A Murderous Yarn

by Monica Ferris

  “Whew!” said Betsy, fanning herself with a pamphlet. “How did people stand this back before air-conditioning?”

  “It’s not so hard to bear if you don’t keep going in and out of air-conditioned spaces. People survived much worse weather than this before there was air-conditioning. Think of St. Louis—or Savannah—back when what I’m wearing was a marvelous improvement on the much heavier Civil War era clothing.”

  “Yes, of course, you’re right. You know, we didn’t have air-conditioning until I was about fourteen, and while I remember how much I loved having it, I don’t remember suffering like I am now without it.” She looked out across the shimmering heat lake of the parking area to the trees lifting tired arms in the sun. “Hard to believe we had our last snow just two months ago.”

  “And that in three months we may have another one,” said Charlotte. “But that’s why we love it here in Minnesota.” Her tone was only a little dry. She reached into her carpet bag and pulled out a square of linen tacked onto a wooden frame. On it, in a variety of stitches, was a flowering plant with caterpillars on the leaves and two kinds of bees and a ladybug hovering among the flowers. She saw Betsy’s eye on her work and said, “It’s from a hanging designed by Grace Christie back in 1909. I’m going to work more of the squares and have them made into pillows.”

  Betsy said, “Do you know what that plant is? It looks familiar, somehow.”

  “Someone told me it’s borage, an old medicinal herb.”

  “Oh, of course, ‘Borage for Melancholy.’ ”

  Charlotte looked at the nearly finished piece. “Does it work, I wonder?”

  “I understand St. John’s Wort does. So perhaps borage does, too.”

  Two tourists in shorts and sunglasses—a man and a woman—came up. Pointing, the woman said, “What a crazy hat!”

  Charlotte laughed and said, “You’re too kind.”

  The man said, “We came to see the old cars.”

  “They’re on a round trip to Excelsior,” said Charlotte.

  “Who drove to Excelsior?” asked the woman, frowning.

  “The owners of the antique cars,” replied Charlotte.

  “So where are the cars?” asked the man.

  “The owners drove them to Excelsior.” An element of patience had come into Charlotte’s voice.

  “Why did they do that? The paper said they were going to be here.”

  “They were here,” said Charlotte more patiently. “But they drove to Excelsior to put on a display there.”

  “But I thought the paper said they’d be on display here!” said the woman.

  “They were here, early this morning,” said Charlotte, speaking very slowly now. “Then they drove to Excelsior. And now they’ve started driving back. At”—she consulted her watch—“four-thirty or so, they should be back from Excelsior.”

  “How come they’re driving from Excelsior?” said the man. “The paper said they’d be here.”

  Betsy started to make a low humming noise, and when the woman looked at her, she coughed noisily, eyes brimming.

  “They were here,” said Charlotte, ignoring Betsy, “and they’ll be back here in a couple of hours.”

  “I don’t understand why they aren’t here now, when the paper said they would be,” said the woman.

  Charlotte, speaking as if to a first grader, said, “The paper said they’d be here early this morning, then that they’d be driving from here to Excelsior, then that they’d return here to be on display again.”

  “Oh,” said the woman, looking curiously at Betsy, who, hands cupped over nose and mouth, was trying unsuccessfully to contain that cough. “Thank you. Come on, Lew,” she added, taking the man by the arm and leading him away. “I don’t remember reading all that stuff about them being here and not being here and being here again.”

  As they trailed out of sight, Betsy could at last release the laughter. “Why didn’t you just give those two a map and suggest they go meet the cars en route?” she asked.

  “And have them run someone into a ditch?” retorted Charlotte.

  “Never fear,” said Betsy. “Those two couldn’t possibly follow that map. They would have ended up back across the border in the place of their birth: Iowa.”

  “A distinct improvement to the gene pool in both places,” said Charlotte in a dead-on Hepburn drawl.

  Betsy laughed some more and Charlotte joined in. Insulting Iowa is a peculiar Minnesota custom—and while Iowans are happy to reciprocate, their jokes aren’t considered half as clever. In Minnesota, anyway.

