Authors: Monica Ferris
She went into the café and bought a Diet Coke, which came in an aluminum can. Aluminum, she knew, was once an extremely rare metal, so rare that the builders of the Washington Monument paid huge sums for enough to cap the point, forgoing the far less expensive gold or platinum.
Times change in unexpected ways, she reflected, and no period movie ever gets it exactly right. Especially when it came to women’s hairdos; no matter how authentic the costumes, you could always tell when a movie was made by the way the lead actress wore her hair.
The people were sitting at tables talking about cars and the trip, but also about other things: “It’s not the size of the boat, but its ability to stay in port until all the passengers have disembarked,” said a man in a low voice with a hint of a snigger in it. He was the same man who earlier couldn’t “pea” soup.
A woman was saying to another woman, “And then, darling, when the judge called for a trot, that woman behind me went into a
rack,
I am not kidding, a
rack! And
the judge gave her the blue ribbon! I nearly fell off my horse, but decided instead I’d had enough of showing Arabians, and I sold Sheik’s Desire the next week and bought the Yale that Tom had been panting after.”
A man boasted with a hint of regret, “I had her up
to forty last week, on that downhill slope on County Five, but she was shaking so hard I thought a wheel had come loose. She hasn’t been the same since. I think she scared herself. I know she scared me.”
Betsy didn’t see Lars and Jill, but that didn’t surprise her; she hadn’t seen the Stanley outside, either. They must have already stopped and gone on, or not stopped at all, more likely. After having been beaten last Saturday, Lars was probably determined to arrive first in Litchfield.
Although this was not, of course, a race.
What was a bit more problematic was that Mike and Dorothy weren’t there, either.
Betsy took her Coke outside, to be reassured by the sight of the Model T still parked across the street.
They must be in the restrooms,
she thought. Two drivers came out and started cranking their cars. The driver of the REO had to adjust his magneto twice before the engine caught.
Grunge, grunge, grunge,
it complained, before he pulled out well behind the other and
putt, putt, putt-putt-putt,
started up the road.
She watched him diminish to a heat-waved mirage then heard a sound—not quite like a modern car, but not like the rickety sound of an old one, either. She turned and saw something spectacular coming up the road, to pull off behind the Model T.
It was a gorgeous antique limousine, tall and long, a rich, royal blue with inlaid brass stripes on the hood and along the back door. The back seat was under a black leather roof, but the front seat wasn’t. There was a kind of second windshield behind the front seat, with hinged wings to further enclose the rear passenger compartment, which appeared to be empty. The very
distinctive hood sloped downward to the nose, then sloped very steeply down and forward to the front bumper. The radiator was
behind
the hood, sticking out around the edges. The tires were fat, the heavy wooden spokes of the wheels painted creamy white. The engine, ticking gently over, stopped, and a man shifted over to the passenger side and climbed out. He was slim, broad-shouldered, and extremely elegant in royal blue riding pants, the old-fashioned kind with wings, and black leather gaiters with buckles. He wasn’t wearing a coat or jacket, but an immaculate white shirt whose upper sleeves were encircled by royal blue garters, and as he got out, he took off a royal blue cap with a narrow black bill and wiped his brow with the back of his hand.
Betsy suddenly recognized him. “Adam!” she called.
He looked over at her and smiled and waved his cap.
Betsy looked both ways and hurried across. “Oh my, oh my, oh my!” she said. “Is
this
the Renault? Golly, what a car! Was it made by the same people who make Renaults today? I’ve never seen anything so elegant!”
“Yes and yes,” said Adam, pleased at her enthusiasm. “And I agree, it’s about as elegant as a car can get. Body and chassis by Renault, who of course still make cars, running board boxes by Louis Vuitton, who still make luggage, headlamps by Ducellier and ignition by Bosch, both of whom are still in the automotive business.”
“What is that half-a-top called, a landau?”
“No, a Victoria.”
Betsy swept her eyes down its length. “Gosh, it must be twenty feet long! I didn’t know they made limos this far back!”
