A Murderous Yarn

by Monica Ferris

  Besides, if he did leave, he’d have to go back to St. Paul, where Charlotte Birmingham waited. And on that list of places to be, going to talk to Charlotte was probably tied for whatever near-bottom place staying here occupied.

  Sooner or later they’d let him go, but he had no idea what he could possibly say to Charlotte about what he’d found while driving up County Highway 5.

  It was a charming enough section of Minnetonka, a gently hilly area with small, neat cottages on broad lots lining the two-lane road. Just here, there was a white gravel lay-by across the road from a big church, just up from a cemetery. A horribly appropriate location, because here in the lay-by he had found firemen and their truck, and an ambulance, and several squad cars.

  And the Maxwell, blackened and blistered.

  And Bill, poor dead Bill, lying on the gravel where he’d been dragged out from under the car.

  They hadn’t covered Bill’s body, and Adam’s eyes kept wandering to it, sickening him all over again. Medics were standing around him, but in the idle poses that said they had nothing to do, that Bill was far, far beyond anything they could do.

  Adam lifted his eyes a little, to watch a uniformed policeman talking to one of the medics and taking notes as he listened to a reply.

  The policeman gestured at Bill’s body, drawing Adam’s attention back to it, so he quickly turned his head to look at Bill’s car. There wasn’t a crumpled fender, a smashed headlight, even a dent, so there hadn’t been an accident. The Maxwell hadn’t run into anything, or been run into, or rolled over. It had been driven into this lay-by, which was perhaps an alternate parking lot for the church, now that Adam thought about it. The Maxwell was at the back of the graveled area, shaded by trees. Bill had probably pulled in here when the engine trouble that had plagued him all day got so bad he couldn’t continue the run. And Bill had slid under it to check something—no, fix something, because there were tools half-visible in the big puddle of dirty water that surrounded the car. The firemen had made that puddle, putting out the fire that had started while Bill was under it.

  The car must have exploded into flame, because if it had been just an ordinary fire, Bill would have rolled out from under. And he hadn’t, he’d still been under it when the firemen arrived.

  Interesting how Bill’s upper legs in their white flannel trousers were only a trifle smoky, his lower ones were untouched, and his brown leather shoes were unmarked by anything but a little dust. While the rest of him was so bad . . . Why can’t they cover him decently? Adam thought again, yanking his eyes away to watch a policewoman on the other end of the lay-by tying yellow plastic ribbon to a tree, pulling a length from a large roll, then walking to a wooden lamppost out near the road, letting the tape unreel on her wrist. Adam frowned at that, then looked at Bill’s Maxwell again. Crime scene tape? Why? Despite himself, his attention wandered back to Bill, but ricocheted instantly to the burned-out Maxwell.

  There was the crime. What had happened to the car was a sorry crime. Despite its lack of dents, the old machine was history, its metal chassis blistered and blackened, the seats and dash and steering wheel all gone into a heap of ash and metal. Leaves on the branches that overhung the car—it was back here because Bill had sought shade, obviously—were withered or burned away, indicating this had been a serious fire. A great fire could be built from an antique car’s interior of varnished wood, leather, and straw stuffing, Adam knew.

  The fire truck’s engine started up. Adam watched it, wondering what kind of horsepower it must pack. Heck of a sound to that engine. The truck was a pumper, the kind with a blocky back end, parked at an oblique angle beyond the Maxwell. The last few yards of hose were being neatly stowed into the back by two volunteer firemen who had taken off their hats in the heat.

  Beyond the fire truck, two squad cars from the Minnetonka Police Department were side by side, and another squad from the Sheriff’s Department beside them, with a severely plain official automobile behind them. An ambulance-sized van with HENNEPIN COUNTY MED- ICAL EXAMINER painted on its door and rear end had parked between the body and the road, blocking the view of passersby. Cars on the road slowed to see what the fuss was about, naturally, but were being encouraged to move along by a cop who had put on soft white gloves to make his hands more visible. The last vehicle in the lay-by was Adam’s, a midnight blue sedan. He was standing outside it, leaning against the door because he was tired of standing. He considered opening his car door and sitting down, but decided against it.

