“ ‘Casita’?”
“In needlework, sometimes one project demands all the attention until it turns into a CASITA, you CAn’t Stand IT Anymore. So you go on to something else.”
Adam nodding, laughed. “Who would have thought antique cars and needlework would have something in common?”
“I never even thought ordinary people could own antique cars,” said Betsy. “I mean, I thought they were all in museums. Well, except Jay Leno, I know he owns some. But I certainly didn’t know there were clubs of people who drive them.”
Ceil said into her phone, “Well, that’s politics,” folded up her phone, and said to Adam, “The Studebaker the governor was riding in broke down on Selby, so he got out and went home.”
“Damn!” muttered Adam, snapping his fingers.
Ceil continued to Betsy, “It’s mostly men who get into this. It’s not just the money-it takes a working knowledge of machinery, lots of heavy lifting, and a willingness to get really dirty. You’ll see some fellow coming out of a shed in the evening with greasy clothes and disgusting fingernails, and only on second look realize he’s the richest man in town.”
“Who’s the richest man in town?” asked a new voice, and Betsy turned to see Joe Mickels standing close behind her, an expression of deep suspicion on his face. A short, bandy-legged man, he had a wide, thin mouth under a great beak of a nose flanked by large white sideburns. He was in, for him, casual summer wear: light blue suit, white canvas shoes, white shirt, light blue necktie. Joe was the richest man in Excelsior, though he didn’t want that fact generally known. He had dated Betsy for a short while earlier in the year, and had, in what he considered a tender moment, confided his financial status. Now that the brief romance was over, he constantly suspected her of talking about him, sharing the facts of his wealth with all and sundry.
“I have no idea,” replied Betsy coldly. “We were talking about wealthy men who behave like garage mechanics around their antique automobiles.”
“How old does a car have to be before it’s an antique?” asked Joe.
Adam replied, “Well, for this year’s run it’s 1912 or earlier.”
“Well, then, I’ve got an antique car.”
Betsy had seen Joe’s car. It was an immaculate 1969 Lincoln, old but hardly an antique. She frowned at him, and he twinkled at her as if telling her to watch him at work. He said to Adam, “She’s seen my Lincoln, but I also have a 1909 McIntyre.”
“I didn’t know that!” said Betsy.
“There’s a lot you don’t know about me,” said Joe, twinkling more broadly, and continued to Adam, “My grandfather bought it new, then my uncle owned it, then my brother, and now it’s mine.”
“Does it run?” asked Adam, and Betsy heard a slight change in Adam’s voice. Though he was trying to sound casual, it seemed he was very interested in Joe’s reply.
“Oh, yes, I started it up last Thursday. It’s up on blocks, because it’s got these funny big wheels, like wagon wheels, that used to have hard rubber around the rims, but they’re worn right down to the metal. But it runs. I cranked her up and ran her for fifteen minutes, then shut her down again. I start her up once a month spring, summer, and fall, run her long enough to circulate the oil and water, then in November I drain the radiator, crankcase, and gas tank, and fill it all up again in the spring, and recharge the battery. That’s what my uncle did. I used to help him when I was a boy. I understand some of these old cars are valuable, so I mean to keep her in running order.”
“I wish I’d known you had an old car,” said Betsy.
“Then I don’t see why you didn’t ask me,” said Joe indifferently, turning a shoulder to her as he focused on Adam. “Of course, I couldn’t have taken her for a ride, not without tires, and I don’t know where to buy them.”
“I could probably give you a source,” said Adam. “If you’re interested.”
“Well, I don’t know. The old car’s useless, really. I was just keeping her out of sentiment. My Uncle Frank learned to drive with that car, and he used to give me and my cousins rides in it in the summer days of my youth. I think he’d halfway forgotten he had it, and my brother never drove it at all. I found it in an old barn a few years ago and had it moved to a heated shed, because I remembered a magazine article from somewhere that said some of them are valuable to collectors. I don’t know if she’s of any real value, since she’s a McIntyre, and I never heard of that brand, not like the Maxwell, or a Cadillac or a Model T.”
“How much of it is original?” asked Adam.
Joe shrugged. “All of it. The engine, chassis, transmission, even the paint job, though it looks a little scabby in places. Original wheels, original seat covers, original glass in the windows. And everything works, except the headlights. My uncle wouldn’t drive it at night because the lights were so weak, and now they won’t light at all.”
“What kind of headlights?”
“Big ’uns, made of brass. There’s no lightbulbs in ’em, but I don’t know who took ’ em out.” He scratched an earnest eyebrow to hide the wink he gave Betsy from under his hand.
Adam said, “If they’re original, the lights are acetylene, not electric. That kind doesn’t use bulbs.”
“Acetylene? You mean like a welding torch?”
Adam nodded. “I’d kind of like to see that car.”
“Sure, but it’s not for sale.”
“Who said anything about buying it? I saw one at a show a few years ago, where they asked me to judge. I didn’t like the instruments on the dashboard-they were reproductions-and I’d like to see a set of originals.”
Joe produced a business card from an inside pocket. “Give me a call sometime. I’ll be glad to show it to you.” He walked away.
Ceil snorted softly. “Of course you’re not interested in a 1909 McIntyre with all original parts!”
Adam shrugged, eyebrows raised in a show of innocence. “Well, now you mention it, I do know a couple of people who might pay good money to buy that car-from me.” He looked at the card, pulled out his wallet, and slid it into a pocket.
“If you manage to pry that vehicle out of Joe Mickels’s hands for a nickel less than it’s worth, you’re a better man than most!” she said, laughing.
Betsy decided not to warn Adam after all that Joe’s apparently fortuitous appearance at the booth was, in all likelihood, the first move in a plan to sell his McIntyre for at the very least what it was worth. Joe never parted with anything for less than its true value. Moreover, she doubted that sentimental story of it being handed down three generations. Joe? Sentimental? Ha!
There was the sprightly sound of “Fu?r Elise,” and Ceil, still smiling, pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Excelsior,” she said into it. “Ah!” She checked her watch. “Thanks!” she added, and disconnected. “The Winton just came onto Minnetonka Boulevard. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Not the Stanley?” asked Betsy.
“Why the Stanley?” replied the woman.
“Well, I just thought, because Stanleys are so fast.”
The woman laughed. “Yes, for about twenty-five miles. Then they have to stop for water. Every blinking twenty-five miles they have to stop for water. And of course, if they blow a gasket, or the pilot light goes out, or they run out of steam, then the delays really mount up.”
Betsy flashed on Lars laughing as he chuffed around the table in Crewel World, calling “Get a horse!” to imaginary internal combustion cars. Apparently the laugh was not entirely his alone.
She had her clipboard ready when a soft-yellow car with brown fenders came up the street. It didn’t look like a car from the teens, but more like something out of an early-thirties movie, with its sleek modeling, long hood, and deeply purring motor. A solidly built, prosperous-looking man in a cream suit was driving, and a very pretty woman wearing a cloche hat sat beside him. They both smiled at Betsy as the car pulled up.
“Number ten,” he announced, and Betsy checked off Number Ten, a 1912 Winton, on her list, noting the time beside it.
“Are we the first?” asked the man, though that was obviously the case; there were no other cars in sight.
“Yes, sir, you are,” said Betsy. She pointed with her pen at the booth. “Please check in with Adam Smith. He’ll tell you where to park.”