  A woman drove by in a Land Rover, slowing to wave from inside the vehicle at Betsy and Charlotte. Betsy recognized Ceil, one of the women in the Excelsior booth. The Rover went on around to the parking lot in back of the Capitol building.

  She came back on foot to say, “What, Adam isn’t here yet?”

  “Not yet,” said Betsy and turned to greet another pair of tourists.

  “My uncle once told me his grandfather owned a 1914 Model T Ford,” said the man. “But we were here before the cars left on their run, and there was a 1910 Ford the driver said was a Model T. Who was right?”

  “I—I don’t know,” said Betsy, and listened for Charlotte’s cough.

  Which kindly didn’t come. Instead, she stood and said, “The first Model T appeared in 1908, and wasn’t replaced by the Model A until around 1928. Of course, Henry Ford made constant changes and improvements as the years went by, but it was always called the Model T.”

  “Why Model T?” asked the woman.

  Ceil came over to join the conversation, “Well, every time he reinvented his car, he gave the model the next letter of the alphabet. By the time Tin Lizzie came along, he was up to T. I don’t know why he stuck to T so long; the 1912 model was very different from the 1908 one, and the 1927 Model T was a very different car again. The car that replaced it was the more expensive and sophisticated Model A, which is apparently why he decided to start over.”

  The couple asked a few more questions, took a brochure on the Antique Car Club, and drifted away. Betsy said, “I didn’t know any of that!”

  Charlotte smiled. “I only cling to my ignorance when it comes to actually working on restoration and repairs. I prefer to let Bill pack the wheels or replace the transmission bands.” She held out her slender, long-fingered, and very clean hands, regarding them complacently.

  “Be glad Bill didn’t get a Stanley Steamer,” said Betsy, “or dirt might not be the worst that can happen. My friend Lars has one, and the places on him that aren’t dirty are blistered.”

  Ceil laughed. “Has he still got both his eyebrows?”

  “Well, he has now, since the right one grew back.” She sat down beside Charlotte and resumed stitching. Betsy was working on a counted cross stitch pattern worked on black fabric. It had pale green cats’ eyes and the merest hint of paws. In crooked lettering down one side it said, Sure Dark in Here, Isn’t It? Betsy was adding whiskers in back stitching, counting carefully to make sure they were placed properly.

  “Where are you going to hang that?” asked Charlotte.

  “Six, seven, eight—in my bathroom,” replied Betsy. “The thread glows in the dark.”

  “Hang it next to the light switch,” advised Charlotte. “I’d hate to try to find the . . . er, by the light that thing will give off.”

  Ceil giggled.

  “I don’t see Mildred,” said Betsy. “Perhaps I should have volunteered to bring the quilt, too.”

  Charlotte said, “But it wouldn’t be any good unless you could sell raffle tickets for it, and Mildred won’t let anyone take custody of that roll of tickets or the money jar. That’s a job she’s very jealous of.”

  “Speak of the devil,” said Ceil, and they looked up to see Mildred, driving a large old Chrysler, pull up beside the booth. She put her car in park, got out, and opened the passenger door. The big heap of quilt engulfed her as she tried to get it out without letting it touch the ground. Betsy and Charlotte hu
rried to help. The frame was in the back seat, and Betsy wondered how she’d gotten it in there; even with their help, it was a struggle to get it out again. But Mildred again proved stronger than she looked, and was experienced in handling the thing. Under her crisp directions, she and Charlotte set it up in the booth and helped Mildred drape the quilt over it.

  Mildred said, “Thank you, Betsy. Now, I’ll be right back,” and went to park. When she came back, she had the money jar and the big roll of raffle tickets in her arms. Evidently Mildred had hidden them in the trunk.

  About twenty minutes later, Ceil said, “Look, here comes Adam at last.” Betsy hadn’t noticed him drive in, but he was walking from behind the Capitol building, where they—and apparently Adam—had parked.

  “What kept you?” demanded Ceil.

  “There’s an accident in the tunnel,” said Adam, meaning a long, curved underpass on 94 in Minneapolis. “It’s down to one very slow lane in the eastbound side.” He held up a large paper sack. “Plus I stopped for sandwiches.” He handed them around.

