A Murderous Yarn (18 page)

“Okay, except me.”

Lars circulated for a while, finished his third beer, and came back to ask Jill, “Are we staying here for
dinner? They’re setting up a big grill outside, and I hear their burgers are great.”

Betsy said, “How about I take you and Jill to the Blue Heron in Willmar? It’s supposed to be very nice. I left my copy of the
Excelsior Bay Times
at the motel, and it has a nice picture of you and your Steamer in it.”

“Really? Well, sure, I wouldn’t mind having a look at it. How about you, Jill?”

“Fine. We can’t talk here, anyhow. How about we follow you in my car, Betsy, so you don’t have to drive us back.”

The Blue Heron was a Frank Lloyd Wright–style building on top of a hill overlooking Lake Willmar. It was the clubhouse of a private golf course, but the restaurant on the second floor was open to the public. The far wall and the long adjacent wall were made of panes of thermal glass and overlooked a putting green and the lake.

The hostess at first said there would be a wait, but when Betsy gave her name, she said, “Oh, there’s someone from your party here already, holding a table for you.”

Betsy followed her to a table by the longer wall, where Sergeant Morrie Steffans rose to his considerable height as they approached. He looked pleased, or perhaps amused, at her surprise.

“How did you know we’d be coming here?” asked Betsy as he came around to hold her chair for her.

“I’m a detective, remember?”

She frowned at him, so he elaborated. “One of your employees told me where you were staying. I drove out here and had a talk with the manager. He told me he
always recommended the Blue Heron to those guests who like poached salmon and the Ramble Inn to those who like deep-fried perch. Somehow you struck me as a salmon person so, like the salmon, I swam upstream to here.” He smiled at Betsy, who, rather to her surprise, found herself smiling back.

She introduced Jill and Lars, and he said, “What, you collect cops as a hobby?”

“No, Jill was my sister’s best friend and I guess I sort of inherited her. Lars is Jill’s steady. He’s the reason we’re here for the run. He owns a Stanley Steamer.”

“Yes, I guessed that by the scorch marks,” said Steffans.

Lars put the hand with the scald into his lap. “These things happen until you learn the tricks of the boiler,” he said.

“There must be compensations, then,” said Steffans and he listened with apparent interest while Lars rode his hobby horse for a while. When the waitress arrived with the menus, Steffans said, “I understand you do a beautiful poached salmon here.”

“We do,” she said, “but we had a big crowd at lunch and they all ordered it, so we’re out until Sunday,” and looked confused when this amused everyone at the table. “We have some very nice lamb chops,” she offered and was reassured when this didn’t set off another round of laughter.

Betsy and Steffans had the lamb, Lars ordered a porterhouse steak, and Jill decided to try the stuffed chicken breast, another specialty of the house. No one wanted a predinner drink, so the waitress went to fetch their salads.

• • •

Marvin and Charlotte watched Betsy go into the restaurant from the bar. “Who are those two with her?” asked Marvin.

“I don’t know—wait, that man was driving the Stanley last Saturday, and Betsy told me she was sponsoring the Stanley. I don’t remember his name. He’s new to the Antique Car Club.”

“So he’s not a cop.”

“I don’t know what he does, she didn’t say.”

“Who’s the other woman?”

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is they didn’t stay for the barbecue in New London, so we can talk to them about Adam without anyone else in the club seeing us and telling him about it.”

They gave Betsy and her friends a few minutes, then strolled casually into the dining room. They were halfway across when they saw Betsy and then the fourth person at her table. “Oh, my God, it’s that Minnetonka detective!” murmured Charlotte, gripping Marvin’s arm to bring him to a halt. She would have turned around except the detective had already seen her. His look of surprise brought the attention of the others.

Betsy lifted a hand and said, “Well, hello, what are you doing here?”

Charlotte led Marvin to the table. “I was feeling caged,” she said, “and I just wanted to go for a long drive. Marvin has a convertible, and the night was warm, and before we realized it, we were nearly to Willmar. Then I remembered this as a nice place, and we decided to stop in.”

Steffans, with old-fashioned manners, had risen to his feet as Charlotte came to them, and after a puzzled moment, so did Lars. Betsy performed the introductions.
Charlotte said, a trifle dryly, “Yes, Sergeant Steffans and I have already met. And he’s talked with Marvin Pierce, too.” To Lars: “That’s a beautiful Stanley you bought. I hope you have many happy miles in her.” To Jill: “I think Betsy mentioned you to me. It’s needlepoint you do? I’m a counted cross stitcher.”

“Won’t you join us?” said Steffans. “We just placed our order, but we can get the waitress back, I’m sure.”

“No, no,” said Marvin, beginning to turn away. “We don’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

Charlotte added, “Besides, there’s no room.”

But Steffans was already moving his chair to one side so he could bring the small table behind him up. “See how easy it is to fix that? Now, Mrs. Birmingham, you sit right here, and Marvin, you sit there, and I’ll just go find our waitress.” He gave a sort of bow, and was halfway across the room in a couple of long-legged strides.

Charlotte looked around the table with an uncomfortable smile. “Goodness, isn’t he the managing kind? He must have been terrific at directing traffic!”

Betsy, laughing with the others, said, “I hope you don’t mind. By the way, have you seen this week’s
Excelsior Bay Times?
I brought it along because there’s a a beautiful photograph of Lars with his Stanley. But there’s a photograph of Bill, too, working on his Maxwell.”

“There is?” said Charlotte. “Well, isn’t that interesting. I remember you saying there was a reporter in Excelsior covering the run, but I didn’t see him. May I see it?”

Betsy handed it across to her. “It’s in the middle, lots of pictures.”

Charlotte opened the paper and ran her eyes quickly over the photographs. She gave a little scream when she saw the Maxwell with a white flannel rump hiding most of the hood and engine. “Oh, my God, Bill would have hated to see that!” she said, and handed it to Marvin. “Isn’t that just awful?” she said, and laughed. But she felt her lips twist and her eyes began to sting. “Excuse me, I’m sorry,” she said and fished in her purse for a handkerchief. “I had to dig this old thing out,” she said, waving it in her hand before dabbing her eyes. “My mother always carried one, but I never did until this happened to Bill. The oddest things set me off crying, and I just hate those wads of Kleenex.” She touched her nose but didn’t blow it. “I’m sorry,” she said again.

“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.”

D
etective 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 showing 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.