He laughed. “It’s not really a limo, but a sport touring
car. It’s seventeen feet long, seven and a half feet tall with the top up.”
“Does it have a speaking tube? You know”—she mimed holding something between thumb and two fingers—“home, James,” she said in plummy accents.
“As a matter of fact, it does.”
“The engine compartment doesn’t look very big—how fast does it go?”
“It has four cylinders, which for 1911, the year it was built, is pretty good. She’ll do about fifty on a level stretch, if it’s long enough. She’s heavy, so it takes a couple of miles to get to her top speed. She has a big muffler, so the ride is both smooth and very quiet.”
“Wow, I can’t get over it, this is so beautiful! I’m so glad you were able to catch up. Mike Jimson told me you got busy just about the time we were supposed to leave, so I rode with him and his wife in their Model T.” Betsy gestured toward the car parked ahead of the Renault.
“I’m glad I caught up before you left Pine Grove. But come on, I need something cold to drink before we head out.”
They waited for a truck and two cars to pass, all honking at them, one swerving while the driver and his passengers waved madly. While Adam got his can of root beer, Betsy found Mike and Dorothy at a table in the back and explained that she was going to continue the trip in Adam Smith’s Renault.
“So Adam got here after all,” said Mike. “Good for him. And you’re gonna love riding in that thing.”
As they went back across the road, Adam asked, “Front or back?”
“Oh, front, so we can talk.”
“Wait till I get her started, then.” He went to the front of the car, Betsy following, to push a short lever by its brass knob with his left hand, and began to crank with his right. The engine went
fffut-fffut
, he released the lever, and the car started.
“What is that, some kind of spring windup mechanism?” she asked.
“No, the lever is a compression release. It opens the exhaust valves a little so it’s easier to crank. Here—” He pointed to a small silver knob on the front—“this is what retards or advances the spark on the magneto, so the car won’t backfire and break your cranking arm.” He went to climb in, Betsy following.
She looked across the road and saw a small crowd gathered on the sidewalk, some of them fellow antique car drivers.
“You’d think they’d be used to seeing this,” said Betsy.
“No, I don’t bring this one out very often. It’s really rare and it would be a pity if it got in an accident.”
The notion of an accident made her reach for her seat belt, which of course wasn’t there. “Do you ever think of having seat belts installed?”
“Nope. I only put back what once was there,” he said with a smile.
“Do you want me to navigate?”
“No need. I helped lay out this route, so I know it pretty well.”
They rode in silence for a bit. The Renault had the weighty, comfortable feel of a big sixties convertible, but the inside wasn’t much like a modern car—especially the blank dashboard.
“How do you know how fast you’re going?” Betsy asked.
“Look down on the floor near my feet.” Sure enough, the speedometer was on the floor. “And the key to turn on the ignition is on the seat, behind my legs. This car has many unique features. You notice there’s plenty of room up here.”
“Yes?” said Betsy.
“Makers of chauffeur-driven cars wanted to give as much room as possible to the passengers, so the driver’s compartment was very small. That’s one reason there was a fad for Asian chauffeurs, who, generally being smaller, weren’t as cramped.”
“That’s the kind of trivia that could win someone a lot of money,” said Betsy laughing. “All right, why was the driver of this car given more room?”
“Because this wasn’t really a limo, and the buyer needed a driver who could double as a bodyguard, someone big enough to need extra space.”
“What was this, a gangster’s car?”
Adam laughed. “No, not at all.”
Betsy was pleased to have put Adam in a good mood, but a little silence fell while she tried to think how to phrase her next question. At last she simply began, “Adam, what do you think happened to Bill Birmingham?”
“What do you mean, what do I think happened? Someone shot him and set his car on fire.”
“Who?”
He frowned at her briefly, then returned his eyes to the road. “How should I know?”
“Well, who would want to do such a thing?”
“I don’t want to say,” he said. “It’s hard to think it
might be someone I know.” His attitude was so sincere, Betsy began to worry she was on the wrong track entirely. She thought again how to continue, but before she could say anything, he went on. “His son Bro, obviously.”
