A Murderous Yarn

by Monica Ferris

  “We understand,” said Jill.

  Marvin, shaking his head, said, “It’s a shame this had to be the last picture taken of Bill. Not exactly his best side.”

  “Oh, stop it, Marvin!” said Charlotte, trying not to laugh, and dabbing at more tears.

  Marvin said to Betsy, “Charlotte told me you investigate crimes, is that true?”

  Betsy nodded. “Yes, as an amateur. I seem to have a knack for it.”

  “I also hear you’re looking into Bill’s death. What have you found out?”

  “A number of things. Broward, for example, was unhappy with his father’s continuing interference in Birmingham Metal Fabrication, as you undoubtedly know.”

  Charlotte felt a cold hand grip her heart. “You can’t possibly think my son would murder his own father!” she said in a quiet voice she hardly recognized as her own.

  Betsy’s look did nothing to warm the grip. “I’m sorry, but I do,” she said. “Unless you can think of a better candidate?”

  Charlotte exchanged a look with Marvin. “Well, as a matter of fact, I can. We can, Marvin and I.”

  16

  Detective Sergeant Morrie Steffans, one of those people who pays attention, didn’t have to ask who the waitress was for his table. He quickly picked her out from the quartet serving the room, and went to waylay her on her way from another table to tell her there were two new people at Betsy Devonshire’s.

  But he didn’t go immediately back to his table. He stood a minute or two, watching Charlotte Birmingham and Marvin Pierce talking to Betsy, Jill, and Lars.

  Lars, he knew, was an excellent patrol cop, very happy at his work, and therefore likely to stay on patrol until his back or his legs gave out. Which might be never—he looked built on the lines of the Stanley boiler he admired so much.

  Jill, on the other hand, was on a different track. She had the quiet tenacity and wholesome integrity that would probably put her in a command position someday. She might even wind up Chief of Police.

  And then there was Ms. Devonshire. Wholly amateur, not at all disciplined or even learned in the field of investigation. Yet she’d broken several cases, most of them locally. She claimed, according to Sergeant Mike Malloy of the Excelsior Police Department, to be merely lucky, a sentiment he heartily endorsed. But luck was a genuine gift, a wonderful thing to be blessed with. Really legendary investigators had it, held on to it with both hands, and were deeply grateful for it. Malloy disliked Betsy, said she was an interfering civilian of the worst sort, by which he meant she was better than he was at solving crimes—at least the sort of crimes ordinary people got mixed up in, not the sort done by professional criminals. The ordinary crook could probably run rings around Ms. Devonshire, just as the pair at the table right now could run rings around Mike Malloy.

  Steffans’s eyes narrowed as he watched them work Betsy over. He didn’t think for a minute they were fooling her. He began to walk slowly back to the table, his stuck-out ears already picking up the threads of the conversation.

  Charlotte was here to protect her son Broward. To do that, she would see anyone else, anyone, indicted, convicted, and sentenced to life in prison. The best candidate she could find was Adam Smith, so here she was—and she didn’t care if her story about just driving around aimlessly and just happening to stop at the Blue Heron was a little thin. It hadn’t been hard to find Betsy Devonshire. A few phone calls and here she was. Sergeant Steffans thought he was clever finding Betsy, but here was Charlotte, just as clever.

  But Betsy’s face showed only keen interest. “What have you found out about Adam Smith?” she asked.

  Clever Charlotte let Marvin help dig the hole into which she hoped to push Adam.

  Marvin said, “It’s about the rivalry between Adam and Bill. I’m sure you know Bill bought a 1910 Fuller that Adam wanted, and wouldn’t sell it to him. But that was only one round of an ongoing fight. Adam had previously bought a 1910 Maxwell that Bill wanted, even though Adam collects only rarities and Maxwells are about the most common pioneers around.”

  Jill said, “I thought you weren’t an antique car owner, Marvin.”

  He said, surprised, “I’m not.”

  “But you know a lot about them.”

  He shrugged. “Heck, I’ve been friends with the Birminghams for a lot of years. You can’t help picking up the language.”

