A Murderous Yarn

by Monica Ferris

Irene glared at him, panting, yearning to fight, but she was weaponless.

  “Do you have some vacation time coming?” asked Betsy, anxious to sooth her savage breast.

  “What? Oh, yes, I haven’t taken any yet this year, and I get three weeks.”

  “You might see if you can take some now to get a running start on these commissioned pieces.”

  “Now that’s a good idea! And I will also seek professional advice.” She smiled. “I am so glad I came in here to buy my materials!”

  “So are we,” said Godwin, smiling as he added his sales slips to the stack Betsy was adding up on her little calculator. “So are we.”

  12

  On Wednesday, her hair still damp despite riding home from Courage Center with the windows down—she would never get used to the humidity around here—Betsy sat down at her computer to download her e-mail, going to make a second cup of tea while RCTN downloaded. There were always lots and lots of messages from the newsgroup, and there was generally a useful nugget or two among them. Betsy quickly arrowed down the subject lines, read several, replied to a few, then deleted the download.

  Among her e-mail messages was one from Susan Greening Davis about window displays, a response to a question from Betsy—and another from Lisa Birmingham in reply to Betsy’s e-mail of yesterday evening.

  Lisa said she had long suspected her parents’ marriage was “under a strain,” but hadn’t known about the counseling sessions. She was not surprised her father had refused to go. My father never thought anyone else’s opinion was superior to his own, she wrote.

  Did you get to talk with Marvin at The Courage Center pool? Isn’t he a dear? I know it’s far too early, but maybe in a year or two, Mother will stop seeing Marvin as the family’s good friend and develop a romantic interest. I think he’s in love with her. I think he’s been in love with her for years. But he never even flirted with her, so far as I know. I remember when he came with my family to see me get my baccalaureate degree. Mother and Father were simply beaming at me, and a little off to the side I saw Marvin. He was looking at Mother. There was just that something in his eyes, you know what I mean. And I saw him look at her that way again when I was home last Christmas and she was opening his gift. He gave her an inexpensive piece of antique jet jewelry. She gave him a gag gift, a pair of socks in a shocking fuchsia color I think she knit herself. I mean, where on earth would you find socks that color in a man’s size? He actually wore them to a New Year’s Eve party at the Herbert Manleys the next week. He didn’t care who saw the socks, and if that’s not love, what is? But I asked Mother what she thought of Marvin not long ago and she said, “I’m so glad he’s a friend of this family.” She’s a bit of an actress, but I’m sure she has no idea.

  Betsy clicked on Reply and typed, You are very observant. Thank you. Now, can you find out where Broward and Marvin were on the day your father was murdered?

  Lars never did anything by halves. Now that his new hobby consisted of an old car, he researched it thoroughly, reading books and looking for web sites on the Internet devoted to Stanley Steamers, and downloaded diagrams of Stanley Steamer plumbing to study. He joined an international organization of Stanley Steamer owners. Once a Steamer came to live with him, he contacted two Steamer owners in Wisconsin with questions, and drove to Eau Claire to watch and learn how to maintain his vehicle.

  Lars’s Stanley was built in 1912, an era when twenty-five miles an hour on the road was remarkable. But F. E. and F. O. Stanley, identical twin speed demons, looked ahead to a period when forty miles an hour sustained road speed would be desirable, and built their car for that foreseen time. And just as they refused to consider the assembly line, they refused to acknowledge planned obsolescence. When someone ordered a Steamer from their factory, he had to wait for it to be built by hand—and then was expected never to replace it. That’s why, as late as the mid-1950s, pioneer Stanley boilers were still in outdoor use, lifting, cutting and grinding stone in a New England gravel pit.

  Currently, having acquired some understanding of his Stanley, Lars was in a mood to manipulate it. While he wouldn’t dream of taking his Stanley on the Interstate, he did sometimes get out on the state and county highways, where forty miles an hour was slow. He wondered if there was some way to adjust the flame under the boiler so fifty or even fifty-five miles per hour could be attained without having to stop even more often for water.

