Authors: Monica Ferris
“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 called 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.”
“Then this should be right up your alley,” said Tom. “Our mother didn’t kill our father—you know that, but
the way the cops are sniffing around, it looks like they’ll try to find a way to charge her.”
“I don’t see how that could possibly happen,” said Betsy. Then a light went on inside her head. “Oh, this isn’t about her, is it? It’s about Marvin.”
Tom said, “How could it be about Marvin?”
But David said, a little too eagerly, “What have you found out?”
“Your sister is wrong, isn’t she? This isn’t a one-way love affair, Marvin worshiping your mother from afar. Your mother is as much in love with Marvin as he is with her—and you know it.”
Tom said, “Maybe. But they never did anything. There wasn’t an affair or something.”
But David, leaning back out of his brother’s line of sight, grimaced at Betsy in disagreement.
Tom went on, “We think Sergeant Steffans suspects Marv and our mother were, er, having an affair.” He hesitated, trying to decide if he should deny it again.
David leaped into the breach. “So, you see, that gives Marv a motive, big-time. Mother would never cheat on Father, but she would never leave him for his best friend, either. So Steffans thinks maybe Marv got impatient.”
Betsy asked, “What do you think?”
“He’s wrong.”
Tom said, “I agree. Not Marv Pierce. Not in a million years.”
Betsy said, “Is Marvin as wealthy as Bill was?”
Tom said, “What’s that got to do with it?”
“Older women may love as ardently as the young, but they’ve generally developed a pragmatic streak and
are less likely to surrender financial security in the name of love.”
David nodded. “Otherwise, Mother would have divorced Father years ago.”
Tom said indignantly, “She would not!”
David said, “But Mother isn’t as rich as she would have been if Father had died before Bro came home.”
“I don’t understand,” said Betsy.
“Father had to give half the company to Bro in order to get him to agree to take over. His will left quote half his property unquote to Mother, and wills mean what they say, not what the testator meant, so that means she gets a quarter of the company instead of half. Most of her and Father’s income was the profit from Birmingham Metal, so she’s going to have to cut back on her spending big-time.”
Betsy said, “Does Sergeant Steffans know this?”
Tom nodded. “He was asking me questions about it. I told him the profits would be less even if Father hadn’t died, because Bro is putting the profits into an expansion program. He thinks he can double the company’s business.”
Betsy said, “Charlotte told me Bill was countermanding some of your brother’s orders. I take it there was a power struggle going on.”
David said, “Yes. Father liked the company where it was. Very stable, profits very reliable.”
Betsy said, “I hope you see that puts Bro very high on the list of suspects.”
Tom stared at her. “No. This was another reason to suspect Mother—but she’s got an airtight alibi, thanks to you.”
David said, “Tommy, maybe you don’t know how
mad Bro was about Father not letting go of the company like he promised.”
Tommy waved that notion away. “Bro? Not a chance. Bro’s too square to murder anyone, much less Father. He’s a bigger square than you are.”
That set off a mild argument about the merits of being square that Betsy finally interrupted with an announcement that she wanted to be in New London at a reasonable hour. They apologized and left.
Betsy went back to her packing, and as she put her pajamas into the suitcase, she remembered Broward’s sincere anger in warning her off—and Lisa’s assessment that Bro was a chip off a very aggressive block. Tom and David were wrong. Bro was near if not at the top of Betsy’s list of suspects.
Looking around to make sure she’d left nothing behind, Betsy saw her unread copy of the
Excelsior Bay Times
weekly newspaper. Remembering the reporter and photographer at last Saturday’s event, she picked it up and put it in her stitchery project bag. Maybe there was a picture of Lars with his Steamer in there.
D
espite the delay in getting out of town, Betsy took Highway 55 west rather than 12. Twelve was almost a direct line to Willmar, but she wanted a look at both Buffalo and New London, which lay on the other two sides of a triangle formed by the Twin Cities, Willmar, and Paynesville.
Still, she was surprised at how long a drive it was. She knew, on the one hand, that the route the antique cars would drive from New London to the Cities suburb of New Brighton was a trifle over a hundred miles—but the route wandered and meandered to avoid main highways and their traffic. On the other hand, apparently there was only so much meandering a route could do.
The early-evening air was cool, and she rolled down all the windows. Out past Rockford, some farmer had
been cutting hay and the sweet scent was paradise. The sun was below the horizon but the sky was still blue when the speed limit dropped and signs announced Buffalo, where the antique cars would pause for lunch on Saturday. Betsy noted the turnoff for the high school was on the eastern side of the town, and marked by a gas station. She’d be coming here to help prepare and serve lunch on Saturday. The highway skirted Buffalo’s downtown, so she couldn’t tell if it was a brisk little city on the move, or a dying country town full of sad, boarded-up commercial buildings.
At Paynesville she turned south on Highway 23, which went past New London on its way to Willmar. By the time she got there, it had been completely dark for a long while, and she didn’t get even a vague impression of what New London was like.
By then she was tired, and Willmar was twenty long minutes away. She turned on the radio and found a talk show with a very aggravating host. Being annoyed got her adrenaline flowing, and she came into Willmar bright with anger.
