As they went down the walk out of the Boy Scout building, Betsy checked her watch. It was not quite quarter to ten, so she continued across the narrow lane and through an opening in a tall hedge into the cemetery.
“What’s up?” asked Jill, hurrying to join her.
“Nothing, we have a few minutes, so I thought I’d look around.”
“In here?” asked Lars. “This is a cemetery,” he added, in case she hadn’t noticed the headstones.
“I know. I just like cemeteries.” Betsy said it somewhat shamefacedly.
“So do I,” said Jill.
“You do?”
“I thought you’d got over that!” groaned Lars. “I don’t get it, what’s the attraction?”
Betsy said, “I like the epitaphs. They’re coming back, you know. For a long while it was too costly to put more than names and a date on a tombstone, but with laser cutters, you can have drawings and sayings all over your stone. Every so often I try to think up one for myself. I like really old ones best. ‘Behold O man, as you pass by-’ ”
Jill joined in, “ ‘As you are now, so once was I. As I am now, you soon must be. Repent, prepare to follow me.’ ” Jill and Betsy laughed quietly, pleased to find another thing in common.
Lars said, “I’m going to go start my car,” and walked away.
“He’s a little sensitive,” apologized Jill. “Or are we a little mad?”
“There’s something peaceful about cemeteries,” said Betsy. “I think long, easy thoughts in these places. Oh, look at that stone with the bus on it!”
“Someone in the Boy Scout building said the man who owned the bus company was buried here so he could keep watch over his company.”
A large monument near where they came in had lettering on every side. They paused to read it and found an account of an Indian massacre, noting the remains of the victims were buried here. “Say, you don’t see many of these,” said Jill.
“I know. From the cowboy movies you’d think they’d be common, but they’re not.”
They heard a quiet voice, and moved sideways just enough to see a woman on the other side, talking to a man taking photographs of the monument. She was saying-not reading from the monument, which had the usual sentiments about savages and innocent settlers, “… and the local Indian agent told them that the money promised from the federal government in payment for their land was not coming and they could try surviving that winter by eating grass. So of course, they got upset.”
“Uh-huh,” said the man. “Here, come point at the writing so I can show in the picture how big this sucker is.”
“Come on,” murmured Jill, and Betsy followed her back through the hedge.
They went the short distance down the lane and then crossed the faded blacktop street to the bus barn. Drivers, some wearing the big white dusters of the period, were standing beside their machines, or tinkering with them, or running a chamois or soft cloth over them, or talking with others about adventures on the road.
It was indicative of the determined goodwill these people had for one another that they said nothing when Lars began the lengthy process of firing up his Stanley. Steamers make internal combustion people nervous. Lars did his part by rolling his machine out of the shed first. Betsy came to help push and was surprised to find the car light and easy to move. “No transmission to weigh things down,” Lars reminded her.
While Lars worked with his blow torch, Betsy went to look at the other cars preparing for departure. Some she had seen in Excelsior last Saturday.
Trembling like Don Knotts was the rickety, topless, curved-dash Oldsmobile. Near it was an ancient green Sears, whose tiller came up from the side and made a ninety-degree turn to lay across the driver’s lap. The International Harvester farm wagon with hard rubber tires came rolling by.
Here also was the immense Winton’s younger sibling, the soft-yellow car with brown fenders that could have passed as a car from the twenties, that had beat Lars to Excelsior. And there was another, brighter yellow car of very dashing design. It had wide tires, a very long hood, two seats, and a big oval gas tank on top of the trunk, right behind the seats. On the back bumper was a spare tire with a black canvas cover on which was printed MARMON, 1911. Like the Winton, it looked very competent, and she began to feel a little better about being here with the super-capable Stanley.
Falling somewhere in between the Olds and the Marmon were a black 1910 Maxwell two-seater and an immense dark blue Cadillac touring car from 1911. There was also a beautiful, snub-nosed two-seater Buick, bright red, with its name spelled in brass on its radiator and 1907 in smaller figures.
