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.

8

At 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.