  The police investigator’s chair suddenly moved, and Sergeant Steffans sat down. “The waitress will be here in a minute,” he said.

  Charlotte said, “We were talking about how Adam Smith did things that showed he hated Bill. I think the worst was when Adam decided to run against Bill for president of the Minnesota Antique Car Club. Adam is route manager, that’s what he does best, and he’s always liked laying out the runs. Then Wesley Sweet decided to retire to Arizona. He was president for the past four terms. Bill was vice president for two, and he was very efficient, he did a lot of good work, so naturally he decided he had the best chance to be president. And like from out of left field”—Charlotte made a sharp gesture—“here comes Adam, hot to be president himself. And he runs the dirtiest, the hardest, the nastiest—”

  “Now, Char, you’re getting excited,” interrupted Marvin quietly.

  Charlotte’s breath caught in her throat, but she stopped herself from saying something rude to Marvin. Because he was probably right, she had gotten carried away before. “Do you think so?” she said instead, making her voice sweetly humble. Marvin’s smile of admiration made the sweetness genuine. “Well, maybe I am a little excited. But”—she turned her focus onto Betsy—“it was a very ugly campaign. Adam told lies about Bill, said he was incompetent, uncooperative, high-handed. It was just terrible, the things he said. I told Bill not to reply in kind, and I think that was a mistake, because Adam won by a very clear margin.”

  “But then why, if Adam won, would he murder Bill?”

  “Oh, I’m not saying Adam murdered Bill because of the election. That would be ridiculous. I’m just telling you about it to show how deep the animosity went, that Adam really hated Bill.”

  “Because of the car thing,” guessed Lars.

  “No, the car thing was just another symptom. You know Adam was forced out of his position as CEO of General Steel?”

  Betsy said, “I know he was given a golden parachute when he was asked to retire. I didn’t know it was from General Steel.”

  “Well, Adam’s method of improving a bottom line was to diversify. He was among the first practitioners of that. He wanted General Steel to get into manufacturing steel products as well as mining and smelting. He’d been expanding into a rolling mill already.”

  Steffans nodded. “I remember reading about that. The mill’s in Gary, Indiana, I believe.” He said to Betsy, who was giving him a surprised look, “One of my mutual funds is into metals.”

  Charlotte said, “Yes, well, a lot of the processing of taconite is done overseas nowadays, because it’s cheaper. But instead of expanding into overseas processing, Adam decided to broaden his base, and he started looking at Birmingham Metal Fabrication.” Charlotte smacked a hand onto the table to underline the enlightenment she saw in Betsy’s eyes. “That’s right, that’s why Bill brought Broward into the company, to fight off Adam’s attempt to buy us out. I was never so proud of both of them, the way they worked together to keep the company ours.”

  Lars said, frowning, “You mean General Steel wanted to do a hostile takeover?”

  “No,” said Charlotte, “you can only do a hostile takeover by buying up the stock of a publicly held company. We are family-owned. But Adam saw a clean, profitable, well-run company, and he started making offers.”

  “All you had to do was just say no, surely,” said Betsy.

  “You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But Adam sent men in to talk to our employees, about a rival company that had better benefits, and hinting we were in financial trouble—lies, just like the lies he told about Bill during the election. That’s how he works, not by sh
owing he’s better, but that the alternative is worse, getting everyone stirred up. Production was falling off and some of the men threatened to quit.”

  “So what did Bill and Broward do?” asked Lars.

  “They sicced a lawyer on Adam’s company. I don’t know what the lawyer said, but a few months later Adam was out on his keester, and General Steel never bothered us again. They won’t tell you so, of course, they have strict rules about privacy. But that’s what happened.” She saw belief on their faces and smiled.

  The waitress took Charlotte and Marvin’s order. Betsy made sure the waitress understood that she, Lars, and Jill were on one ticket.

  The food, when it came, was delicious. Charlotte became intelligent and witty. Marvin, while more low key, was charming and funny. Betsy could see why Lisa Birmingham hoped one day the two would pair off.

