“I wish I’d known you had an old car,” said Betsy.

“Then I don’t see why you didn’t ask me,” said Joe indifferently, turning a shoulder to her as he focused on Adam. “Of course, I couldn’t have taken her for a ride, not without tires, and I don’t know where to buy them.”

“I could probably give you a source,” said Adam. “If you’re interested.”

“Well, I don’t know. The old car’s useless, really. I was just keeping her out of sentiment. My Uncle Frank learned to drive with that car, and he used to give me and my cousins rides in it in the summer days of my youth. I think he’d halfway forgotten he had it, and my brother never drove it at all. I found it in an old barn a few years ago and had it moved to a heated shed, because I remembered a magazine article from somewhere that said some of them are valuable to collectors. I don’t know if she’s of any real value, since she’s a McIntyre, and I never heard of that brand, not like the Maxwell, or a Cadillac or a Model T.”

“How much of it is original?” asked Adam.

Joe shrugged. “All of it. The engine, chassis, transmission, even the paint job, though it looks a little scabby in places. Original wheels, original seat covers, original glass in the windows. And everything works, except the headlights. My uncle wouldn’t drive it at night because the lights were so weak, and now they won’t light at all.”

“What kind of headlights?”

“Big ’uns, made of brass. There’s no lightbulbs in ’em, but I don’t know who took ’ em out.” He scratched an earnest eyebrow to hide the wink he gave Betsy from under his hand.

Adam said, “If they’re original, the lights are acetylene, not electric. That kind doesn’t use bulbs.”

“Acetylene? You mean like a welding torch?”

Adam nodded. “I’d kind of like to see that car.”

“Sure, but it’s not for sale.”

“Who said anything about buying it? I saw one at a show a few years ago, where they asked me to judge. I didn’t like the instruments on the dashboard-they were reproductions-and I’d like to see a set of originals.”

Joe produced a business card from an inside pocket. “Give me a call sometime. I’ll be glad to show it to you.” He walked away.

Ceil snorted softly. “Of course you’re not interested in a 1909 McIntyre with all original parts!”

Adam shrugged, eyebrows raised in a show of innocence. “Well, now you mention it, I do know a couple of people who might pay good money to buy that car-from me.” He looked at the card, pulled out his wallet, and slid it into a pocket.

“If you manage to pry that vehicle out of Joe Mickels’s hands for a nickel less than it’s worth, you’re a better man than most!” she said, laughing.

Betsy decided not to warn Adam after all that Joe’s apparently fortuitous appearance at the booth was, in all likelihood, the first move in a plan to sell his McIntyre for at the very least what it was worth. Joe never parted with anything for less than its true value. Moreover, she doubted that sentimental story of it being handed down three generations. Joe? Sentimental? Ha!

There was the sprightly sound of “Fu¨r Elise,” and Ceil, still smiling, pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Excelsior,” she said into it. “Ah!” She checked her watch. “Thanks!” she added, and disconnected. “The Winton just came onto Minnetonka Boulevard. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”

“Not the Stanley?” asked Betsy.

“Why the Stanley?” replied the woman.

“Well, I just thought, because Stanleys are so fast.”

The woman laughed. “Yes, for about twenty-five miles. Then they have to stop for water. Every blinking twenty-five miles they have to stop for water. And of course, if they blow a gasket, or the pilot light goes out, or they run out of steam, then the delays really mount up.”

Betsy flashed on Lars laughing as he chuffed around the table in Crewel World, calling “Get a horse!” to imaginary internal combustion cars. Apparently the laugh was not entirely his alone.

She had her clipboard ready when a soft-yellow car with brown fenders came up the street. It didn’t look like a car from the teens, but more like something out of an early-thirties movie, with its sleek modeling, long hood, and deeply purring motor. A solidly built, prosperous-looking man in a cream suit was driving, and a very pretty woman wearing a cloche hat sat beside him. They both smiled at Betsy as the car pulled up.

“Number ten,” he announced, and Betsy checked off Number Ten, a 1912 Winton, on her list, noting the time beside it.

“Are we the first?” asked the man, though that was obviously the case; there were no other cars in sight.

“Yes, sir, you are,” said Betsy. She pointed with her pen at the booth. “Please check in with Adam Smith. He’ll tell you where to park.”

The Winton had only just moved on down the street when Betsy heard the now-familiar loud and breathy whistle of Lars’s Stanley. She looked around and saw it, wreathed in steam, rolling smoothly up Lake toward her. She waited until he pulled up beside her, all smiles, before noting the time. He was one minute, twelve seconds behind the leader.

“Beat ’em all,” he announced. “I told you the Stanley was a fast one. I bet number two won’t be here for-” He broke off, staring up the street at the Winton pulling up to the curb a little beyond the booth.

“Sorry,” said Betsy. But she was smiling.

“Oh, well, like they say, this isn’t a race,” said Lars, but his smile was now forced.

“How’d she run?” asked Betsy.

“Sweet as milk, and smooth as silk,” said Lars. “But I’m thinking I should’ve looked around for a 1914 model; they have condensers in them, so you don’t need to stop every thousand yards to take on water. Someone in St. Paul says he heard there’s a guy with one-”

“No, no!” said Betsy. “You don’t want to sell this one already! You just got it all restored!”

“Oh, I would never sell this one,” Lars replied. “But the 1914, with a condenser…” His eyes had gone dreamy. Then he shook himself. “Do I just go up and park behind that yellow car?”

“No, check in at the booth first. Mr. Smith will tell you where to park. And Lars, this time talk to Jill first before you buy another Stanley.” But she was talking to his back and he blew his whistle before she’d finished.

There was a half-hour gap before the rest of the cars started trickling in. The trickle grew quickly to a steady stream that as quickly diminished again to a trickle, until Betsy had checked off all but two cars. She was getting very warm standing out in the sun, and suspected her nose was getting sunburned. She wished she’d thought to wear a hat. And sunglasses.

A rust-brown two-seater came up the street, its engine going diddle-diddle-hick-diddle. It was a Maxwell with black leather seats and black trim, the top half of its windshield folded down. The car’s wax finish shimmered in the bright sunlight as the engine idled unevenly.

The couple driving the car had also dressed in period costumes, he in a big off-white coat called a “duster,” a pinch-brim hat in a tiny, dark-check pattern. Goggles with thick rubber edges covered his eyes. There was a dab of grease on his cheek. She wore a duster with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, a huge hat swathed in veils, and sunglasses.

“We’re number twenty, the Birminghams, Bill and Charlotte,” said the woman, who was on Betsy’s side of the car-like most of these antiques, the steering wheel was on the right. The man stared straight ahead, his gauntleted hands tightly gripping the wheel.

“How long do we have here before we start back?” asked Charlotte, pushing aside her veil so she could wipe her face with a handkerchief. Her face looked pale as well as sweaty-and no wonder, thought Betsy, swathed in fabric like that.

“They’re asking the drivers to stay at least an hour,” replied Betsy. “And just so you know, there’s a reporter from the Excelsior Bay Times here, asking to interview some of you.”