“What’s the name of the place?”
“I can’t remember, but it’s the cafe on the main street, you can’t miss it,” said Jill. “Lars and I will meet you there.”
Must be a really small town, thought Betsy, hanging up and tossing back the covers.
Soon after, she drove into New London across a beautiful curving bridge over a big old millpond. It dropped her off in downtown, which was two blocks long and did not in any way resemble its namesake. There was a needlework shop, Betsy noticed as she got out of her car, and a gift shop, a restaurant, a gas station, and a cafe. The cafe was full of people, and the air was heavy with the old-fashioned, pre-cholesterol-scare smells of bacon, sausage, fried eggs, toast, hash browns, pancakes, and hot, maple-flavored syrup. There was a counter, whose seven stools were made of red plastic and stainless steel, and pale, Formica-topped tables along the other walls. Pictures of wildlife adorned the smokey blue walls.
At a table along the wall were Jill, Lars, and Adam. Lars and Adam were facing the door, and so raised their hands when Betsy came in to show her where they were.
Betsy sat beside Jill, who handed her a menu. “They can poach you an egg if you like,” she said. “I already asked.”
Lars and Adam were digging into platters laden with Canadian bacon, fried eggs, and hash browns, with toast on the side.
Betsy ordered a poached egg on a slice of whole wheat toast, and coffee. Jill had a gigantic sweet roll with pecans glued to it with melted brown sugar.
Adam smiled at Betsy. “Ready to go for a ride?”
“What, you mean with Lars?”
“Okay, if you like. But there are other cars making the short trip to Litchfield today. You can hitch a ride with one of them, if you like, maybe on the way out or back.”
“Gosh, thanks!” said Betsy, glancing at Lars to see if he minded.
He shrugged and smiled around a mouthful of potato.
“Do I have some duties to perform today?” Betsy asked Adam.
“Not really. We’re not logging people out for Litchfield, it’s an informal trip.”
“Are you driving to Litchfield?” she asked.
“Yes. You want to ride with me? I’m driving my 1911 Renault sport touring car. You won’t see another like it in your life.”
Betsy asked, “Do you mean because it’s restored so beautifully, or because it’s rare?”
Adam grinned. “Both.”
“Well, how can I turn down a double once-in-a-lifetime opportunity? Though I probably won’t appreciate it like I should. I’m so ignorant about this car-collecting business.”
Adam’s grin broadened. “Just watch the envious eyes on us, and you’ll know all you need to know.”
Lars said, “You want to make the return trip with Jill and me?”
Betsy looked at Jill. “You’re finally coming to terms with that car, aren’t you?”
“I suppose so. I went for a ride in it a few days ago, and I have to admit, it’s slick.”
“Next year, in costume!” announced Betsy happily. To Lars she said, “Yes, I’ll be glad to ride with you.”
Jill asked Adam, “Is there a layover in Litchfield, or do we just go there and come right back?”
“Whatever you like. Since we don’t note departure times for these little practice runs, you’re entirely on your own. But if you’re interested in staying awhile, Litchfield has a nice Civil War museum, and some antique shops.”
Betsy wondered what sort of Civil War museum there could be in a place so far removed from the battle sites-and decided she’d take a look and see. She looked at Jill and thought she detected the same notion.
Lars did, too. He sighed. “All right, we’ll take a look at the museum.”
Betsy smiled at yet another instance of someone knowing someone else’s mind very well. “What time are you leaving, Adam?” she asked.
“About ten, if things are running all right at the Boy Scout building. That’s our headquarters here in New London.” He checked his watch. “I’d better get over there. See you at ten.” He smiled at Jill and Lars. “You, too,” he said, rose, and departed.
As soon as he was out of earshot, Lars said, “So what have you found out so far?”
“About what?” asked Betsy.
“About this murder,” he said impatiently.
“Nothing.”
His light blue eyes widened. “I don’t believe that,” he said.
“Why not?”
“You’re too clever to have gone around asking questions like you do and not found out
Jill said, mock-proudly, “And you thought he was just another dumb blond, didn’t you?”
Lars guffawed, but his eyes remained expectantly on Betsy.
“All right. I have been told by two of her children that a friend of the Birmingham family was hopelessly in love with Charlotte. I think she returned that love, and may have been having a long-term affair with him. His name is Marvin Pierce, and I have a sad feeling that since Charlotte wouldn’t divorce her husband for him, he may have found another way to set her free.”
“If they were mutually in love, why wouldn’t Charlotte divorce her husband?” asked Jill. “From what I’ve heard, Bill Birmingham was a workaholic, and when he did come home, he was a tyrant. Why not leave him? Divorce is easy enough nowadays.”
Lars said, “Maybe she was afraid of Bill’s reaction. If he was bad-tempered, was he also abusive?”
“I don’t know,” said Betsy. “I haven’t heard anything on that order.”
“Well, what else do you know?” asked Lars.
Betsy said, “Bill Birmingham was a very wealthy man, wealthier than Marvin. If it wasn’t me supplying the alibi, I’d certainly be trying to poke a hole in it, because Charlotte is the obvious suspect. On the other hand, Bill’s death came at a bad time. It seems a substantial part of his income was the profits from his company. When Bill had a ministroke, he invited his son Broward to come home and take over the business. Bro has all kinds of ideas for expanding the company, and he’d been plowing the profits back into it. Bill was trying to stop him, but not only had Bill turned the management over to Bro, he had to give half the company to Bro to get him to agree to come home. Bill was taking steps to stop or at least slow Bro down when he was killed.”
“Where does that leave the grieving widow?” asked Lars.
“Not as well off as she’d have been if she’d killed Bill before Bro came into the picture.”
“Ah,” nodded Jill.
Lars asked, “Where was Bro Saturday morning?”
“I don’t know. Is there a way to find out, maybe from Sergeant Steffans? I don’t want to ask Bro myself-he has his father and grandfather’s bad temper.”
Jill pulled a notebook from her shirt pocket-Betsy was amused to notice that even out of uniform Jill carried one-and made a note. Writing, she said, “I wonder if Marvin is as eager a lover now that Charlotte’s not rich?”
“Well, I’m not sure how not-rich she is. I’d like to find out the situation with Bill’s estate. Surely there’s more to it than the business and a set of antique cars.”
Jill made another note. “Looks like I’ll have to take Sergeant Steffans to lunch next week.” She was so busy writing she missed the massive frown that slowly formed on Lars’s broad forehead.
Sergeant Steffans ran his thumb and long, knobby fingers down either side of his narrow jaw. He was standing in Marvin’s small office in the Lutheran Brotherhood Building downtown. Lutheran Brotherhood was a large insurance company with headquarters in a blood-red building with copper-coated windows, one of a set of buildings apparently colored by a comic-book artist on the south end of downtown Minneapolis. Steffans grew up in St. Paul, whose sedate old skyscrapers and narrow streets show plainly why it considers itself at best a fraternal twin to Minneapolis’s broad avenues and sci-fi buildings.
Marvin Pierce was about five-nine, with light brown hair in a very retro crew cut. He was trim and athletic in
