Authors: Monica Ferris
“Why?” interrupted Steffans.
“Because she was crying and people were staring.
And we both were hot. She was wearing an old-fashioned dress and a big antique hat, so she was more uncomfortable than I was. So I took her to my car, started it, and turned on the air-conditioning, and we sat and talked until Adam Smith arrived to tell us that Bill’s body was taken for an autopsy because the police weren’t satisfied it was an accident. She left about half an hour later. Her son Broward came and picked her up.”
“And you stayed with her that whole time?”
“Yes, she was in no state to be left alone. Broward came with his wife, who seems like a very nice woman. She kind of gathered poor Charlotte in and Broward drove them away.”
“What was your impression of Charlotte Birmingham?”
“I liked her. She seemed to be a nice person. Interesting company. Good needleworker. She’s really into this period thing; she not only wore the correct clothes for her ride, even the needlework pattern she was working was period.”
“Did she seem to be upset or distressed in any way before you learned of Mr. Birmingham’s death?”
“No. Well, she got worried when his car didn’t come in. And annoyed that he didn’t call on his cell phone to say where he was and what the problem was.”
“You saw the two of them together, however briefly. What was her attitude toward her husband?”
“Affectionate. Indulgent.”
“ ‘Indulgent.’ That’s an interesting choice of word.” Steffans’s blue eyes searched her face, but not unkindly.
“Is it? Well, maybe it is. I was just thinking of how she said something to him that showed she understood
he was feeling grumpy and was willing to do her bit to make him feel better.”
“What was that?”
“When they first arrived in Excelsior, they stopped beside me. He was holding the steering wheel like grim death, jaw sort of set, because the car was misbehaving. And she said she was going to get out of the car and take off a layer of clothing—she was wearing an old-fashioned long white dress with a long coat over it—”
“A duster, I think they’re called.”
“Yes, that’s right, a duster. Well, she looked very hot in it, so it wasn’t surprising that she wanted to shed a few layers. He didn’t say a word, but then she didn’t get out, she said she’d ride with him up to the booth where Adam would tell them where to park. You know how people who have been married awhile can tell what the other one wants without him having to say a word? It was like that. He didn’t want to talk to anyone, so she agreed she’d stay with him and talk to Adam and anyone else. Even though he didn’t ask her to. She wasn’t grumpy herself about it, but kind of cheerful. So I guess that’s where ‘indulgent’ comes from.”
Steffans smiled at her. “Very perceptive. You paint a very clear picture of what happened. Thank you.” He consulted his notebook and asked, “You’re sure that Charlotte was with you the entire time between her and her husband’s arrival in Excelsior and the time you got word that he was dead?”
Betsy thought. “Well, there was that time between her and Bill’s arrival and the time I clocked in the last car, turned in my clipboard, and went into my shop, where we introduced ourselves again. I didn’t recognize her out of that hat and duster. But we saw Bill again
after that. She went to tell him she wasn’t riding back with him, and I went with her. He was working on the car, and was still unhappy. She took her duster, hat, and carpet bag out of the back seat of the car and we went to the booth. From then on she was with me.”
“You saw Bill Birmingham leave Excelsior?”
“Yes, Charlotte was helping me log departure times. He was the last one to leave, because he had a lot of trouble getting the car started. He’d go to the driver’s side and make some kind of adjustment then come back to the front end and yank the crank around, then make another adjustment, and crank again.”
“Retarding the spark, I think it’s called.”
“Yes, that’s right, advancing and retarding the spark. Not that it helped much. I’m surprised he didn’t fall down from heat exhaustion, bundled up as he was.”
“He wore a duster, too?”
“Oh, yes, and a hat—what’s it called, pinch-brim? The soft kind where the crown is high in back and comes down over the bill in front. And goggles, great big old-fashioned goggles. About all you could see of his head was his mouth and chin and a bit of dark hair around the edges. He looked very authentic, and very warm. He’d open the hood and do something under there, then start in again, advancing the spark and cranking. Someone passing him on his way out of town yelled, ‘You need to get a bigger hammer, Bill!’ and laughed. Charlotte said that’s the usual joke, get a bigger hammer.”
“I thought it was ‘Get a horse!’ ”
“No, that was what people who didn’t drive back in the old days would say. Or so Charlotte told me. She knew a lot about the old cars and that time period. Her
dress and hat weren’t reproductions, but the real thing. She said she collected antique clothes.”
“But she didn’t try to help Mr. Birmingham fix the car.”