  He’d barely finished his tuna on a whole wheat bun before the first antique car came up, a 1909 Cadillac. Betsy grabbed the board Adam quickly held out, and Charlotte again helped Betsy clock the cars in.

  As before, the 1902 Oldsmobile was last—except for Charlotte and Bill’s Maxwell.

  “Did you see Number Twenty, a rust-brown Maxwell, along the road?” Charlotte asked the driver of the Olds.

  “No, when I left Bill was still trying to get it started. And it never caught up with me.” Betsy thanked him and waved him through.

  “Well, this is a fine thing!” grumbled Charlotte. “I wonder where he broke down?” She went to talk to Adam, Betsy trailing behind her.

  “He was having trouble with it, remember?” she said.

  “Yes, but he just waved me off when I went to ask him if he wanted to cancel his return trip,” replied Adam. “And it seemed to be running only as ragged as it was when he came into Excelsior.”

  “I know, I know. That darned machine—and he would insist on driving it even though he has other cars that don’t misbehave!”

  Betsy turned to Ceil and Adam. “Didn’t you mention a truck that follows the route looking for breakdowns?”

  “No follow-up truck for this run,” said Adam.

  “Anyway,” Ceil said, “doesn’t Bill have a cell phone?”

  “Yes, he does,” said Charlotte, frowning. She went to her old-fashioned carpet bag and rummaged in it for her own very modern cell phone. She turned it on and punched in some numbers.

  “That’s funny,” she said a minute later, the frown a little deeper. “He’s not answering.”

  “Maybe he’s gone to find someone to help get his car started,” said Betsy.

  “Wouldn’t matter,” Charlotte replied. “He carries that thing with him in his pocket.” She dialed the number again, listened awhile, and shut her phone off.

  Betsy turned to Adam. “Where is that other woman who was with you in the booth in Excelsior?”

  “Nancy’s gone home, she could only volunteer this morning. Why?”

  “I was thinking, if she’s still in Excelsior, we could ask her to follow the route the antique cars took, and see if she can find Bill along the way. But I guess not.”

  “Still,” said Adam, “the next step is to go looking along the route. I’m in charge, I’ll go.” He reached for a map of the route and left the booth.

  Ceil called after him, “Let us know right away when you find him!” She turned to Charlotte. “Can you drive the trailer out to pick him up, or are we going to have to find you a driver?”

  Charlotte said, “I don’t like to, but I can drive it. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t call me when he broke down, to tell me what was happening, and where he was. I hope he made it most of the way, then Adam won’t have so far to drive.”

  Charlotte seemed more annoyed than angry at this development, but when she came back to sit with her needlework, she didn’t pull the needle out to begin. Betsy was moved to ask, “Are you all right?”

  “Yes, of course,” said Charlotte. After a bit she said, “Only I can’t understand why he didn’t call.”

  “Perhaps the battery in his phone has run down,” suggested Betsy.

  “Yes, that could be the problem. He’s forgotten in the past to shut it off after he’s used it.” She did pick up her needle then, and put a few stitches in the honeybee’s wing then said, as if continuing a conversation she’d been having internally, “Well, it just isn’t fair!”

  “What isn’t fair?”

  “What?” said Charlotte, staring at Betsy.

  “You said it just isn’t fair,” said Betsy. “What isn’t fair?”

  “Oh—nothing. I mean, I didn’t mean to say it out loud. I’m just a little upset, that’s all. I mean, it isn’t like Bill to just sit in his broken-down car, when he has a perfectly good cell phone. And even if you’re right, and the battery’s gone dead, there’s always a gas station or even a house he can go to and use their phone. He promised to be better about this sort of thing, not to leave me sitting and worrying. That’s why we got the phones, after all.”

  “Husbands can be the limit, can’t they?”

  “Beyond the limit.” Then Charlotte smoothed the frown from her forehead with what seemed deliberation and said, “But I don’t believe he’s neglecting me on purpose. I’m sure as anything that he’s underneath the hood trying to fix the engine, and has gotten so involved he’s forgotten all about the time and that I’m sitting here, tired and dusty and wanting to go home.”