  It was Steffans who most surprised Betsy. He was relaxed, intelligent on a number of issues, nice without the least bit of condescension.

  Toward the end of the meal, Charlotte asked Steffans point-blank, “Are you close to arresting someone for the murder of my husband?”

  To Betsy’s surprise, Steffans nodded. “As a matter of fact, I am. If I can get a few more answers, I might make an arrest tomorrow.”

  “Here at the run?” she asked, her attention almost painful in its intensity.

  “Yes,” he replied, and she relaxed all over. Betsy nodded to herself. Broward’s not coming to the run. She thought, Charlotte’s glad he’s safe.

  “But you’re out of your jurisdiction,” said Jill, faintly scandalized.

  “Oh, I’ve been in touch with the Meeker County Sheriff, and I can get a warrant like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.

  “If you need backup, I’ll be there tomorrow,” said Lars.

  “Me, too,” said Jill, and there was a subtle shift in them, the way they sat, that linked them in a new way to Steffans. Betsy suddenly felt like an outsider.

  “If you’re handy, sure,” said Steffans. Seeing the amazed look on Charlotte’s face, he said, “I see you weren’t properly introduced. These are Officers Jill Cross and Lars Larson, Excelsior PD.”

  Charlotte said angrily to Betsy, “You didn’t tell me!”

  Betsy replied mildly, “I didn’t think it mattered. They aren’t here in their official capacity, or at least they weren’t until just now. Lars came as owner and driver of a car I’m sponsoring, and Jill really is his girl and my best friend.”

  “We understand,” said Marvin, placatingly, speaking as much to Charlotte as to Betsy. “We’re just a little surprised—which is understandable, considering the circumstances.”

  “And it’s all right,” said Steffans. “We’re all still friends, right?”

  “Right,” agreed Marvin.

  But it was a moment before Charlotte nodded agreement.

  Still, the convivial mood was gone and the party began to break up. Soon Betsy found herself down in the small parking lot in front of the building, waving as Jill and Lars in one car, Charlotte and Marvin in another, pulled out and away.

  Steffans stood beside Betsy until the cars’ taillights disappeared around a bend.

  Betsy asked, “Are you really going to arrest Adam Smith tomorrow?”

  “No.”

  “Why did you say you would?”

  “I said I might make an arrest tomorrow. But not Mr. Smith. He has an iron-clad alibi.”

  “Then who? Broward isn’t here—is he?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Charlotte had an iron-clad alibi of her own. “Marvin?”

  “Come on, Ms. Devonshire. You’ve been dancing around the truth all evening. I could see it in your eyes. Let’s go someplace and talk. Do you still have that copy of the Excelsior Bay Times with you? I want you to show me what you saw that none of the others did.”

  Saturday dawned cool and cloudy. Drivers listened to weather reports and studied the sky. Putting up the tops on the old cars that had them was a lengthy, difficult chore. They didn’t like their bars being fitted into their slots, resisted having their braces tightened, and at every opportunity pinched blood blisters on fingers. Once they were up, they blocked vision, the wind roared under them loud enough to deafen a driver to other road hazards and they caught enough wind to slow travel. The only thing worse than struggling to put the top up before starting was stopping alongside the road in the rain to do it.

  Most caved in and put tops up, swearing and complaining. The few who didn’t claimed that since most did, it now certainly wasn’t going to rain. “It’s the opposite of washing your car,” one said.

  Lars shrugged off Betsy’s suggestion that he put his top up. “I’m gonna go so fast I’ll run between any raindrops,” he boasted, then went back to recheck against his directions his list of places where water could be obtained, making sure he hadn’t made a slip somewhere. Running his boiler dry would damage the hundreds of copper tubes inside it, a very expensive error.