She said, “Because he wanted the business?”
“Because his father wouldn’t quit the business like he was supposed to. That was Bill all over, couldn’t let go. He just couldn’t let go.”
“Is that why he wouldn’t sell you the Fuller?”
“What?” He glanced at her, frowning deeply. “What are you getting at?”
“He bought that Fuller because you wanted it, right? His original intention was to sell it to you at a profit. But maybe once he got hold of it, he just couldn’t let it go.”
Adam considered this. “Maybe. But it’s more likely he hung on to it in order to make me as mad at him as he was at me. Stick your arm out.”
“What?”
“I want to pass the Sears, stick your arm out.”
Betsy glanced at the road behind, saw it was clear, and extended her left arm. Adam pulled smoothly out onto the highway, went around the Sears with a wave, and pulled back onto the shoulder again. The Sears sounded its bulb horn and Adam replied with a beautiful French horn note.
They rode in silence for a bit, then Betsy said, “Bill was mad at you because you bought that Maxwell he wanted, right?”
“Partly. But mostly because I ran against him for president of the Antique Car Club. And I beat him. He would have made a lousy president because he didn’t
know the meaning of compromise, and everyone knew it. He thought he lost because I was spreading ugly rumors about him.”
“What kind of rumors?”
“That he rarely listened to what anyone else said, and if he did happen to hear a good idea, he’d take it as his own without giving credit. Which weren’t rumors, they were facts, and I said as much in the course of a free and open campaign.”
This time Betsy held her tongue on purpose, and after a minute, Adam said, “And because he heard that if he got elected, Charlie and Mack and I would quit and start our own club. And that after six months ours would be the only antique car club in Minnesota.”
“Did you say those things, too?”
“Well, yes. But I was only repeating what Mack said first. Besides, it was God’s truth.”
“I imagine he was pretty angry with you.”
“I imagine he was. The truth can hurt.”
“Are you going to buy the Fuller from Charlotte?”
“Yes, if she offers it for sale. And if I’m not in prison, convicted of murdering Bill.”
“You think that’s possible?”
“Ms. Devonshire, anything’s possible. I’ve been reading about those convicts on death row they’re finding didn’t do it after all, and let me tell you, it’s keeping me up at night.”
“Minnesota doesn’t have the death penalty.”
“If they did, I’d’ve moved to Costa Rica by now.”
Soon they turned onto County 11 and a few miles later entered Litchfield. It was a small city with a really wide main street which put Betsy in mind of some New England towns she’d visited long ago. They’d passed a
few of the slower antique cars along the way, but Lars’s Stanley was already parked at the top of the street that bordered a pretty little park. He was making some arcane adjustment to the valves when Betsy came up to him.
“Were you the first to arrive?” she asked.
“Of course,” he replied, a little too carelessly.
“Where’s Jill?”
“Over in the museum.” He nodded his head sideways and Betsy looked over at a modest building with a Civil War era cannon in front of it. “I went in with her, but it’s just some old pictures and stuff, so I got bored after a while and decided to check my pilot light. If I leave the pilot light on, it keeps a head of steam on and I can start ’er right up.”
Betsy said, “How long before you want to start back?”
“Oh, anytime you two are ready. I proved my point today already, and I’ll take her easy on the trip back, so she’ll be in good trim for tomorrow.” And a big, confident grin spread all over his face.
T
he main room on the first floor of the museum was devoted mostly to enlarged photographs of every Litchfield man who had served in the Civil War. There were about twenty, most of them with names like Svenson and Larson and Pedersen. Brief bios under the oval frames indicated some had been in America only a year or two before marching off to war. Betsy found herself touching the frame around the solemn face of a young man who hadn’t been in Minnesota long enough to learn English, but had died at Bull Run, age twenty.
