They talked awhile longer, then Betsy went back to Jill. The place had filled up with antique car owners, their spouses and even some children, other friends and passengers, and townsfolk wanting to meet the owners of those strange old cars. “Where’s Lars?” asked Betsy, unable to spot him in the crowd.

“He’s here, making the rounds, talking cars and engines and the run tomorrow.”

“Jill, are you okay with this new interest of his?”

Jill sighed. “I guess so. The cars are beautiful, and the people who own them seem nice enough. And now that I’m more confident that Lars knows what he’s doing with the Stanley, I enjoy riding around in it. On the other hand, this is a very expensive hobby he’s gotten into. It’s a comfort to know that while Lars can get very crazy about something, it never lasts forever.”

“Except you?” asked Betsy with a smile.

“Okay, except me.”

Lars circulated for a while, finished his third beer, and came back to ask Jill, “Are we staying here for dinner? They’re setting up a big grill outside, and I hear their burgers are great.”

Betsy said, “How about I take you and Jill to the Blue Heron in Willmar? It’s supposed to be very nice. I left my copy of the Excelsior Bay Times at the motel, and it has a nice picture of you and your Steamer in it.”

“Really? Well, sure, I wouldn’t mind having a look at it. How about you, Jill?”

“Fine. We can’t talk here, anyhow. How about we follow you in my car, Betsy, so you don’t have to drive us back.”

The Blue Heron was a Frank Lloyd Wright-style building on top of a hill overlooking Lake Willmar. It was the clubhouse of a private golf course, but the restaurant on the second floor was open to the public. The far wall and the long adjacent wall were made of panes of thermal glass and overlooked a putting green and the lake.

The hostess at first said there would be a wait, but when Betsy gave her name, she said, “Oh, there’s someone from your party here already, holding a table for you.”

Betsy followed her to a table by the longer wall, where Sergeant Morrie Steffans rose to his considerable height as they approached. He looked pleased, or perhaps amused, at her surprise.

“How did you know we’d be coming here?” asked Betsy as he came around to hold her chair for her.

“I’m a detective, remember?”

She frowned at him, so he elaborated. “One of your employees told me where you were staying. I drove out here and had a talk with the manager. He told me he always recommended the Blue Heron to those guests who like poached salmon and the Ramble Inn to those who like deep-fried perch. Somehow you struck me as a salmon person so, like the salmon, I swam upstream to here.” He smiled at Betsy, who, rather to her surprise, found herself smiling back.

She introduced Jill and Lars, and he said, “What, you collect cops as a hobby?”

“No, Jill was my sister’s best friend and I guess I sort of inherited her. Lars is Jill’s steady. He’s the reason we’re here for the run. He owns a Stanley Steamer.”

“Yes, I guessed that by the scorch marks,” said Steffans.

Lars put the hand with the scald into his lap. “These things happen until you learn the tricks of the boiler,” he said.

“There must be compensations, then,” said Steffans and he listened with apparent interest while Lars rode his hobby horse for a while. When the waitress arrived with the menus, Steffans said, “I understand you do a beautiful poached salmon here.”

“We do,” she said, “but we had a big crowd at lunch and they all ordered it, so we’re out until Sunday,” and looked confused when this amused everyone at the table. “We have some very nice lamb chops,” she offered and was reassured when this didn’t set off another round of laughter.

Betsy and Steffans had the lamb, Lars ordered a porterhouse steak, and Jill decided to try the stuffed chicken breast, another specialty of the house. No one wanted a predinner drink, so the waitress went to fetch their salads.

• • •

Marvin and Charlotte watched Betsy go into the restaurant from the bar. “Who are those two with her?” asked Marvin.

“I don’t know-wait, that man was driving the Stanley last Saturday, and Betsy told me she was sponsoring the Stanley. I don’t remember his name. He’s new to the Antique Car Club.”

“So he’s not a cop.”

“I don’t know what he does, she didn’t say.”

“Who’s the other woman?”

“I don’t know. But it doesn’t matter. What matters is they didn’t stay for the barbecue in New London, so we can talk to them about Adam without anyone else in the club seeing us and telling him about it.”

They gave Betsy and her friends a few minutes, then strolled casually into the dining room. They were halfway across when they saw Betsy and then the fourth person at her table. “Oh, my God, it’s that Minnetonka detective!” murmured Charlotte, gripping Marvin’s arm to bring him to a halt. She would have turned around except the detective had already seen her. His look of surprise brought the attention of the others.

Betsy lifted a hand and said, “Well, hello, what are you doing here?”

Charlotte led Marvin to the table. “I was feeling caged,” she said, “and I just wanted to go for a long drive. Marvin has a convertible, and the night was warm, and before we realized it, we were nearly to Willmar. Then I remembered this as a nice place, and we decided to stop in.”

Steffans, with old-fashioned manners, had risen to his feet as Charlotte came to them, and after a puzzled moment, so did Lars. Betsy performed the introductions. Charlotte said, a trifle dryly, “Yes, Sergeant Steffans and I have already met. And he’s talked with Marvin Pierce, too.” To Lars: “That’s a beautiful Stanley you bought. I hope you have many happy miles in her.” To Jill: “I think Betsy mentioned you to me. It’s needlepoint you do? I’m a counted cross stitcher.”

“Won’t you join us?” said Steffans. “We just placed our order, but we can get the waitress back, I’m sure.”

“No, no,” said Marvin, beginning to turn away. “We don’t want to interrupt your conversation.”

Charlotte added, “Besides, there’s no room.”

But Steffans was already moving his chair to one side so he could bring the small table behind him up. “See how easy it is to fix that? Now, Mrs. Birmingham, you sit right here, and Marvin, you sit there, and I’ll just go find our waitress.” He gave a sort of bow, and was halfway across the room in a couple of long-legged strides.

Charlotte looked around the table with an uncomfortable smile. “Goodness, isn’t he the managing kind? He must have been terrific at directing traffic!”

Betsy, laughing with the others, said, “I hope you don’t mind. By the way, have you seen this week’s Excelsior Bay Times? I brought it along because there’s a a beautiful photograph of Lars with his Stanley. But there’s a photograph of Bill, too, working on his Maxwell.”

“There is?” said Charlotte. “Well, isn’t that interesting. I remember you saying there was a reporter in Excelsior covering the run, but I didn’t see him. May I see it?”

Betsy handed it across to her. “It’s in the middle, lots of pictures.”

Charlotte opened the paper and ran her eyes quickly over the photographs. She gave a little scream when she saw the Maxwell with a white flannel rump hiding most of the hood and engine. “Oh, my God, Bill would have hated to see that!” she said, and handed it to Marvin. “Isn’t that just awful?” she said, and laughed. But she felt her lips twist and her eyes began to sting. “Excuse me, I’m sorry,” she said and fished in her purse for a handkerchief. “I had to dig this old thing out,” she said, waving it in her hand before dabbing her eyes. “My mother always carried one, but I never did until this happened to Bill. The oddest things set me off crying, and I just hate those wads of Kleenex.” She touched her nose but didn’t blow it. “I’m sorry,” she said again.