“No, she said she deliberately didn’t learn much about the engines and—and transmission bands, that’s one term she used. She didn’t want to ruin her hands working on the cars.”
“All right, thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
After Steffans had left, Godwin said, “You didn’t tell me you were mixed up in another murder.”
“I didn’t know until just now that I was. And anyway, you might be right about the suicide.”
Godwin’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. “You think so?”
Betsy nodded. “I was thinking about the insurance. You know, the suicide clause, the company won’t pay off if you kill yourself?”
“Oh, of course,” said Godwin. “So you’re thinking he might have committed suicide and tried to make it look like an accident. Or how about he just shoots himself, and someone found his body and put it under the car and set the fire so it would look like an accident, so his widow could get the insurance.”
Betsy said, “The problem with that is, who would do such a thing? And he was seen in St. Paul that morning, he was seen in Excelsior, and he was the last driver to leave on the return run. So it must have happened while he was on that return run. Except everyone involved in the run was either driving in it ahead of him or took the freeway to St. Paul after he left. So it would have to be a stranger who came along and found him—and why would a stranger do that?”
“Yeah, that would be the question, all right.”
A customer came in at that point, and Godwin went to help her, leaving Betsy to think some more. She and Charlotte had waited quite a while in St. Paul for Adam and the others to arrive. Could one of them have gone after Bill? Or could someone ahead of Bill in the run have pulled into that lay-by and waited for Bill to come along?
It looked as if the only person with a solid alibi was Charlotte. Interesting.
A
t two, the Monday Bunch gathered. There were five members present, which surprised Martha. “I guess they haven’t been watching the news,” she said. Normally all twelve members turned out when there was a crime to discuss.
“Why, what did we miss?” asked Phil Galvin, retired railroad engineer. He was short and gray, with a round face and eyes, small, work-thickened hands, and a loud, rough voice. He was working on a counted cross stitch pattern of Native Americans in war paint riding bareback alongside an old steam locomotive.
Martha explained, “During that antique car race on Saturday, a car caught on fire in Minnetonka, killed the driver. His name was William Birmingham.”
Phil nodded. “Birmingham. Yeah, I heard about that. Too bad they ain’t makin’ any more of those old cars.”
Betsy frowned at Phil. Though the old man prided himself on his tough-guy attitude, she felt this was going too far.
Martha said, “Well, it turns out the driver was shot, not burned to death. It’s a murder case. The police came and talked to Betsy, because she was the alibi for the man’s wife. The wife was with Betsy all the time between when the man left here and when he was found dead.”
Phil exclaimed, “No! I didn’t hear about that!” He grimaced and mumbled, “Well, that makes a difference, I guess.”
Martha said, surprised, “Betsy, you were on the news?”
Betsy smiled. “No, that part was spread locally.” She looked at Godwin, who had the grace to blush.
Alice said, “So what do you think, Betsy? Who would shoot Bill Birmingham?”
Betsy answered with a question. “Did you know him?”
“Not personally, but I know about him. He grew up over in Wildwood, so there are probably locals who do.” Wildwood was one of those Hennepin County “cities” on Lake Minnetonka that was really barely a village. It was only seven miles from Excelsior.
“I’m from Wildwood,” said Phil. “I knew the whole family. In fact, I went to school with his older brother.”
“What were they like?” asked Betsy.
Phil began emphatically, “Their father was the biggest—uh-ah!” He skidded to a halt, recalling who his audience was. “That is, he was one of those men thinks he was born to be boss. Couldn’t stand to be disagreed with. Every kid in town, including his own, was scared
of him. But both his sons grew up to be a lot like him. The older one got a double dose of it. He thought he was smarter than his teachers or anyone else who tried to teach him anything. Dropped out of high school, got fired from six jobs in seven months. He tried to kill a man he thought was after his wife, got sent to Stillwater, where he wound up knifed to death by a fellow inmate. He was twenty-six when it happened, and left a widow with a baby girl.
“Now Bill, he was different. He was a hard worker like his dad, but he was smart, and he didn’t have a bad temper like his brother. He graduated from Cal Tech, and soon after invented an improved metal-stamping machine. He started a business stamping out all kinds of small metal parts, and eventually settled down to make metal doors. But he was also like his dad in that once he figured out how to do something, then that was the best way to do it, and the only way it could be done. His oldest son majored in engineering with a minor in business, but when the boy came back to go into business with his dad, the old man wouldn’t listen to any of his ideas. So Broward went off to another company, bigger than his father’s, and became a vice president in charge of production.”
