“You’d think so, wouldn’t you? But Adam sent men in to talk to our employees, about a rival company that had better benefits, and hinting we were in financial trouble-lies, just like the lies he told about Bill during the election. That’s how he works, not by showing he’s better, but that the alternative is worse, getting everyone stirred up. Production was falling off and some of the men threatened to quit.”
“So what did Bill and Broward do?” asked Lars.
“They sicced a lawyer on Adam’s company. I don’t know what the lawyer said, but a few months later Adam was out on his keester, and General Steel never bothered us again. They won’t tell you so, of course, they have strict rules about privacy. But that’s what happened.” She saw belief on their faces and smiled.
The waitress took Charlotte and Marvin’s order. Betsy made sure the waitress understood that she, Lars, and Jill were on one ticket.
The food, when it came, was delicious. Charlotte became intelligent and witty. Marvin, while more low key, was charming and funny. Betsy could see why Lisa Birmingham hoped one day the two would pair off.
It was Steffans who most surprised Betsy. He was relaxed, intelligent on a number of issues, nice without the least bit of condescension.
Toward the end of the meal, Charlotte asked Steffans point-blank, “Are you close to arresting someone for the murder of my husband?”
To Betsy’s surprise, Steffans nodded. “As a matter of fact, I am. If I can get a few more answers, I might make an arrest tomorrow.”
“Here at the run?” she asked, her attention almost painful in its intensity.
“Yes,” he replied, and she relaxed all over. Betsy nodded to herself. Broward’s not coming to the run. She thought, Charlotte’s glad he’s safe.
“But you’re out of your jurisdiction,” said Jill, faintly scandalized.
“Oh, I’ve been in touch with the Meeker County Sheriff, and I can get a warrant like that,” he said, snapping his fingers.
“If you need backup, I’ll be there tomorrow,” said Lars.
“Me, too,” said Jill, and there was a subtle shift in them, the way they sat, that linked them in a new way to Steffans. Betsy suddenly felt like an outsider.
“If you’re handy, sure,” said Steffans. Seeing the amazed look on Charlotte’s face, he said, “I see you weren’t properly introduced. These are Officers Jill Cross and Lars Larson, Excelsior PD.”
Charlotte said angrily to Betsy, “You didn’t tell me!”
Betsy replied mildly, “I didn’t think it mattered. They aren’t here in their official capacity, or at least they weren’t until just now. Lars came as owner and driver of a car I’m sponsoring, and Jill really is his girl and my best friend.”
“We understand,” said Marvin, placatingly, speaking as much to Charlotte as to Betsy. “We’re just a little surprised-which is understandable, considering the circumstances.”
“And it’s all right,” said Steffans. “We’re all still friends, right?”
“Right,” agreed Marvin.
But it was a moment before Charlotte nodded agreement.
Still, the convivial mood was gone and the party began to break up. Soon Betsy found herself down in the small parking lot in front of the building, waving as Jill and Lars in one car, Charlotte and Marvin in another, pulled out and away.
Steffans stood beside Betsy until the cars’ taillights disappeared around a bend.
Betsy asked, “Are you really going to arrest Adam Smith tomorrow?”
“No.”
“Why did you say you would?”
“I said I might make an arrest tomorrow. But not Mr. Smith. He has an iron-clad alibi.”
“Then who? Broward isn’t here-is he?”
“Not as far as I know.”
Charlotte had an iron-clad alibi of her own. “Marvin?”
“Come on, Ms. Devonshire. You’ve been dancing around the truth all evening. I could see it in your eyes. Let’s go someplace and talk. Do you still have that copy of the Excelsior Bay Times with you? I want you to show me what you saw that none of the others did.”
Saturday dawned cool and cloudy. Drivers listened to weather reports and studied the sky. Putting up the tops on the old cars that had them was a lengthy, difficult chore. They didn’t like their bars being fitted into their slots, resisted having their braces tightened, and at every opportunity pinched blood blisters on fingers. Once they were up, they blocked vision, the wind roared under them loud enough to deafen a driver to other road hazards and they caught enough wind to slow travel. The only thing worse than struggling to put the top up before starting was stopping alongside the road in the rain to do it.
Most caved in and put tops up, swearing and complaining. The few who didn’t claimed that since most did, it now certainly wasn’t going to rain. “It’s the opposite of washing your car,” one said.
Lars shrugged off Betsy’s suggestion that he put his top up. “I’m gonna go so fast I’ll run between any raindrops,” he boasted, then went back to recheck against his directions his list of places where water could be obtained, making sure he hadn’t made a slip somewhere. Running his boiler dry would damage the hundreds of copper tubes inside it, a very expensive error.
Because the steamer was so fast, it was put near the back of the pack that gathered in a large church’s parking lot the other side of the cemetery. Despite the threat of rain, a large crowd gathered to watch the old cars set off on their hundred-mile-plus run. Five church ladies had set up a table near the church hall’s entrance, from which they dispensed cookies and coffee: free to drivers, a dollar a hit for onlookers. Beside the table was the car-run quilt, on its stand. Mildred Feeney, in a big flowered hat at least as old as she was, worked the crowd, selling last-chance raffle tickets. Two men from the American Legion, in uniform and with rifles, guarded the starting line, which had a tiny red-striped building beside it meant to look like a Cold Stream Guard’s shelter. The mayor of New Brighton was on hand, in top hat and tails. Talk about mixed messages, thought Betsy, standing on the other side of the line from the mayor and the Cold Stream Guard shelter, clipboard in hand. She was herself wearing slacks, a blue-checked shirt, and sneakers-yet another fashion statement.
Off at the back of the parking lot a group of men with walkie-talkies and cell phones consulted under a big ham radio antenna. The leader of the pack was a heavyset man leaning on a huge four-wheel-drive vehicle. Not police officers, these were the crew charged with finding and rescuing old cars that faltered on the journey.
The mayor, red-faced and sweating-his suit was made of heavy wool, and it wasn’t that cool-made a brief speech honoring the people who found and restored these venerable ancestors of road travel. He said he’d be on hand again in New Brighton to greet in person every driver who completed the journey. He held up a dull gold medallion the size of his palm and said this was what the run was about, this was the prize to be given to every car that finished the run. “Good luck and God speed!” he concluded.
He stepped back and a man with a big green flag came out from behind the guard shelter. The two American Legion veterans crossed to Betsy’s side of the starting line, and Betsy checked the time on the big old pocket watch Adam Smith had fastened to the top of her clipboard. She looked at the 1902 Oldsmobile standing in quivering eagerness behind the line painted on the blacktop. The man twirled his flag, and on dropping it, the Legionnaires fired their rifles. The Oldsmobile tottered across the line and rolled past the crowd cheering him on. Betsy put a checkmark next to the Oldsmobile’s banner number and wrote the time down: 7:12 A.M.
By 8:30, most of the veterans had departed, and so had perhaps half the crowd. Some were headed for Buffalo to watch the cars arrive for lunch, while others had seen what they came to see and were headed somewhere else. Betsy could see Charlotte and Marvin now, making their way closer to the starting line, looking for Sergeant Steffans-who was closing in from behind. They did, however, see the deputy sheriff off to their right, moving toward them. Assuming he was heading off Adam Smith, they altered course, toward the starting line.