An early REO pickup truck, also red, with hard rubber wheels, buck-whuddled by, an enormous American flag flying from the bin. “John!” called someone as he went by, “you’re not allowed to use a sail!”
John, laughing, answered, “That’s my line, Vern!”
A little yellow Brush with its top up puttered along behind the REO, driven by a man who looked a great deal like Oliver Hardy. Behind it dick-dicked a red Yale whose driver and passenger were wearing white knickers and jackets, pinch-brim hats, and goggles. The car, Betsy noticed, had a back door one could use to get into the back seat. “What year?” she called to the driver.
“Ought five!” he replied and waved as he continued up the road.
There came an eerie sound, a low howling slowly climbing the scale as it grew louder. Heads turned in alarm toward it, then just as Betsy recognized it as the Stanley building a head of steam, someone said, “By God, you’ll never get me up in one of those things!” and there was laughter.
“Hey, Betsy!” called Lars. “Com’ere!” She waved and went over.
Jill said, “We’re going to leave now. Have you met up with Adam?”
“No.” Betsy looked around, but didn’t see him. “You go ahead, I’ll find him.”
Jill followed Lars into the car, the route papers in her hand. “We go south, which is the way we’re headed,” she said, looking at the directions. She waved at Betsy. “See you in Litchfield!”
Lars politely waited until he was well away from the bus barn before blowing his whistle, but still some people waved impolitely at him.
When all but one of the cars going on the jaunt had departed, Betsy was still standing there. The driver of that last car, a tall, slim man with nice blue eyes said, “Miss your ride?”
“I don’t see how,” Betsy replied. “I was supposed to go with Adam Smith in his Renault.”
“Last I saw him, he was in the Boy Scout building,” said the man, climbing down. “That was just a few minutes ago, but he looked all tied up.”
Betsy’s face fell and he said, “Why don’t you ride with us? Plenty of room.” He gestured at his car, a big Model T. A woman sitting in the passenger seat waved invitingly.
Betsy hesitated. She wanted to talk to Adam. On the other hand, if he was really tied up, she was not only not going to talk to him in any case, she wasn’t going to get to ride in one of these pioneers. “All right. I have a ride back, which I won’t get if I can’t get to Litchfield. I’m Betsy Devonshire.”
“Mike Jimson. That’s my wife Dorothy. Climb aboard. Spark retarded?” he asked his wife.
“Yes, love,” she said.
Betsy opened the door and climbed into the spacious back seat, which was black leather and deeply comfortable. Mike cranked once, then again, and the Model T shook itself to life. He came around and got in, as his wife said, “South on Oak to the Stop sign at County Road Forty.”
Used to the incredible smoothness of the Stanley, and the very faint vibration of her own modern car, she was a little surprised at the steady jiggle of the Model T, and suddenly empathetic of Charlotte’s complaint last weekend of an upset stomach.
There was a line of six antiques waiting to cross Highway 23. The old cars were slow getting into motion, and so needed the road to be clear a considerable distance in both directions. Looking up the line, Betsy was amused to see how it was sort of like looking at a movie slightly out of focus, as each car vibrated to its own rhythm.
When the Model T’s turn came, they waited only a couple of minutes before Mike raced his engine, and, the gearbox groaning loudly, they went slowly, slowly up the slight incline and out onto the highway. They were only up to walking speed as they started down the other side, and a modern car whizzing by on the highway tooted its horn derisively.
But now there was a clear stretch, and Mike, relaxing, suddenly burst into song. Dorothy immediately joined in:
“Let me call you Lizzie, I’m in love with you;
Let me hear you rattle down the av-e-nue;
Keep your headlights glowing, and your taillight, too;
Let me call you Lizzie, I’m in debt for you!”
Betsy laughed. “Who wrote that?” she asked.