In Minnesota it’s hard to find a city, town, or village that isn’t wrapped around, alongside, or divided by a lake. Willmar was no exception. Highway 23 joined a divided highway as it ran along the water. A frontage road appeared on the other side of the highway, and soon after Betsy saw the sign for her motel. She pulled into the graveled parking area with a sigh of relief, signed in, called Jill to report her safe arrival, and went to bed.
But she was still too annoyed to sleep. She got into her project bag and found she’d left her knitting in Excelsior—another annoyance. She’d been working on an
infant’s sweater for a homeless program, and forgot she’d brought it down to the shop to show a customer. The counted pattern she had brought along was too complex to tackle for relaxation, so she picked up the
Bay Times.
There was no story about the antique cars on the front page, or the second page, or the fourth page—there it was, a two-page spread in the very center, with lots of photographs. One was of Lars, standing in streamers of steam like a character in a Gothic movie, his expression serious and his pose dramatic. Jill might like a print of that. Betsy made a note in the margin to call the paper and ask if prints were for sale. There were more than a dozen photos surrounding a short article in the middle of the spread. In an upper corner was the 1902 Oldsmobile, and there was the Winton, its cloche-hatted rider standing with one foot on the running board, needing only a machine gun to look a lot like Clyde’s girlfriend, Bonnie. In a lower corner was a white-flannel rump sticking out from under the hood of a Maxwell. “Getting to the seat of the problem,” read the caption, “an unidentified driver works on his Maxwell.” Bill Birmingham had said he didn’t want to be interviewed, Betsy remembered, and apparently hadn’t paused in his labors even long enough to give his name. Cute photo, in a way, and an even cuter caption—but too bad the last photograph of Bill had to be this ridiculous pose. Such a contrast to the noble look the photographer had somehow found in Lars.
Betsy yawned. Amusement had washed away her annoyance, and suddenly she was very tired. She folded the paper and put it on the nightstand, turned out the light, and in less than five minutes was sound asleep in her rented bed.
A loud noise startled her out of a dreamless sleep. For a moment she couldn’t think what the noise was or why the bed felt unfamiliar. Oh, Willmar, sure. And it was the phone, which made its harsh noise again, and she fumbled the receiver to her ear.
“H’lo?” she mumbled.
“Aren’t you up yet?” asked a chipper voice she recognized as Jill’s. “I was going to buy you breakfast if you were about ready to go.”
Up? Was it morning already? Yes, that seemed to be sunshine shining around the edges of the heavy curtain pulled across the window. Wow.
“Are you here in Willmar?” asked Betsy, blinking to get her vision going. She’d had laser surgery on her eyes a few months ago and was still pleased and a little surprised, once she pried them open, to be able to read the little bedside alarm clock without help. Six
A
.
M
. Wow.
“No, I’m in New London. There’s a nice little café on the main street that knows how to fry an egg just like you want it.”
“Poached,” said Betsy. “Can they fry it poached?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised. In forty-five minutes then?”
“What’s the name of the place?”
“I can’t remember, but it’s the café on the main street, you can’t miss it,” said Jill. “Lars and I will meet you there.”
Must be a really small town, thought Betsy, hanging up and tossing back the covers.
Soon after, she drove into New London across a beautiful curving bridge over a big old millpond. It dropped her off in downtown, which was two blocks long and did not in any way resemble its namesake.
There was a needlework shop, Betsy noticed as she got out of her car, and a gift shop, a restaurant, a gas station, and a café. The café was full of people, and the air was heavy with the old-fashioned, pre-cholesterol-scare smells of bacon, sausage, fried eggs, toast, hash browns, pancakes, and hot, maple-flavored syrup. There was a counter, whose seven stools were made of red plastic and stainless steel, and pale, Formica-topped tables along the other walls. Pictures of wildlife adorned the smokey blue walls.
At a table along the wall were Jill, Lars, and Adam. Lars and Adam were facing the door, and so raised their hands when Betsy came in to show her where they were.
Betsy sat beside Jill, who handed her a menu. “They can poach you an egg if you like,” she said. “I already asked.”
Lars and Adam were digging into platters laden with Canadian bacon, fried eggs, and hash browns, with toast on the side.
Betsy ordered a poached egg on a slice of whole wheat toast, and coffee. Jill had a gigantic sweet roll with pecans glued to it with melted brown sugar.
Adam smiled at Betsy. “Ready to go for a ride?”
“What, you mean with Lars?”
“Okay, if you like. But there are other cars making the short trip to Litchfield today. You can hitch a ride with one of them, if you like, maybe on the way out or back.”
“Gosh, thanks!” said Betsy, glancing at Lars to see if he minded.
He shrugged and smiled around a mouthful of potato.
“Do I have some duties to perform today?” Betsy asked Adam.
“Not really. We’re not logging people out for Litchfield, it’s an informal trip.”
“Are you driving to Litchfield?” she asked.
“Yes. You want to ride with me? I’m driving my 1911 Renault sport touring car. You won’t see another like it in your life.”