Elsewhere on the ground floor was a small collection of dresses from the 1890s. The pride of the collection was made of light green silk, all ruffles and gathers and ruching, worn by a bride at her wedding. It must have been put away carefully, since it showed few signs of wear or fading. But the dress was on a mannequin from
the midtwentieth century, when notions of what made a woman’s form beautiful were quite different. The dress wasn’t designed for a cantilevered bosom, and the mannequin, despite a look of cool indifference, looked as if she would have preferred a pair of pedal pushers and a sleeveless shirt, maybe with a Peter Pan collar.
Betsy went upstairs and found Jill wandering among a large collection of toys. There were electric trains and windup cars and dolls in great variety. “I used to have a doll just like that,” said Betsy, pointing to a doll with a composition head and cloth body. “It makes me feel old to see it in a museum.”
“Maybe you are old,” said Jill, deadpan.
“Oh, yeah? Look over there,” retorted Betsy, pointing at a Barbie doll. “I bet you had one of those.”
“You want to know the truth? I didn’t. My mother didn’t like dolls that looked like miniature grownups, and anyway, I preferred baby dolls or little kid dolls. My favorite doll was Poor Pitiful Pearl—remember her?”
“Gosh, yes! She made me think of Wednesday Addams. Remember the old television show?
Biddle-dee-boop!
” She snapped her fingers twice.
“Biddle-dee-boop!”
Snap, snap.
Jill smiled. “Did you get to ride with Adam Smith?”
“Yes, from Pine Grove to here. Jill, you should see his car, it’s a 1911 Renault sport touring car seventeen feet long. Gorgeous, gorgeous car, rides like a limo. It’s right out front, he parked behind the Stanley.”
“How fast does it go?”
“Around fifty.”
“Rats, we’d better get back to Lars.” Jill started for the stairs.
“Why?” asked Betsy, hurrying to keep up.
“Because when he finds out how fast that car is, he’ll go nuts waiting for us. Let’s go!”
Sure enough, Lars was in a fever to be gone. “Smith already left in his blue yacht. That Renault’s hot, and he doesn’t have to stop for water.”
“You got steam?” asked Jill.
“Yes, yes, yes, let’s go!”
Betsy grumbled, climbing into the back seat, “This is not a race, you know.”
“Well, of course it isn’t!” said Lars. “Otherwise we’d be lined up at a starting line so’s everyone would leave at the same time. Which way out of town?”
“We’re not going out of town, we’re supposed to go someplace around here for lunch.”
“Jill, we don’t have time for lunch!”
Betsy said, “But I’m hungry.”
Jill said, “Me, too. And anyway, it’s included in the entry fee.”
Jill was not a little woman, but Lars was very large, and when he turned toward her, his expression angry, he seemed very intimidating. But she had that special look of her own, one that simply absorbed his anger and frustration, giving nothing back and leaving him deflated. He sighed, “Oh, well, what the hell. Which way?”
“Go to the corner and turn right. Go one block and turn left on Sibley.”
“Right,” said Lars, settling himself in the driver’s seat. He opened the throttle about a third of the way, and the Stanley obediently pulled smoothly away. Lars appeared resigned to lunch, but as they rounded the corner at the end of the block, the car let loose a loud and
angry
Whooooo, whoo-whoo!
, making pedestrians jump and stare. Some waved, laughing at their own surprise. One exception was a young man standing in the dark, wet ruins of a two-liter bottle of Coke. His gesture was unkind.
Jill read instructions until they were safely parked at Peters on the Lake. “ ‘Please remember to order from the Antique Car menu,’ ” she concluded.
“Hey, Smith is here, too,” said Lars, nodding at the long and beautiful Renault parked in a distant and shady corner.
“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
rolling
in it. So it doesn’t matter that he can’t find another job in his field.” Again the eyebrow lifted and she nodded weightily.
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.”
“Jill, are you okay with this new interest of his?”
Jill sighed. “I guess so. The cars are beautiful, and the people who own them seem nice enough. And now that I’m more confident that Lars knows what he’s doing with the Stanley, I enjoy riding around in it. On the other hand, this is a very expensive hobby he’s gotten into. It’s a comfort to know that while Lars can get very crazy about something, it never lasts forever.”
“Except you?” asked Betsy with a smile.