  Because the steamer was so fast, it was put near the back of the pack that gathered in a large church’s parking lot the other side of the cemetery. Despite the threat of rain, a large crowd gathered to watch the old cars set off on their hundred-mile-plus run. Five church ladies had set up a table near the church hall’s entrance, from which they dispensed cookies and coffee: free to drivers, a dollar a hit for onlookers. Beside the table was the car-run quilt, on its stand. Mildred Feeney, in a big flowered hat at least as old as she was, worked the crowd, selling last-chance raffle tickets. Two men from the American Legion, in uniform and with rifles, guarded the starting line, which had a tiny red-striped building beside it meant to look like a Cold Stream Guard’s shelter. The mayor of New Brighton was on hand, in top hat and tails. Talk about mixed messages, thought Betsy, standing on the other side of the line from the mayor and the Cold Stream Guard shelter, clipboard in hand. She was herself wearing slacks, a blue-checked shirt, and sneakers—yet another fashion statement.

  Off at the back of the parking lot a group of men with walkie-talkies and cell phones consulted under a big ham radio antenna. The leader of the pack was a heavyset man leaning on a huge four-wheel-drive vehicle. Not police officers, these were the crew charged with finding and rescuing old cars that faltered on the journey.

  The mayor, red-faced and sweating—his suit was made of heavy wool, and it wasn’t that cool—made a brief speech honoring the people who found and restored these venerable ancestors of road travel. He said he’d be on hand again in New Brighton to greet in person every driver who completed the journey. He held up a dull gold medallion the size of his palm and said this was what the run was about, this was the prize to be given to every car that finished the run. “Good luck and God speed!” he concluded.

  He stepped back and a man with a big green flag came out from behind the guard shelter. The two American Legion veterans crossed to Betsy’s side of the starting line, and Betsy checked the time on the big old pocket watch Adam Smith had fastened to the top of her clipboard. She looked at the 1902 Oldsmobile standing in quivering eagerness behind the line painted on the blacktop. The man twirled his flag, and on dropping it, the Legionnaires fired their rifles. The Oldsmobile tottered across the line and rolled past the crowd cheering him on. Betsy put a checkmark next to the Oldsmobile’s banner number and wrote the time down: 7:12 A.M.

  By 8:30, most of the veterans had departed, and so had perhaps half the crowd. Some were headed for Buffalo to watch the cars arrive for lunch, while others had seen what they came to see and were headed somewhere else. Betsy could see Charlotte and Marvin now, making their way closer to the starting line, looking for Sergeant Steffans—who was closing in from behind. They did, however, see the deputy sheriff off to their right, moving toward them. Assuming he was heading off Adam Smith, they altered course, toward the starting line.

  There was a roar of big engines as the follow-up trucks started up, preparing to follow the line of antique cars.

  Betsy looked down
the short line of cars still waiting to begin their run. Lars was at the very end, behind Adam in his Renault.

  Charlotte and Marvin came close to the guard shelter to watch two deputies and Jill approach as a 1908 Buick in a bright shade of orange came up to the starting line. A fast pipe-pipe-pipe started coming from the car, but it slowed in tempo as the driver came to a stop, waiting for the green flag. The piping was obviously connected to the motor somehow, and by the grin of the driver, something intentional. The flag dropped and the car scuttled past the spectators, who made up in noise what they lacked in numbers. The piping, which had increased to a warble as he raced his engine, cut off as he turned out of the parking lot onto the street.

  Next was the 1912 Winton, a woman behind the wheel wearing a pinch-brim cap turned rakishly backward and her male passenger, in shirtsleeves, waving grandly; then the 1911 Marmon, whose driver sounded its ooooooo-gah! over and over as he raced out of the lot. Betsy noted the time of each, then turned to watch Adam pull up in his huge and beautiful Renault touring sports car. He should have someone wearing Erte clothing in the backseat, perhaps with an Afghan hound, thought Betsy, smiling at him. While she would never give up the right to wear trousers, a car like Adam’s called for old-fashioned elegance.

  The deputy stepped out into the starting lane behind the Renault.

  Adam waved to the flagman, who raised his flag. The flag fell and the Renault pulled away and was gone, to the astonishment of Charlotte and Marvin.