and made photocopies of cars that we were interested in, and Mabel turned them into transfer patterns and put them on the squares, and we stitched them. The center square is always the emblem of the club—the Merry Oldsmobile.”

  Betsy said, “Oh, like from the song,

  ‘Come away with me, Lucille,

  in my merry Oldsmobile’?”

  “Yes, that’s the one,” said Mildred, with a little smile. “Though I think the theme of the run should be ‘Get Out and Get Under.’ You know,” she started to sing in a cracked soprano,

  “ ‘A dozen times they’d start to hug and kiss,

  and then the darned old engine, it would miss,

  and then he’d have to get under,

  get out and get under,

  and fix up his automobile!’ ”

  Betsy said, “I remember my grandmother singing that song!” She looked up the street. “Looks as if things haven’t changed much with those old machines.” The driver who’d been under his car earlier was still under it.

  Adam put in, “That’s why the run isn’t a race. Just getting across the finish line is enough of a challenge, and anyone who makes it has earned his medallion. By the way,” he added, holding out a clipboard, “here comes the Winton.”

  “Oops!” said Betsy, grabbing it. “Come on, Charlotte, time to get to work!”

  The cars were spaced about three minutes apart—except when, as sometimes happened, a driver couldn’t get his started, and there was a wider gap while another car was waved into its place. This happened with Bill Birmingham’s Maxwell. A thin crowd stood on the sidewalks to cheer and clap as the gallant old veterans putt-putted, or whicky-daddled, or pop-humbled their way out of town. Bill finally got his Maxwell started after all the others had left. Charlotte blew kisses at the car, which despite Bill’s efforts still went diddle-diddle-hick-diddle down the road. “Happy trails, darling!” she called, then turned to Betsy. “Whew, am I glad I’m not going on that ride!”

  5

  Betsy checked on Crewel World one last time before leaving for St. Paul. Godwin seemed to have come out of his funk, and was assisting a customer trying out a stitch under the Dazor light. Betsy caught his eye and told him she’d try to be back before closing.

  Then it was through the back into the potholed parking lot with Charlotte to Betsy’s car.

  Betsy’s old Tracer had never recovered from a winter incident involving sliding off a snow-covered road into a tree. In seeking a replacement, she considered sev
eral high-quality used cars, envied the mayor his amusing cranberry-red Chrysler PT, but had at last bought a new, deep blue Buick Century four-door, fully loaded. It was the nicest new car she’d ever owned and she was very proud of it.

  But Charlotte was obviously used to a better variety of cars. She simply laid her duster and big hat in the back seat with her stitchery bag, hiked the bottom of her antique white dress halfway up her shins, and climbed in the front passenger seat.

  They took 7 to 494, up it to 394, then skirted downtown Minneapolis on 94 to St. Paul, taking the Capitol exit.

  Crossing over the freeway put them on a street leading to a big white building modeled on the U.S. Capitol—except the Minnesota version had a very large golden chariot pulled by four golden horses on top of the portico. There were cars parked in slots in front of the capitol, but no people standing around.

  Betsy said, “Looks as if we beat everyone. Even the booth is empty.” A twin to the booth in Excelsior stood on the wide street at the foot of the capitol steps. They drove around back and found a parking space. After the air-conditioned interior of Betsy’s car, the moist heat was again almost insufferable. Nevertheless, Charlotte donned her hat, draping the veils carefully around her head and shoulders—“It’s easier than trying to carry it,” she remarked. She did carry her duster and a handful of pamphlets she’d scooped out of the booth in Excelsior. Betsy brought her and Charlotte’s stitching. She noticed that by the worn appearance of Charlotte’s carpet bag, it was another antique. Its nubby surface was scattered with “orts,” what stitchers called the little ends of floss. They walked around the blinding white building and across the broad paved area to the booth, where they collapsed on folding chairs.