A Murderous Yarn (6 page)

The couple driving the car had also dressed in period costumes, he in a big off-white coat called a “duster,” a pinch-brim hat in a tiny, dark-check pattern. Goggles
with thick rubber edges covered his eyes. There was a dab of grease on his cheek. She wore a duster with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, a huge hat swathed in veils, and sunglasses.

“We’re number twenty, the Birminghams, Bill and Charlotte,” said the woman, who was on Betsy’s side of the car—like most of these antiques, the steering wheel was on the right. The man stared straight ahead, his gauntleted hands tightly gripping the wheel.

“How long do we have here before we start back?” asked Charlotte, pushing aside her veil so she could wipe her face with a handkerchief. Her face looked pale as well as sweaty—and no wonder, thought Betsy, swathed in fabric like that.

“They’re asking the drivers to stay at least an hour,” replied Betsy. “And just so you know, there’s a reporter from the
Excelsior Bay Times
here, asking to interview some of you.”

The driver shook his head and grunted, “No.”

The woman apologized. “He’s feeling cranky. Something’s wrong with the engine, we had trouble the whole trip. He needs to tinker with it, or we’ll never make the return. I’m going to get out here,” she said to him. “I’ve got to shed a layer or two or I’ll just die. Where do we park?” she asked Betsy.

“First you have to check in—up there, at the booth. Adam Smith will tell you where to park.”

The woman hesitated, then sighed. “Oh, all right, I’ll ride up with you,” she said, replying to an unvoiced complaint from Bill. Betsy smiled. Amusing how people who had been married for a long time could do things like that.

The woman resettled herself, and the little car went
diddle-hick-diddle
up the street to the white booth.

The last car in, a red-orange model, was small and light. It was a real horseless carriage, looking far more like a frail little buggy than a car. It had no hood, just a low dashboard that curved back toward the driver’s shins. He was a slim young man in a tight-fitting cream-colored suit, a high-collared white shirt with a small black bow tie, and a straw boater atop his dark auburn hair. He wasn’t behind a steering wheel, but had one hand on a “tiller,” a curved silver pipe that ran up from under the dash. The dust-white wheels of his automobile were the right size for bicycles, with wire spokes. The vehicle came to a trembling halt beside Betsy, whose mouth was open in delight. Here, in person, was the car embroidered in the center of Mildred Feeney’s quilt, the car that was the very symbol of the Antique Car Club. Before she could check her list to see who was driving it, the driver smiled and said, “Owen Carpenter. Driving a 1902 Oldsmobile, single cylinder.”

Betsy made a checkmark beside Number Seven on her list, and wrote the time. She directed him to Adam Smith at the booth and stayed in place a minute to watch the Olds toddle down the street. Its little engine, located somewhere on the underside, sounded a very authoritative “Bap!” at brief intervals.

Then, her work done, Betsy walked slowly to the booth and past it, looking from side to side at the veterans. That Oldsmobile she had just checked in was the oldest in today’s run, having survived its first century, but by definition all the cars here were pioneers, and the oldest ones looked like the buggies and wagons they shared the roads with when they were young. Some had names anyone would recognize: Ford, Oldsmobile,
Cadillac. Some were unfamiliar: Everett, Schacht, Brush. Most were brightly painted, orange, yellow, red, blue, brown, green, but some wore basic black. All were surprisingly tall, with a running board to step up on, then another step up to the seats, which themselves were more like upholstered chairs or sofas than modern car seats. They all had brass trim and most featured alertly upright windshields. All but the Olds had wooden spokes on their wheels.

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.”