“Who knows?” Dorothy replied. “It was a schoolyard song when I was young, though it might have been a vaudeville number about the time the first Model T came out. The Model T was called Tin Lizzie, you know.”
“Yes, that’s one thing I knew about them. So I guess that song is as old as the joke that you could have a Model T in any color you wanted, so long as it was black.”
“Do you know why all Fords were black?” asked Mike.
“Why?” asked Betsy, expecting another joke.
But Mike was serious. “Two reasons: first, because black paint dried quicker than any other color; and second, because it made supplying spare parts a snap. No need to try to figure out how many green fenders or blue doors or brown hood covers to stock when everything came in black. And all the parts were interchangeable, thanks to the assembly line method. People forget what a huge innovator Henry Ford was. He once said he could give his Model T’s away and make money just selling parts.”
When they got onto County Road 2, which was a busy two-lane highway, the old cars had to run on the shoulder. Cars rushed past, some honking in greeting, others in warning, one or two in anger. Mike summoned the Ford’s best speed, which came with even more noise and so much vibration Betsy wondered why parts weren’t shaken free.
“How fast are we going?” she asked, her voice sounding flat against the racket.
Mike checked his primitive instrument panel. “Twenty-eight mind-blowing miles an hour. What’s next?” he asked Dorothy.
“We’re on this for six miles,” she replied, “until we come to a Stop sign where Route Ten joins us and we turn left.”
“Okay,” he nodded.
Betsy tried to relax in the capacious back seat, stretching her arms out on either side. Seize the day, she told herself. The breeze made her light dress flutter against her legs, and kept her cool. She had wisely dabbed sun block on her face and arms this morning, so no fear of sunburn. She decided she liked riding up high and having her feet flat on the floor instead of resting on their heels. And in the open like this, and at this slow a speed, there was plenty of time to look around and enjoy the sights and smells of the countryside. Unlike in the Stanley, with its low sides, in the Model T she felt very much “inside” and safe, and so didn’t mind the lack of a seat belt very much.
But the noise was such that she soon gave up trying to talk with Mike and Dorothy.
In a little over an hour they came into Pine Grove and pulled over behind a row of antique cars for a pit stop at the Home Town Café. Betsy climbed out, dusty, windblown, and a little deaf from the noise of the engine. She crossed the highway, surprised at her unsteady pace. That jiggle was really something, especially when it stopped.
Pine Grove was a hamlet strung along one side of the highway, the other side marked by a well-maintained railroad line. She looked around, at the dusty buildings, the flat landscape, the old cars. She’d admired the people who made the movie Paper Moon for traveling around the Midwest in a search for authentic dirt roads and small towns, thinking then it must have been hard to find them; but they’d traveled down a dirt road a while back, and here was an authentically shabby little town, right on a highway, not hard to find at all.
Betsy felt as if her brain had shaken loose during the ride. She had gone into some strange, reflective mode-not the kind that comes from actual meditation, but the kind that comes from heavy-duty pain pills. Everything had become a tinge unreal. She saw an elderly man sitting very erect on a bench in front of the café, and wanted to go ask him if he’d fought in the Civil War, just to see if he’d cackle and tell her a story about Gettysburg. Of course, another part of her knew that question was better asked of the old man’s great-grandfather, that she was caught up in the pseudo-reality of a moving picture. This was the early twenty-first century, not the early twentieth. Right? She began to look for an anachronism to prove it. Like in the movie Gladiator, spoiled for her when the ancient Romans handed out hastily printed leaflets. The movie makers had apparently forgotten the printing press was at least ten centuries forward from ancient Rome.
And now, here came a good anachronism in the form of a train rumbling down the tracks behind the row of cars. The engines pulling the train were diesels, which didn’t replace steam engines until the fifties. She waved gratefully at it, and watched the whole train rumble by. It was long, mostly grain cars. There was no little red caboose at the end, which made her feel sad.
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.