“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.

15

The 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.