  Betsy, remembering how he didn’t even come out from under to say goodbye back in Excelsior, said, “Whereas we stitchers never get so involved with our needlework that we forget to fix dinner or pick the kids up after soccer or take the cat to the vet.”

  The frown that had reclenched Charlotte’s face relaxed again, and her eyes twinkled. “Well . . . yes,” she admitted. “And Bill has been a lot better lately. When he announced his retirement two years ago, I thought we could travel or take up a hobby we’d both be interested in or at least spend more time together. But he didn’t quite give up control at the office, and when he wasn’t there, he was working on his car collection. We had a couple of serious fights, and at last I went to a therapist—alone, because Bill wouldn’t go, of course—but Dr. Halpern helped me start some serious conversations with Bill, and things have been better lately.”

  “How many cars does Bill have?” asked Betsy.

  “Six, all Maxwells but one. I thought it would be fun, riding down the road in these old cars, going to meets and all. And it is. But there are the hours Bill spends in the shed restoring them, and the hours on the Internet talking with other car nuts, and the days he spends traveling all over the country buying parts.”

  “He should take you along—I thought you said you wanted to travel.”

  “But he finds these parts in some very out-of-the-way places, never Barbados or San Francisco or London. And since I don’t know what the parts are for, I can’t help him shop for them, so I have to go off by myself to whatever museum there is or shop for antique clothing. Sometimes I just go to a movie, which I could do just as well at home.” Her voice had become so querulous that she became aware of it, so she shut up and with a sigh tucked her needle into the margin of the fabric. “Oh, I admit it’s not all his fault. The therapist advised me to change my own ways a bit, too. And when I did, Bill saw I was serious. He said if I was willing to change, then he started to think maybe he could change a little, too. We’ve been reconnecting—that’s my therapist’s term, reconnecting—and things have gotten much better. It will take a while to undo old habits, as we’ve seen today, but Rome wasn’t torn down in a day either, I suppose.”

  “No,” agreed Betsy with a smile.

  People came up with questions or to pick up a brochure, but in few enough numbers that Ceil could handle most of them. People were far more interested in talking
with the owners of the cars than the people sitting in the booth. They went from car to car with their questions, taking lots of photographs. Now and again there was the sound of an old-fashioned horn going Ah- ooooo-ga!—always accompanied by titters and giggles and a little rush of people heading for the source of the sound, a beautiful 1911 Marmon.

  It was nearly an hour later that Ceil’s cell phone began to play “Fu¨r Elise” and she pulled it from a pocket. “St. Paul,” she said into it. “Yes?” She glanced at Charlotte. “Oh. Oh, my,” she said and quickly turned her back, going as far away as she could without leaving the booth.

  Charlotte and Betsy looked at one another, Betsy with concern, Charlotte with the beginnings of fright. Betsy put a hand on Charlotte’s.

  “I’m sure it’s nothing too serious,” said Mildred. “He probably ran off the road, broke an axle or something.” That she offered this disaster as “nothing too serious” showed how terribly bad she was thinking it might be, too.

  Charlotte began putting her stitchery away, making a fuss about it, keeping herself busy while they waited.

  “Char?” said Ceil a few minutes later, and Charlotte turned in her chair. Ceil was looking helpless, as if she couldn’t think where to begin.

  “What is it, tell me what’s wrong!” demanded Charlotte.

  “It’s Bill. Oh, sweetie, I’m so very sorry—” She sobbed twice, but then took hold of herself and said rapidly, “He’s dead, Charlotte. When Adam got there, the fire department was already there, the car was on fire, and Bill was underneath it. That’s all they know right now.”

  Charlotte stared speechless at Ceil. She turned wide, horrified eyes on Betsy, then on Mildred. “No,” she said very quietly, and fainted.

  6

  Adam Smith waited in sick silence as the methodical examination of the scene went on. If someone asked him to list the places on earth he wanted to be, this would be at the bottom or near it. But he couldn’t leave. He’d been asked by a police officer to stay. The man had been polite, putting it in the form of a request, but Adam felt it would be put in stronger terms if he refused.