  So when Betsy stopped in to see him around midday on Thursday, he had the burner disassembled and was consulting his owner’s manual for advice.

  “Oh, no!” she said, and he looked around to see her standing dismayed in the doorway to his barn.

  “What’s the matter?” he asked, putting down the vaporizing coil and reaching for a towel to wipe his hands.

  “That’s what I was about to ask you,” said Betsy. “How bad is it?”

  “How bad is what?”

  “Are you going to be able to repair it by Saturday?”

  He grinned. “It doesn’t need repair,” he said, to her obvious relief. “I was trying to figure out how to get a bigger head of steam without having to stop even more often for water.”

  Betsy began to giggle. “You sound like Tim Taylor on ‘Home Improvement’: ‘More power!’ ”

  “No, I sound like the Stanley twins that morning on Daytona Beach in 1907.”

  “Just be careful you don’t become airborne. The run this weekend isn’t a race, remember.”

  “I’ll remember,” he promised, without a hint that his fingers were crossed behind his back.

  “So when are you going down to New London—tonight or Friday?”

  “If I can figure out this burner business fast enough—or decide I can’t figure it out soon enough—I thought I’d take ’er down this evening. Otherwise I’ll leave here early in the morning. What, are you looking for a ride?”

  “Oh, no, I’m leaving this evening after we close. I’m driving down. You do know a lot of drivers are already there, terrorizing the countryside with their infernal machines?”

  Lars grinned. “I hear the populace turns out to wave as they go by. But I had to work yesterday.”

  “Do you have a motel reservation?”

  “Naw, there’s room for a bunk in the trailer, so I thought I’d camp out with it. It’s only two nights. You?”

  “I let it go too late. Every room in New London is taken, so I’m staying at the Lakeside Motel in Willmar, and commuting. But it’s not far. So, I’ll see you there. Oh, here’s your sponsor’s banner.” Betsy handed over a twenty-four-by-ten-inch rectangle of plastic-coated canvas with the logo of her shop printed on it: CREWEL WORLD worked in X’s as if it were cross stitched. On the corners were pockets holding powerful magnets, so Lars could put the banner anywhere on the vehicle he chose.

  He took it, looked at it, then smiled shyly at her. “I want to thank you—” he began.

  “It’s all right, really,” she interrupted hastily. “I was glad to do it.” Golly, she thought on her way back to her shop, I’m really turning into a Minnesotan, embarrassed to be thanked.

  The door went Bing! and Betsy came out from the back of her shop.

  Charlotte stopped short when she saw Betsy. There was a tall man with her—Betsy suddenly realized it was Marvin Pierce, AKA Friend of the Family. “Oh, I thought you were in New London already,” said Charlotte.

  “No, I’m going up as soon as I close this evening. I had hoped to see you up there.”

  “No, no, I’m not going. The funeral has to be planned, though we still don’t know which day that will be, the medical examiner hasn’t, er, released Bill’s body. Anyway, I couldn’t face. . . those people. Not right now.” Once the surprise drained away, her face showed the stress and sorrow of a new widow.

  Marvin put a sympathetic hand on Charlotte’s shoulder, and Betsy said, “Yes, of course, I understand. So what brings you out here?”

  “I understand you have a very competent finisher.”

  “Yes, He
idi’s wonderful. Do you have that Christie piece ready?”

  “Yes.” Charlotte came to the checkout desk and put a plastic bag on it. She opened it and lifted out a square wrapped in tissue paper.

  Betsy came to unwrap it, saying, “You take such good care of your work. I had someone come in last week with a piece that looked as if she’d washed the car with it.”

  Marvin snorted his amused surprise. Charlotte said, “My regular finisher won’t take a piece that’s dirty.”

  “I can’t afford to be very picky. I even have a woman who will go over pieces and fill in missing stitches, or repair torn or moth-eaten pieces. Sandy has rescued lots of heirloom pieces. But this looks perfect.”