Betsy said, “But Charlotte told me Broward was working for his father, and was at the point of taking over Bill’s company, since Bill was about to retire.”
Phil nodded. “Yes, about two years ago, Bill’s doctor warned him for the fourth or fifth time to retire or die in harness, and this time Bill believed him. He asked Bro to please come and take over. And Bro did. Quit his job and came home. Only Bill couldn’t let go; he’d go to the office and make some decisions without
consulting Bro—or even undo some of what Bro was doing. Drove Bro nuts, not least because Bro is a chip off the old block, and doesn’t take kindly to having his decisions trifled with.” Phil picked up his Wild West cross stitch piece. “It’ll be interesting now to see if Bro really does have some better ideas.”
Alice asked in her blunt way, “So what do you think, Betsy—Broward Birmingham murdered his father?”
Betsy said, “I don’t know. Phil, does Broward share his father’s interest in antique cars?”
Phil shook his head. “All he’ll be interested in is how much they’ll bring at auction. He knows something about them, the whole family does, but he’s not interested in owning one. Charlotte knows a lot because she believes in sharing her husband’s interests, plus she likes dressing up in those old-fashioned clothes, but she’s strictly a passenger. Her offspring would likely be more interested if Bill had let them drive once in a while, or shared the restoration work instead of only letting them hand him the tools, but as it is, the cars will probably be sold.”
“What are they worth, I wonder?” said Alice.
“I understand the Maxwells were a very popular car, and a lot of them are still around,” said Betsy. “So not as much as something rarer. Still, Charlotte said there are six of them, so that’s got to amount to money. I suppose they’re from different years. I wonder when they went out of business.”
“They didn’t,” said Phil. “Walter P. Chrysler bought the company in 1923 and didn’t change the name until 1926.”
“Oh,” said Martha, amused, “then the mayor’s cute PT Cruiser is really a . . . Maxwell?” They all laughed.
Except Kate. “What’s so funny?” asked Kate, the youngest member.
“Rochester used to drive Jack Benny around in an old Maxwell,” chortled Godwin. “Mel Blanc had all kinds of fun making the noises of that car on a radio show. Mr. Mayor will be pleased to hear that, I
don’t
think!”
“Who’s Jack Benny?”
After an initial astonished pause, everyone took turns talking about Jack Benny, his awful violin playing, his comic miserliness, his futile aggravation, but it was Godwin who got to imitate Mr. Benny’s most famous bit, when the robber stuck out a gun and gave him the traditional choice: “Your money or your life!” And Godwin put one hand on his cheek and fell silent while the giggles grew and grew, finally blurting, “I’m thinking, I’m thinking!”
Kate, laughing, said, “That’d be even funnier if Joe Mickels were driving one!” Joe’s authentic miserliness was well known.
“Well, he does own an antique car,” said Betsy.
“Is it a Maxwell?” asked Godwin, prepared to laugh.
“No, it’s a . . .” Betsy thought. “A McIntyre.”
Godwin said in a hurt voice, “Betsy, you’ve taken to keeping things from me.”
“I’d forgotten all about it,” said Betsy, and she related the tale of Adam Smith and Joe Mickels maneuvering around one another over the possible sale of Joe’s McIntyre. “Adam collects rare cars, and this is very rare.”
“Must be,” said Phil. “I never heard of that brand. It’ll be interesting to see who skins who in that deal.”
Forty minutes later, the Bunch started picking up and
putting away. The door went
Bing!
and everyone turned to see Charlotte Birmingham in the doorway, her sewing bag in her hand and a shy look on her face. She was dressed in darkness, black shoes, dark stockings, a severely plain black dress. There were even dark shadows under her eyes.
Betsy stood. “Hello, Mrs. Birmingham,” she said. “Is there something I can do for you?”
“It looks as if your meeting is breaking up,” replied Charlotte, coming toward the table. “I was hoping to join you.” She looked the very opposite of the friendly woman in white Betsy had met on Saturday, more ravaged than the shocked and bewildered woman who had sat in her car later that same day.
“I’m afraid you’re a little late,” said Betsy, shaking herself out of her stare. “We meet at two, and it’s nearly three-thirty.”
“Oh, I thought you met at three,” said Charlotte. “How stupid of me not to have phoned to check that!”
“Well, since you drove all that distance, why don’t you stay at least for a little while,” said Betsy. “Perhaps Godwin can sit with you for a while.”