  Two men in civilian dark slacks and shirts were examining the Maxwell. One was standing on the far-side running board, getting black streaks on his white shirt; the other, in a light blue shirt and dark tie, gesturing while he asked a question. He then turned to gesture at a young woman in khaki slacks and green T-shirt who was taking photographs of the back end of the car. As Adam watched, the woman climbed up on the near running board, leaning forward to take a photograph and garner her own sooty streaks, which she brushed at with a weary, used-to-it sigh.

  Meanwhile, one of the men went to stoop for a closer look at the nightmare ruin of Bill, to reach out and touch—Adam turned away again.

  After a minute a voice said, “Mr. Smith?”

  “Yes?” asked Adam, straightening.

  “I’m Dr. Phillip Pascuzzi, with the Medical Examiner’s Office. May I ask you a few questions?” The man wore a white shirt and had a notebook in one hand.

  “Certainly.”

  “Was Mr. Birmingham a friend or relation?”

  “He was a member of the Minnesota Antique Car Club, of which I am President. And he was a friend.”

  Writing, “And you’re quite sure the body over there is, in fact, Mr. Birmingham?”

  “Yes.” Adam swallowed. Having to go look closely at what had been Bill Birmingham was the worst thing he’d had to do in his entire life.

  “The body is badly burned, especially around the upper body. What made you sure?”

  “Well, he’s Bill’s size, and he’s wearing what Bill was wearing today, and the car is Bill’s. Nobody else driving in the Run is missing. I don’t see who else it could be.”

  “Did you talk to Mr. Birmingham today?”

  “Yes, briefly.”

  “Where and when was this?”

  “In Excelsior, this morning. He was having trouble with the car, and I said something about it, and he agreed it was running rough. As soon as he got parked along the curb, he opened the hood and began working on it. Didn’t quit until it was time to start back for St. Paul. He was the last to leave because his car didn’t want to start. After he left, we tore down in Excelsior and went to St. Paul to greet the cars as they came back and help them set up an exhibit over there. And when Bill didn’t turn up in St. Paul, I started driving back, following the route, looking for where he broke down.”

  “I take it you didn’t follow the route the old cars took when you went to St. Paul.”

  “No, we went out 7 and caught the freeway at 494.”

  “So Mr. Birmingham was the last to leave Excelsior on this route. Everyone else was either ahead of him or went by another way.”

  “Yes, that’s right.” The Antique Car Club had notified law enforcement agencies of the twisting route the antique cars would follow so they could come out and direct traffic or practice a little crowd control or at least be aware if there was a report of trouble involving an antique car, their choice.

  “You didn’t suggest that perhaps he shouldn’t make the return trip?”

  “No, our members usually have a pretty good idea whether or not their cars are able to continue a run. You have to realize, these cars are valuable, so most drivers are very reluctant to push a car even up to its limits. And Bill was proud of his Maxwells. I don’t think he’d get stupid about making a trip when a car wasn’t up to it. He tinkered with this one, and got it started and set off, so we assumed he’d be okay.”

  “There’s a cell phone on the body. Why do you suppose he didn’t call fo
r help when he broke down?”

  “We were wondering why we hadn’t heard from him when he didn’t come in. Probably he got to working on it and time got away from him.”

  “Is that also normal behavior for him?”

  “Absolutely. It’s a common trait among car collectors. Bill’s wife complained more than once how he’d forget to come in to supper when he was out working on his cars. It’s very likely the trouble he was having today got bad enough to make him pull in here, where he tried to fix it or at least get the car able to finish the run. Then he got all wrapped up in what he was doing, and somewhere in there . . . this happened.”

  “Have you any idea what kind of trouble he was having with the car?”

