A Murderous Yarn

While Charlotte and Betsy became deeply involved in fabric selection, kinds of trim available, size, filler, and other considerations, Marvin went wandering around the shop. About twenty minutes later he was back at the desk.

Charlotte wrapped things up with Betsy, saying, “Use your best judgment, Betsy, but try to keep it under two hundred, all right?”

“Of course. How about I call you with Heidi’s estimate before I tell her to go ahead?”

“Thank you.” She turned and her eye was caught by a spinner rack of the newest in Watercolor flosses. She made as if to go to it, but instead said, “All right, all right, we can leave now,” to Marvin, although he hadn’t said a word.

Betsy’s parting smile faded once the door closed behind them. Interesting how Charlotte could read Marvin’s mind, too.

At five, Betsy hurried Godwin through the closing-up process, wrote up a deposit slip for the day’s slim profits, and went upstairs to finish packing for the trip to New London.

She was debating whether to pack a light nightie or her pajamas when her doorbell rang. Thinking it was probably Jill, she went to buzz her in and left the door to her apartment ajar while she went back to her packing.

“Hello?” asked a strange voice. Male. She picked up the cell phone she’d been about to put in the big purse she was taking on this trip, and went to peer out the door.

Two men were standing at the end of the little hallway to her living room. They were looking awkward, half prepared to retreat.

“Hello,” said Betsy.

“Are you Ms. Devonshire?” asked the taller of the pair. He was also the more robust, and likely older, his dark hair thinning and gray at the temples. He was wearing a short-sleeved tan shirt, brown trousers, and dressy shoes.

“Yes. Who are you?”

The shorter one offered a shy smile. He was wearing gold-rimmed glasses, a faded blue shirt, old blue jeans, and thick black sandals. “I’m David Birmingham, and this is my brother Tom. Our sister Lisa seems to think you might want to talk to us.”

“I’d love to talk with you, but I don’t have much time. I’m leaving for New London.”

“Oh, are you involved with the run this weekend?” asked Tom.

“Yes, I’m a volunteer and I’m sponsoring the Stanley Steamer that Lars Larson is driving.”

“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.”