“I don’t have to leave right now,” said Phil, who was retired.
“Me, either,” said Alice, sitting back down.
The other women left—reluctantly, because they were going to miss something to gossip about. Charlotte got out a counted cross stitch pattern of her son’s name done in an alphabet by Lois Winston. It had little engineer’s tools worked into the letters: a compass, a T square, a level. Betsy remembered seeing the pattern in
The Cross Stitcher
magazine.
“It’s for Broward’s office door,” said Charlotte.
While Charlotte talked quietly with Godwin, Phil, and Alice, Betsy began the task of pulling the wool needed for a needlepoint canvas a woman had called to say she wanted after all. The canvas was a Constance Coleman rendition of a Scottish terrier looking out a big window at a winter scene that included a stag. Betsy enjoyed the task of finding just the right colors and textures to suit the painting—Very Velvet for the deer, Wisper for the terrier, shades of maroon wool for the chintz curtains. She considered the problem of the windowsill. Something vaguely shiny, maybe, to echo the lacquer finish of the paint?
Bing!
went the front door, and Betsy looked around to see Phil and Alice heading up the street. She looked over and saw Charlotte bent over her needlework and Godwin signalling Betsy by raising and lowering his eyebrows.
“Goddy,” said Betsy obediently, “could you come look at this? I can’t decide what would do for the woodwork, and we need something creative for the snow. You know how Mrs. Hampton is.” And in fact, she would complain if the fibers weren’t clever enough.
“Certainly,” said Godwin just as if he hadn’t been desperate for her to summon him. He came over and, under cover of looking at the canvas, murmured, “She wants to talk to you about something. She keeps looking around for you and sighing.”
“All right. But do finish getting this ready. Mrs. Hampton will be by to pick it up soon.”
“All right.”
Betsy went to sit down across from Charlotte. “I hope you aren’t finding all the terrible details of your husband’s death too much for you,” she said.
“No, I’m lucky to have my children all rallying around to help,” Charlotte said. “Lisa has been a great comfort to me, and Broward has taken over most of the work. All I do is sign where he tells me to sign, and try to decide where we are going to ask contributions to be sent in lieu of flowers.” She smiled sadly. “But still I feel all off balance, like half of me is gone.”
“That’s what happens when a good marriage ends, I’m told,” said Betsy. “It will pass, and you’ll have some wonderful memories.”
“So my children tell me. The sad part is, we were building some new wonderful memories, going to a much better place in our marriage, but we never got a chance to finish the journey.” She bowed her head. “I am
so angry
about that! This should be a time of mourning, and instead I am angry. And I am angry about being made angry.” Her upside-down smile reappeared. “And isn’t that ridiculous? Being angry because I’ve been left angry.”
“I’m so sorry,” said Betsy, not knowing what else to say.
“But I didn’t come here to talk about my sorrows. In fact, I was looking for a little time away from all that, and here I sit talking and talking about it. But I do want to thank you for taking me under your wing on Saturday. As it turned out, it was more than kind. The police were looking rather sideways at me until they found out you were with me all through the . . . important hours.”
“I’m glad I could be of service,” said Betsy. “It was shocking to hear that your husband was killed. I remember how angry I was when my sister was murdered, too, so your anger is very understandable to me.”
Charlotte put down her needlework to confide, “The
worst part is learning that someone hated Bill so much he felt the only way to handle it was to kill him. I know Bill could be difficult, but lots of people are difficult.
I’m
difficult at times. That’s no reason to kill! I can’t figure out what Bill might have done to make someone hate him enough to shoot him. It makes me feel as if my whole world is constructed of very thin boards over a very deep hole.”
“There is no need for you to feel like that. In fact, it’s just as well you don’t know why. If you knew why, perhaps the murderer would come after you.”
Charlotte stared at Betsy. “Are you trying to frighten me?”
“No, of course not!” said Betsy hastily. “On the contrary! The fact that you can’t think of anyone angry enough at Bill to shoot him means it doesn’t involve you at all. It’s probably about his work, or something from his past.”
“Not his work, not his work,” protested Charlotte.
“Why not?”
“Because that might involve my son Broward. And he can’t have anything to do with this, he just can’t.”
“All right,” said Betsy, deciding Charlotte was not in any condition to seriously consider who might have done this terrible deed, if she was willing to let desire overwhelm fact. “I’m sorry you missed the Monday Bunch. Perhaps you can come again next Monday? I’d love to have you join us.” Betsy stood. She had a lot of work to do.