  “The engine was running ragged when he drove up to the booth in Excelsior. I didn’t ask him what he thought it was, I was busy. He went right to work on it, but he still had a hard time getting it started again. He finally did, though he was the last car to leave for the trip back. His wife said she was getting an upset stomach from riding in it, and she opted not to ride back with him. She rode over to St. Paul with one of my volunteers and is in St. Paul now. I don’t look forward to going back there and trying to talk to her about this. We’ve never lost a driver during a run before.”

  “Not even in an accident?”

  “No, never. We had a close call with a rollover, and a few other injuries—sprained wrists from hand cranking, for example, and Dick Pellow’s Overland caught fire a few years ago, but he’s fine. What I don’t understand is, why didn’t Bill get out from under when she caught on fire? Unless it blew up—I mean like parts scattered to hell and gone—which it didn’t, he should’ve been able to at least roll away, I’d’ve thought.”

  “I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Smith. And there are some other oddities about this situation.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t want to start speculating, not without further investigation. We are going to impound the car and there will be an autopsy on Mr. Birmingham. Perhaps you could inform Mrs. Birmingham? She can contact me at my office for further information. Do you have her phone number? I’ll want to get in touch with her.”

  Adam read it to him off the card. Dr. Pascuzzi gave him a card with his name, the notation that he was Hennepin County’s Assistant Medical Examiner, and a couple of phone and fax numbers.

  “Thank you,” said Adam. “Am I free to go now?”

  “Yes, sir, and thank you for your cooperation.”

  Charlotte recovered from her faint puzzled at what had caused it, so Ceil had to tell her all over again that Bill was dead. She shrieked loudly, causing heads all over the area to turn toward her, then clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from shrieking some more. Her eyes were wide and terrified.

  Betsy sat down on the blacktop beside her and pulled her head onto her shoulder. “There, there,” she murmured as Charlotte began to weep noisily.

  “Oh, my God,” mourned Charlotte between sobs. “Oh, my God, my poor Bill! Oh, Broward will be just devastated, he and Bill worked so closely together! Oh, all my children, how can I bear to tell my children? Oh, I can’t bear this!”

  It was a minute or two before she felt the discomfort of her twisted position and began to pull back from it. Betsy helped her sit up straight, and took the proffered handkerchief from Mildred so Charlotte could mop her face. Her eyes were puffy and bewildered.

  “Did . . . did you say it was a fire?” she asked Ceil. “He caught on fire?”

  “Yes,” nodded Ceil. “Adam said there was a fire engine there putting it out.”

  “A fire,” repeated Charlotte, frowning. “Then why didn’t he just pull over and jump out?”

  “I don’t know,” said Betsy.

  “Perhaps he meant there was an accident, and it caught fire after,” said Mildred.

  “Oh, yes, that must be it,” said Charlotte. “Maybe a tire blew out, and he ran off the road and into a tree or telephone pole. Or did someone run into him? People do that, you know, they see the funny-looking car and steer right for it. Was there another car involved?”

  Ceil said, “Adam didn’t mention that.”

  “That stupid Maxwell! It was misbehaving all the way out there, he should never have tried to drive back. If it wasn’t a tire, then I suppose something went wrong with the steering or brakes, and he ran into a ditch. And the car caught on fire, and Bill was hurt, unconscious . . . Yes, that must be it, don’t you think?” She looked around at the other women for confirmation, as if figuring out what had happened would make it less dreadful.

  But realization still clouded her eyes, and she began to weep again, saying over and over, “No, no, no, it’s too awful, too awful.”

  A crowd had gathered, drawn by Charlotte’s distress. Among them were members of the Antique Car Club. Ceil caught the eye of the largest of them, and semaphored a message with her eyebrows. He began to move between the onlookers and the booth, facing outward. “Drivers, go back to your cars!” he ordered in a big, loud voice. “We’ve still got a crowd here with questions, cameras, and sticky fingers, so move it, move it!” He raised his hands in a backing motion. “As for the rest of you, this isn’t any of your business. Please give this woman a little privacy.”

  The crowd broke up, and the big man leaned over the booth’s counter to say to Charlotte, “I just heard. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, Char. Bill was a good man, he’ll be missed.”

  “Oh, Marcus, what am I going to do?” wept Charlotte.