  “It’s as good as I can make it, and if there’s some mistake in it, I don’t want it fixed. This work is all mine. I found the original, photographed it, scanned it and made the pattern, and stitched it all by myself.” She glanced up from it to meet Betsy’s eyes and said, “Oh, all right, Grace Christie designed it, so it’s essentially a copy. But I made some changes to her original pattern, worked some areas in different stitches from the original, and even altered the colors a little.”

  Marvin said, “She won’t admit it, but I think what she does is equivalent to real art.”

  “Oh, tosh, Marvin,” said Charlotte with a little frown.

  Betsy’s smile appeared. “Have you heard about Irene Potter?”

  Charlotte said, “I read an article about her in one of our little weekly papers, yes. She stitches Impressionistic patterns, right?”

  “Yes, but her first piece was almost a copy of a painting she admired. She did just about what you did, altered the pattern a little, changed some of the colors. So don’t apologize.”

  Charlotte’s spine straightened. “All right, I won’t. I think this piece is great, and I’m proud of it.”

  “So you should be,” said Marvin.

  Betsy said, “I believe you wanted this made into a pillow?”

  “Yes, that’s right. But—well, can you give me an estimate of the cost?”

  “Oh, never mind the cost,” said Marvin. “If it’s something you want, then go ahead and buy it.”

  “And who’s going to pay for it?”

  He looked at her, confused, and she looked away with a pained expression.

  Betsy said, “Speaking from experience, it takes a long time to settle an estate. Things can get tight during that interim.”

  “Plus there are taxes and fees and all kinds of expenses,” said Charlotte.

  Marvin said, his voice showing he was still a little puzzled, “I understand all that. But how much can it cost to get someone to sew this into a pillow? Twenty-five or thirty dollars?”

  Betsy said to Charlotte, “He’s not familiar with finishers, is he?”

  Charlotte smiled. “No.”

  Betsy said to him, “I’m estimating this at about a hundred and fifty, minimum.”

  Marvin’s eyebrows went high. He turned and looked around at the fibers, fabrics, and esoterica of needlework. “I had no idea. Cute little hobby you picked, Char.” He turned back to show a very charming grin. “Of course, it isn’t as pricey as antique cars.”

  Betsy said, “Do you own an antique car?”

  “Whoa! Not me!” Marvin raised both hands. “I’d like to acquire some champagne tastes despite my beer budget, but not that one. What I like is for my cars to be as up to date as possible, with all the bells and whistles, thank you very much.”

  While Charlotte and Betsy became deeply involved in fabric selection, kinds of trim available, size, filler, and other considerations, Marvin went wandering around the shop. About twenty minutes later he was back at the desk.

  Charlotte wrapped things up with Betsy, saying, “Use your best judgment, Betsy, but try to keep it under two hundred, all right?”

  “Of course. How about I call you with Heidi’s estimate before I tell her to go ahead?”

  “Thank you.” She turned and her eye was caught by a spinner rack of the newest in Watercolor flosses. She made as if to go to it, but instead said, “All right, all right, we can leave now,” to Marvin, although he hadn’t said a word.

  Betsy’s parting smile faded once the door closed behind them. Interesting how Charlotte could read Marvin’s mind, too.

  At five, Betsy hurried Godwin through the closing-up process, wrote up a deposit slip for the day’s slim profits, and went upstairs to finish packing for the trip to New London.

  She was debating whether to pack a light nightie or her pajamas when her doorbell rang. Thinking it was probably Jill, she went to buzz her in and left the door to her apartment ajar while she went back to her packing.

  “Hello?” asked a strange voice. Male. She picked up the cell phone she’d been about to put in the big purse she was taking on this trip, and went to peer out the door.

  Two men were standing at the end of the little hallway to her living room. They were looking awkward, half prepared to retreat.

  “Hello,” said Betsy.

  “Are you Ms. Devonshire?” asked the taller of the pair. He was also the more robust, and likely older, his dark hair thinning and gray at the temples. He was wearing a short-sleeved tan shirt, brown trousers, and dressy shoes.

  “Yes. Who are you?”

  The shorter one offered a shy smile. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a faded blue shirt, old blue jeans, and thick black sandals. “I’m David Birmingham, and this is my brother Tom. Our sister Lisa seems to think you might want to talk to us.”

