After she had left, Godwin said, “So you’re going to look into this.”

“Looks like it.”

“I wonder what the big secret is.”

“I suspect it has something to do with her son. And remember what Phil said, about Bro and his father struggling for control of the steel door company. Do you know anything about the company?”

“It’s Birmingham Metal Fabrication of Roseville, I know that. Our back door was made by them. Our decorator recommended them, but he always wants us to buy local.”

“So you don’t know if it’s in good financial condition.”

“No. But I’d think a quarrel in the uppermost management couldn’t be a good thing.”

“Yes, that’s true. But was the quarrel serious enough to lead to murder? That’s the real question.”

9

First thing Tuesday morning a man in a handsome three-piece business suit came into Crewel World. Despite the vest, and though his shirt had long sleeves with French cuffs held together with heavy gold links, and his bright blue silk tie was tight against his collar, he did not look the least wilted in the early-morning warmth and humidity. The big American sedan he’d climbed out of in front of the shop was a variety that came with heavy air-conditioning.

He was tall, with dark brown hair and blue eyes, square-jawed and handsome, moving with athletic grace. The fit of the suit bespoke wealth. Betsy could almost hear Godwin’s engine start to race.

But the man ignored Godwin’s flutter of inquiring eyelashes and came to the desk to ask Betsy, “Are you Ms. Devonshire?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“I’m Broward Birmingham.” He didn’t hold out his hand, and his tone was that of an executive seriously thinking that order could be restored only by firing someone. Betsy suddenly realized that his jaw was so prominent because the underlying muscles were clenched.

“How do you do?” said Betsy.

“My mother came here yesterday and talked with you.” It was not a question.

“Yes, she did.”

“She asked you to do some unofficial investigating of the murder of my father.”

“That’s correct.”

“I am here to ask you not to do that.”

“Why not?”

“Because this isn’t any of your business. I see no reason to ask an amateur to second-guess the police.”

“Actually, I wouldn’t be second-guessing them. I don’t have any idea what they might be doing. I will just talk to people, listen to their stories, and draw my own conclusions.”

“And who knows what conclusions an amateur might draw? This isn’t something you’ve been trained to do.”

“That’s true. But I seem to have a talent for it. Also, I am unhampered by the rules-of evidence and so forth-that the police must follow.”

“That is exactly why I am asking you to stay out of this. I don’t want you screwing up an official investigation.”

“I wouldn’t dream of doing that!”

“I’m sure you wouldn’t, not on purpose. On the other hand, if you come across evidence and handle it or move it or take it away, that can compromise the rules that must be followed for the evidence to be used in a court of law.”

“Oh, I see what you’re getting at. But, you see, I wouldn’t do something like that. I have a friend who is a police officer, and she advises me about particulars like that. I don’t usually pick up things, mostly I just talk with people. It can’t hurt to talk.”

“I’m not just concerned about you moving evidence. I don’t want you to investigate, period. Let me tell you as plainly as I know how: Stay out of this.”

Betsy nearly continued arguing with him. Then she saw that the muscles in his jaw were even more prominent, and she recalled what Phil had said yesterday about the Birmingham men: They don’t like people to disagree with them.

Broward had no legal authority over Betsy, but something her mother used to say rolled across the front of her mind on those letters made of dots: Those who fight and run away, live to fight another day.

“I understand,” she said as meekly as she could, and dropped her eyes.

“Thank you,” he said tightly, turned on his heel, and walked out.

Godwin withheld his snigger until Broward slammed himself into his big car and drove away. “Good for you,” he said. Because Betsy had not said she was going to obey Broward’s order, only that she understood it.

“I wonder how long I’ll be able to poke around before he finds out?”

Godwin’s amused smile faded as he thought that over. “I think you ought to be even more concerned about what he’ll do when he does find out.”

Adam Smith sat at the head of the old wooden table, his six steering committee members arranged down either side. Five were, like him, white males in their sixties. The sixth was Ceil Ziegfield, married to a white male in his sixties. Every one of them owned at least one antique car; every one had made the New London to New Brighton run at least three times.

Adam had tried it fourteen times in six different cars, and had finished it only nine. He liked the rarer makes, which tended to be more delicate, eccentric, and cranky than the ones which had proved their worth by becoming numerous. But he always had chosen the road less traveled.

“Have we got all the pretour routes printed?” Drivers would gather in New London early, and would drive to nearby towns: Paynesville on Wednesday, Spicer on Thursday, and Litchfield on Friday, following complicated routes on back roads, trying to keep off busy highways as much as possible.

“All set,” said Ceil. She was secretary of the committee, naturally; it never occurred to the men to think a woman wouldn’t be pleased to take minutes and do the endless paperwork connected with this project. Ceil wasn’t pleased. On the other hand, the men who had done the job in previous years-this was the first year a woman had been honored by being chosen to sit on the steering committee-had managed all right, and so she supposed she could, too.

“Who’s going out ahead to put up arrows?” asked Ed.

“Me, I guess,” said Adam. Small squares of paper with bold black arrows printed on them were to be stapled on fence posts at intersections to aid drivers. This had been the late Bill Birmingham’s job, as he had been in charge of laying out this year’s routes.

But after a discussion about possible problems Adam might have to be on site to resolve, it was decided that Jerry, who had laid out the routes last year, should put up the arrows. Ceil handed over the shoebox full of them and a staple gun.

“What else?” asked Adam. “What have we forgotten?” There was always something forgotten, something that was thought to have been taken care of that wasn’t, some glitch in the planning. This would be the Sixteenth Annual New London to New Brighton Antique Car Run, but he was sure that even now, after sixteen years, there was a screwup somewhere.

But everyone turned confident smiles on him, and Ceil even said aloud, “Nothing. Everything’s fine.”

“We have enough banners,” Adam prompted, meaning the heavy plastic squares with a soft drink logo and a number on them-a past president of the club owned a soft drink bottling company, and supplied the banners for free, complete with logo.

“We have fifty-three drivers signed up as of yesterday evening, and expect perhaps twelve more by Saturday,” said Ed, consulting his notes. People were allowed to sign up as late as the day of the run. “We’ve never had more than seventy, and we have banners numbered up to eighty-five.”

“Have we got enough volunteers at Buffalo High for lunch?” Buffalo wasn’t a big city, but the high school was one of those massive consolidated ones, with a huge parking lot. Drivers came in for a hot lunch of hamburgers and hot dogs, with cole slaw and watermelon on the side. The Antique Car Club had to rent the cafeteria from the school district, and then find volunteers to buy supplies and prepare the meal. The soft drink bottler would provide drinks at cost.