“Wow,” said Jill, pausing to stare.
“Come on,” said Lars. “Let’s order sandwiches to go.”
“We will sit at a table and eat like civilized persons,” said Jill.
Lars sighed, but said nothing, not even when Jill asked for soup and a salad.
They joined Adam Smith, who greeted Betsy warmly and shook hands with Lars and Jill. Betsy said, “Are you giving someone a ride back?”
Adam said, “No, but if you’d care to join me again, that would be great.”
Jill gave Betsy an encouraging look, but Betsy said, “No, I think I’ll stay with the Stanley.” The fact that he was unafraid to answer more of her questions meant either that he had no guilty knowledge or was very confident of his answers.
In another few minutes more people joined them, and the talk became strictly about the cars. Betsy listened anyway, hoping to pick up something useful.
Mike Jimson grumped to Adam, “I took your advice and resleeved the number two cylinder. I thought the rod was rapping, but you were right, it was the piston slapping. The clearance was great. I don’t know why it was doing that.”
The man beside Mike was saying, “That damn foot brake locks. I use it and I got to stop and release it by hand, so I was taking my foot off the gas and yanking on the hand brake, and be dipped if it don’t work like a charm, finished the run, and got my fourth medallion.”
The woman beside him said, “I told Frank he ought to soak that Caddy in LokTite and see if that won’t keep parts from falling off. Sometimes I think I spend half our time on the road stopping to run back and pick something up. Today it was the license plate and one of the bolts off a fender.”
Adam told Jill, “It was Leland and Falkner got Henry Ford’s second failure at car making to run, you know.”
Betsy had taken only a few bites of her sandwich when Lars stood. “Come on,” he said, dropping a heavy damask napkin on his empty plate, having inhaled the roast beef sandwich that ornamented it only minutes before. “See you in New London,” he said to the table, a wicked glint in his eye.
“This isn’t a race, Mr. Larson,” said a woman, glinting back.
“No, it sure isn’t,” agreed Lars. “But I left the pilot light burning, so I should get back out there. Come on, you two.”
Betsy brought the uneaten portion of her sandwich with her.
Jill got them out onto Meeker County 31, where there was a straight run of several miles, before turning to Betsy to ask something about Adam Smith. Betsy couldn’t understand half the words, even though Jill was shouting. Once Lars got out on the highway, he had opened the throttle, and there was a mad tumble of wind over the upright windshield that tangled Jill’s ash-blond hair and lifted Betsy’s dress indecently.
Betsy, trying to eat her tuna fish sandwich with one hand and hold her dress down with the other, said, “I can’t hear you,” mouthing the words elaborately.
Jill turned to shout at Lars, “Slow down, for heaven’s sake!”
“And let that lah-dee-dah French car pass me?” Lars replied, tightening his grip on the steering wheel.
So Jill sat down again. Betsy gave up on her sandwich to exalt in the smooth, fast run, and waved at the occasional car or pedestrian or bicyclist as the Steamer rushed past them.
Lars pulled into a gas station at the intersection with Tri-County Road. “We’re just over twenty-one miles from Litchfield, so this is placed perfect for us to stop and take on water.”
He steered over to the side of the building and this time ignored the instant crowd his car attracted. Jill got out so he could get out. “Have you got a water hose I can use?” he asked the man who came out of the station to stare.
Jill climbed into the back seat and said to Betsy, “Talk fast.”
“Adam said Bill was angry with him over the car, but even angrier because Adam beat him in a race to be president of the Antique Car Club.”
“What do you think?”
“Well, Adam didn’t seem angry himself, but of course he wouldn’t, he knows he’s a suspect. And he hasn’t got an alibi. What I don’t like is that he was late getting to St. Paul, arriving way behind Mildred Feeney, who is very elderly and therefore hardly a speed demon.”
“So you think he’s the one?”
“I don’t know. He said if Minnesota had the death penalty, he’d be living in Costa Rica right now.”
“Let’s go!” said Lars, and Jill got out to follow Lars back into the front seat. “Got the route sheet?” he asked, checking his gauges.
“Right here,” said Jill. “We need to get an odometer on this thing. The directions keep telling us how many miles to turnoffs and I can’t estimate mileage. And another thing, we made that twenty-one miles in something less than twenty minutes. The speed limit out here is fifty-five. If you don’t drive slower, we’re going to get a speeding ticket, and think how that poor schnook of a trooper is going to feel testifying how he wrote up a 1912 automobile?”
“He won’t have to testify, I’ll plead guilty!” said Lars proudly, and Jill sighed.
But he did slow down a bit. Still, they arrived at the American Legion building in New London well ahead of the others. The downstairs of the new-looking building was mostly a wide and low barroom, the decor heavily patriotic. It was well lit and deliciously cool. Betsy went to the rest room to find a comb and spend several minutes wrenching it through her hair. Those long veils women wore when riding in these cars seemed a lot less ridiculous now, especially considering that they wore their hair long. She went back out and ordered a Diet Coke at the bar.
It was fifteen minutes before Adam Smith came in, and forty minutes before the Winton’s owner and his wife showed up. Adam smiled at Lars and greeted him, but said nothing about coming in second, nor did the Winton’s owners say anything about finishing third. Then again, only the first-place driver had a mayonnaise stain on his shirt from hurtling through his lunch.
Betsy allowed Mike to buy her a refill and sat down at a little round table with a big bowl of pretzels on it to talk with him and Dorothy.
“I understand Bill Birmingham ran against Adam for the presidency of your club,” she said after pleasantries had been exchanged.
Dorothy nodded, but said, “It was more like Adam ran against Bill, wasn’t it, Mike?”
Mike said, “Sort of. Our outgoing president was moving to Arizona as soon as his term was up, and Bill, who was vice president, kind of thought the office was his by right. He was an effective VP, and since he’d cut back to half-time at his company, he had the time. Adam was route manager, you know, getting out maps and driving the back roads, laying out the runs. Important, but not management. And no one knew at the time he was about to retire, not even him, we think.”
Dorothy put in, “Also right about then, their youngest went off to college and Adam’s wife, who probably had been waiting for that to happen, divorced him. That was last fall, and he suddenly had all the time in the world to devote to his cars and the club.”
“What did he do for a living?”
“Upper management,” said Mike. “CEO, in fact. Only been there six or seven years.”
Dorothy said with a significant eyebrow lift, “But they gave him one heck of a golden parachute, and he’d been given stock options in lieu of cash bonuses the whole time he’d been there, so he is simply
Mike said, “He didn’t do anything dishonest. From what I’ve heard, he had a theory of management that made him a lot of enemies. Plus the last company he was with… Well, it’s going to take them a few years to get back on course.” He looked at his wife. “He’s like Bill was, in some respects. When he thinks he’s right, he goes full out for it, and hang the consequences.”
They talked awhile longer, then Betsy went back to Jill. The place had filled up with antique car owners, their spouses and even some children, other friends and passengers, and townsfolk wanting to meet the owners of those strange old cars. “Where’s Lars?” asked Betsy, unable to spot him in the crowd.
“He’s here, making the rounds, talking cars and engines and the run tomorrow.”