  “I’d love to talk with you, but I don’t have much time. I’m leaving for New London.”

  “Oh, are you involved with the run this weekend?” asked Tom.

  “Yes, I’m a volunteer and I’m sponsoring the Stanley Steamer that Lars Larson is driving.”

  “Love those Steamers,” said Tom with a smile, and Betsy recalled that he owned a car dealership.

  “Why is that? Do you sell antique cars?” asked Betsy. “Come in, sit down. May I get you a soft drink?”

  “Not for me, thanks,” said David.

  “Not me, either,” said Tom. They came and sat side by side on the loveseat, which was just barely long enough to contain them. He continued, “I sell new and used cars, but not that used. The Steamer was a remarkable car for its time, and many people are fascinated at the notion of a steam-powered car. But they never had a chance against the internal combustion engine.”

  “Why was that?” asked Betsy, taking the upholstered chair at right angles to the loveseat. “Because it had to stop to take on water so often? I understand the later models had condensers.”

  Tom nodded. “That’s right. But steam was inefficient, because it adds a step between the fuel and the wheels. The fuel heats the water to produce steam, which drives the motor, which turns the wheels. An internal combustion engine uses the fuel to drive the motor which turns the wheels. You lose energy every step you take away from the fuel. Those Stanleys got terrible mileage per gallon. On the other hand, I love that whistle.” He smiled. There was something both slick and charming about him, which, Betsy considered, figured.

  “So you’ve seen Lars’s Stanley?”

  He shook his head. “No, but one generally turns up at the run, and I’ve been to a lot of runs.”

  “Are you going this year?” asked Betsy.

  “No.” He suddenly looked sad. “Probably won’t go again, now that Dad’s not gonna be there.”

  David said, “Lisa said you’re investigating our father’s death?”

  “Yes, informally. I’m not a police investigator or even a private eye. I’m involved because your mother and I spent most of the day together.”

  The phone in Betsy’s hand rang, startling her. She punched the Talk button, said “Excuse me” to the brothers and “Hello?” into the phone.

  “Betsy, it’s Jill. Are you on the road?”

  “No, I’m still at home.”

  “Oh, well, I was starting to worry about you. I call
ed the motel in Willmar, and you weren’t there yet.”

  Betsy didn’t know whether to be grateful for Jill’s concern or annoyed at it. “I’ll be leaving soon. The two younger Birmingham brothers are here. Tom and David.”

  “I hope you have something to ask them. And listen to this: We got a report from the medical examiner on time of death and guess what? Time of death could be as long ago as Friday afternoon.”

  “But we know it can’t be that long ago. I saw the man Saturday around eleven.”

  “Yes, I know. Lars says it’s because the body was burned. The ME does say he might have died as late as Saturday morning. But it wasn’t well into Saturday afternoon.”

  Betsy said, “That still fits, doesn’t it? He only went as far as Minnetonka, and that was before noon. Listen, I’ve got to take care of my company. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?” Betsy hung up.

  David said, a little too brightly, “Funny how the phone knows to ring when you have company, isn’t it?”

  “Yes. Why did you two come to see me?”

  Tom said, “We told you, Lisa said you wanted to talk to us.”

  “I never told her that.”

  Tom said, “You didn’t? Funny, because she said—”

  David interrupted, gently but firmly, “All right. Bro said he told you not to poke into this mess we’re in, and we decided to talk to you ourselves, to ask you to continue. Independently, actually. Tom called me to see if I knew where you lived. I didn’t, but I’d found out you own this building. We came over to see if one of your tenants had your address and we saw your name on one of the mailboxes.”

  Tom said, “So we rang the doorbell and here we are,” putting a chipper face on it.

  David said, “Mother told Lisa you investigate crimes. Are you a licensed private investigator as well as a businesswoman? We’re prepared to pay you a fee.”

  “I’m not licensed,” Betsy said. “I do this nonprofessionally, strictly as an amateur. I’m actually out to protect the innocent, rather than find evidence of who committed a crime. Of course, that often means finding out who really did it.”