A Murderous Yarn

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.

13

Despite 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 cafe 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?”