  “You relax, we’ll take care of whatever needs taking care of,” promised Marcus. “Do you need someone to drive you home?”

  “I—I suppose so. I don’t know, I can’t think!”

  “Never mind, you just sit here awhile, until you calm down and this show is over. I’ll stay around until you decide what you want.” The man strode over to a Cadillac touring car of immense size and, when he turned and saw Betsy watching him, gave a wave and a gesture of support.

  “How long should I stay?” asked Charlotte of no one in particular. “Adam’s been gone so long, why hasn’t he come back? Why doesn’t he call? Should I call him?” She seemed to be working herself into another fit of hysterics.

  Betsy said, “Come on, Charlotte, let’s go someplace cool and private.” She helped Charlotte to her feet and said to Mildred and Ceil, “I’ll sit with her in my car awhile.” She repeated that to Marcus, who nodded understanding, then went on to the parking lot around the back of the capitol.

  Betsy started her engine, and the Buick’s inside quickly cooled. The purring of the engine was a soothing sound, and Charlotte began to regain control of herself. “I made a fool of myself back there,” she murmured, using another Kleenex from the supply Betsy kept handing her from the box she always kept in her car.

  “No you didn’t,” said Betsy firmly. “I’m sure this has been a terrible shock to you, and I think you’re taking it very well.”

  Charlotte made a sound halfway toward a giggle. “If this is taking it well, I wonder what taking it badly might be.”

  “Oh, screaming and running in circles, tearing your clothing, and throwing dirt on top of your head.”

  “Oh, if only it were correct in our culture to do that, what a relief it would be!” sighed Charlotte. “I really yearn to scream and kick dents into the trailer that dreadful car came in, set fire to the shed he keeps the other cars in.” She amended in a small voice, “Kept the other cars in. Oh, dear!”

  “I shouldn’t go setting fire to anything until I made sure the insurance was up to date,” said Betsy in a mock-practical tone.

  “Oh, no fear of that,” grumbled Charlotte, blowing her nose again. Her tone moderated and she became reflective. “I remember when we were first married, Bill put me in charge of the checkbook, paying bills and such. When the baby came, I was a very nervous mother and I made several long-distance calls to my mother. This was back when long-distance charges were actually scary, not like today, and my mother lived
in Oregon. And when the bill came, I couldn’t pay it. When Bill saw the overdue notice we got from the phone company, he hit the ceiling. He said he didn’t care if we lived on day-old bread and baloney, I was not to let a bill go unpaid ever again. And I never did. Of course, as Bill’s company began to thrive, that became less of a problem.” She smiled just a little. “He was a good provider. We were looking forward to a long, comfortable retirement.”

  “He wasn’t retired, then?” asked Betsy.

  “Not quite. He had turned over most of the day-to-day management to Broward—he’s our oldest son—but went in to the office three mornings a week, just to keep an eye on things. People like Bill never really retire, I suppose. He was thinking of organizing a new company, one that would centralize the ordering of parts for Maxwells, and perhaps do some restoration work as well. He really liked working on those cars.” She sighed and sniffed—then stirred herself to take a new tack. “Your husband, what does he think of you owning your own business?”

  “I’m divorced,” said Betsy. “I inherited the shop after the divorce. My sister founded it. And her husband was proud of her, though at first he didn’t take her seriously. You know how men are, or how they used to be, anyway. He thought of it like a hobby, a way of keeping the little woman busy.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Charlotte, with some feeling.

  “Did you help your husband in his business?”

  “I was in sales for several years at the start, until I got pregnant with Broward. I was pretty good at sales, and I liked it. But he wanted me to stay at home, and before I knew it, there I was with four children, and no time for anything outside the home. Not that I minded too terribly. Our children were a great pleasure always, reasonably good kids, very bright. Lisa won several scholarships and is a pediatrician in St. Louis. Tommy owns a car dealership in St. Paul, and David is working on his masters in education at the U. But after the youngest left home, I wanted to do something more, get a job, but Bill was too used to me being home. Do you have children?”