Betsy asked, “Do you mean because it’s restored so beautifully, or because it’s rare?”
Adam grinned. “Both.”
“Well, how can I turn down a double once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Though I probably won’t appreciate it like I should. I’m so ignorant about this car-collecting business.”
Adam’s grin broadened. “Just watch the envious eyes on us, and you’ll know all you need to know.”
Lars said, “You want to make the return trip with Jill and me?”
Betsy looked at Jill. “You’re finally coming to terms with that car, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so. I went for a ride in it a few days ago, and I have to admit, it’s slick.”
“Next year, in costume!” announced Betsy happily. To Lars she said, “Yes, I’ll be glad to ride with you.”
Jill asked Adam, “Is there a layover in Litchfield, or do we just go there and come right back?”
“Whatever you like. Since we don’t note departure times for these little practice runs, you’re entirely on your own. But if you’re interested in staying awhile, Litchfield has a nice Civil War museum, and some antique shops.”
Betsy wondered what sort of Civil War museum
there could be in a place so far removed from the battle sites—and decided she’d take a look and see. She looked at Jill and thought she detected the same notion.
Lars did, too. He sighed. “All right, we’ll take a look at the museum.”
Betsy smiled at yet another instance of someone knowing someone else’s mind very well. “What time are you leaving, Adam?” she asked.
“About ten, if things are running all right at the Boy Scout building. That’s our headquarters here in New London.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get over there. See you at ten.” He smiled at Jill and Lars. “You, too,” he said, rose, and departed.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Lars said, “So what have you found out so far?”
“About what?” asked Betsy.
“About this murder,” he said impatiently.
“Nothing.”
His light blue eyes widened. “I don’t believe that,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You’re too clever to have gone around asking questions like you do and not found out
something.
”
Jill said, mock-proudly, “And you thought he was just another dumb blond, didn’t you?”
Lars guffawed, but his eyes remained expectantly on Betsy.
“All right. I have been told by two of her children that a friend of the Birmingham family was hopelessly in love with Charlotte. I think she returned that love, and may have been having a long-term affair with him. His name is Marvin Pierce, and I have a sad feeling that since Charlotte wouldn’t divorce her husband for
him, he may have found another way to set her free.”
“If they were mutually in love, why wouldn’t Charlotte divorce her husband?” asked Jill. “From what I’ve heard, Bill Birmingham was a workaholic, and when he did come home, he was a tyrant. Why not leave him? Divorce is easy enough nowadays.”
Lars said, “Maybe she was afraid of Bill’s reaction. If he was bad-tempered, was he also abusive?”
“I don’t know,” said Betsy. “I haven’t heard anything on that order.”
“Well, what else do you know?” asked Lars.
Betsy said, “Bill Birmingham was a very wealthy man, wealthier than Marvin. If it wasn’t me supplying the alibi, I’d certainly be trying to poke a hole in it, because Charlotte is the obvious suspect. On the other hand, Bill’s death came at a bad time. It seems a substantial part of his income was the profits from his company. When Bill had a ministroke, he invited his son Broward to come home and take over the business. Bro has all kinds of ideas for expanding the company, and he’d been plowing the profits back into it. Bill was trying to stop him, but not only had Bill turned the management over to Bro, he had to give half the company to Bro to get him to agree to come home. Bill was taking steps to stop or at least slow Bro down when he was killed.”
“Where does that leave the grieving widow?” asked Lars.
“Not as well off as she’d have been if she’d killed Bill before Bro came into the picture.”
“Ah,” nodded Jill.
Lars asked, “Where was Bro Saturday morning?”
“I don’t know. Is there a way to find out, maybe from
Sergeant Steffans? I don’t want to ask Bro myself—he has his father and grandfather’s bad temper.”
Jill pulled a notebook from her shirt pocket—Betsy was amused to notice that even out of uniform Jill carried one—and made a note. Writing, she said, “I wonder if Marvin is as eager a lover now that Charlotte’s not rich?”
“Well, I’m not sure how not-rich she is. I’d like to find out the situation with Bill’s estate. Surely there’s more to it than the business and a set of antique cars.”
Jill made another note. “Looks like I’ll have to take Sergeant Steffans to lunch next week.” She was so busy writing she missed the massive frown that slowly formed on Lars’s broad forehead.
Sergeant Steffans ran his thumb and long, knobby fingers down either side of his narrow jaw. He was standing in Marvin’s small office in the Lutheran Brotherhood Building downtown. Lutheran Brotherhood was a large insurance company with headquarters in a blood-red building with copper-coated windows, one of a set of buildings apparently colored by a comic-book artist on the south end of downtown Minneapolis. Steffans grew up in St. Paul, whose sedate old skyscrapers and narrow streets show plainly why it considers itself at best a fraternal twin to Minneapolis’s broad avenues and sci-fi buildings.
Marvin Pierce was about five-nine, with light brown hair in a very retro crew cut. He was trim and athletic in build, dressed Friday casual in Dockers, sport coat, and blue dress shirt without a tie. His face couldn’t carry the build or the hair, being very ordinary and middle-aged. His blue eyes were wary.