A Murderous Yarn

conditioning?”

“It’s not so hard to bear if you don’t keep going in and out of air-conditioned spaces. People survived much worse weather than this before there was air-conditioning. Think of St. Louis -or Savannah -back when what I’m wearing was a marvelous improvement on the much heavier Civil War era clothing.”

“Yes, of course, you’re right. You know, we didn’t have air-conditioning until I was about fourteen, and while I remember how much I loved having it, I don’t remember suffering like I am now without it.” She looked out across the shimmering heat lake of the parking area to the trees lifting tired arms in the sun. “Hard to believe we had our last snow just two months ago.”

“And that in three months we may have another one,” said Charlotte. “But that’s why we love it here in Minnesota.” Her tone was only a little dry. She reached into her carpet bag and pulled out a square of linen tacked onto a wooden frame. On it, in a variety of stitches, was a flowering plant with caterpillars on the leaves and two kinds of bees and a ladybug hovering among the flowers. She saw Betsy’s eye on her work and said, “It’s from a hanging designed by Grace Christie back in 1909. I’m going to work more of the squares and have them made into pillows.”

Betsy said, “Do you know what that plant is? It looks familiar, somehow.”

“Someone told me it’s borage, an old medicinal herb.”

“Oh, of course, ‘Borage for Melancholy.’ ”

Charlotte looked at the nearly finished piece. “Does it work, I wonder?”

“I understand St. John’s Wort does. So perhaps borage does, too.”

Two tourists in shorts and sunglasses-a man and a woman-came up. Pointing, the woman said, “What a crazy hat!”

Charlotte laughed and said, “You’re too kind.”

The man said, “We came to see the old cars.”

“They’re on a round trip to Excelsior,” said Charlotte.

“Who drove to Excelsior?” asked the woman, frowning.

“The owners of the antique cars,” replied Charlotte.

“So where are the cars?” asked the man.

“The owners drove them to Excelsior.” An element of patience had come into Charlotte ’s voice.

“Why did they do that? The paper said they were going to be here.”

“They were here,” said Charlotte more patiently. “But they drove to Excelsior to put on a display there.”

“But I thought the paper said they’d be on display here!” said the woman.

“They were here, early this morning,” said Charlotte, speaking very slowly now. “Then they drove to Excelsior. And now they’ve started driving back. At”-she consulted her watch-“four-thirty or so, they should be back from Excelsior.”

“How come they’re driving from Excelsior?” said the man. “The paper said they’d be here.”

Betsy started to make a low humming noise, and when the woman looked at her, she coughed noisily, eyes brimming.

“They were here,” said Charlotte, ignoring Betsy, “and they’ll be back here in a couple of hours.”

“I don’t understand why they aren’t here now, when the paper said they would be,” said the woman.

Charlotte, speaking as if to a first grader, said, “The paper said they’d be here early this morning, then that they’d be driving from here to Excelsior, then that they’d return here to be on display again.”

“Oh,” said the woman, looking curiously at Betsy, who, hands cupped over nose and mouth, was trying unsuccessfully to contain that cough. “Thank you. Come on, Lew,” she added, taking the man by the arm and leading him away. “I don’t remember reading all that stuff about them being here and not being here and being here again.”

As they trailed out of sight, Betsy could at last release the laughter. “Why didn’t you just give those two a map and suggest they go meet the cars en route?” she asked.

“And have them run someone into a ditch?” retorted Charlotte.

“Never fear,” said Betsy. “Those two couldn’t possibly follow that map. They would have ended up back across the border in the place of their birth: Iowa.”

“A distinct improvement to the gene pool in both places,” said Charlotte in a dead-on Hepburn drawl.

Betsy laughed some more and Charlotte joined in. Insulting Iowa is a peculiar Minnesota custom-and while Iowans are happy to reciprocate, their jokes aren’t considered half as clever. In Minnesota, anyway.

A woman drove by in a Land Rover, slowing to wave from inside the vehicle at Betsy and Charlotte. Betsy recognized Ceil, one of the women in the Excelsior booth. The Rover went on around to the parking lot in back of the Capitol building.

She came back on foot to say, “What, Adam isn’t here yet?”

“Not yet,” said Betsy and turned to greet another pair of tourists.

“My uncle once told me his grandfather owned a 1914 Model T Ford,” said the man. “But we were here before the cars left on their run, and there was a 1910 Ford the driver said was a Model T. Who was right?”

“I-I don’t know,” said Betsy, and listened for Charlotte ’s cough.

Which kindly didn’t come. Instead, she stood and said, “The first Model T appeared in 1908, and wasn’t replaced by the Model A until around 1928. Of course, Henry Ford made constant changes and improvements as the years went by, but it was always called the Model T.”

“Why Model T?” asked the woman.

Ceil came over to join the conversation, “Well, every time he reinvented his car, he gave the model the next letter of the alphabet. By the time Tin Lizzie came along, he was up to T. I don’t know why he stuck to T so long; the 1912 model was very different from the 1908 one, and the 1927 Model T was a very different car again. The car that replaced it was the more expensive and sophisticated Model A, which is apparently why he decided to start over.”

The couple asked a few more questions, took a brochure on the Antique Car Club, and drifted away. Betsy said, “I didn’t know any of that!”

Charlotte smiled. “I only cling to my ignorance when it comes to actually working on restoration and repairs. I prefer to let Bill pack the wheels or replace the transmission bands.” She held out her slender, long-fingered, and very clean hands, regarding them complacently.

“Be glad Bill didn’t get a Stanley Steamer,” said Betsy, “or dirt might not be the worst that can happen. My friend Lars has one, and the places on him that aren’t dirty are blistered.”

Ceil laughed. “Has he still got both his eyebrows?”

“Well, he has now, since the right one grew back.” She sat down beside Charlotte and resumed stitching. Betsy was working on a counted cross stitch pattern worked on black fabric. It had pale green cats’ eyes and the merest hint of paws. In crooked lettering down one side it said, Sure Dark in Here, Isn’t It? Betsy was adding whiskers in back stitching, counting carefully to make sure they were placed properly.

“Where are you going to hang that?” asked Charlotte.

“Six, seven, eight-in my bathroom,” replied Betsy. “The thread glows in the dark.”

“Hang it next to the light switch,” advised Charlotte. “I’d hate to try to find the… er, by the light that thing will give off.”

Ceil giggled.

“I don’t see Mildred,” said Betsy. “Perhaps I should have volunteered to bring the quilt, too.”

Charlotte said, “But it wouldn’t be any good unless you could sell raffle tickets for it, and Mildred won’t let anyone take custody of that roll of tickets or the money jar. That’s a job she’s very jealous of.”

“Speak of the devil,” said Ceil, and they looked up to see Mildred, driving a large old Chrysler, pull up beside the booth. She put her car in park, got out, and opened the passenger door. The big heap of quilt engulfed her as she tried to get it out without letting it touch the ground. Betsy and Charlotte hurried to help. The frame was in the back seat, and Betsy wondered how she’d gotten it in there; even with their help, it was a struggle to get it out again. But Mildred again proved stronger than she looked, and was experienced in handling the thing. Under her crisp directions, she and Charlotte set it up in the booth and helped Mildred drape the quilt over it.

Mildred said, “Thank you, Betsy. Now, I’ll be right back,” and went to park. When she came back, she had the