A Murderous Yarn (8 page)

“I was thinking, if she’s still in Excelsior, we could ask her to follow the route the antique cars took, and see if she can find Bill along the way. But I guess not.”

“Still,” said Adam, “the next step is to go looking along the route. I’m in charge, I’ll go.” He reached for a map of the route and left the booth.

Ceil called after him, “Let us know right away when you find him!” She turned to Charlotte. “Can you drive the trailer out to pick him up, or are we going to have to find you a driver?”

Charlotte said, “I don’t like to, but I can drive it. What I don’t understand is why he didn’t call me when he broke down, to tell me what was happening, and where he was. I hope he made it most of the way, then Adam won’t have so far to drive.”

Charlotte seemed more annoyed than angry at this development, but when she came back to sit with her needlework, she didn’t pull the needle out to begin. Betsy was moved to ask, “Are you all right?”

“Yes, of course,” said Charlotte. After a bit she said, “Only I can’t understand why he didn’t call.”

“Perhaps the battery in his phone has run down,” suggested Betsy.

“Yes, that could be the problem. He’s forgotten in the past to shut it off after he’s used it.” She did pick up her needle then, and put a few stitches in the honeybee’s wing then said, as if continuing a conversation she’d been having internally, “Well, it just isn’t fair!”

“What isn’t fair?”

“What?” said Charlotte, staring at Betsy.

“You said it just isn’t fair,” said Betsy. “What isn’t fair?”

“Oh—nothing. I mean, I didn’t mean to say it out loud. I’m just a little upset, that’s all. I mean, it isn’t like Bill to just sit in his broken-down car, when he has a perfectly good cell phone. And even if you’re right,
and the battery’s gone dead, there’s always a gas station or even a house he can go to and use their phone. He promised to be better about this sort of thing, not to leave me sitting and worrying. That’s why we got the phones, after all.”

“Husbands can be the limit, can’t they?”

“Beyond the limit.” Then Charlotte smoothed the frown from her forehead with what seemed deliberation and said, “But I don’t believe he’s neglecting me on purpose. I’m sure as anything that he’s underneath the hood trying to fix the engine, and has gotten so involved he’s forgotten all about the time and that I’m sitting here, tired and dusty and wanting to go home.”

Betsy, remembering how he didn’t even come out from under to say goodbye back in Excelsior, said, “Whereas we stitchers never get so involved with our needlework that we forget to fix dinner or pick the kids up after soccer or take the cat to the vet.”

The frown that had reclenched Charlotte’s face relaxed again, and her eyes twinkled. “Well . . . yes,” she admitted. “And Bill has been a lot better lately. When he announced his retirement two years ago, I thought we could travel or take up a hobby we’d both be interested in or at least spend more time together. But he didn’t quite give up control at the office, and when he wasn’t there, he was working on his car collection. We had a couple of serious fights, and at last I went to a therapist—alone, because Bill wouldn’t go, of course—but Dr. Halpern helped me start some serious conversations with Bill, and things have been better lately.”

“How many cars does Bill have?” asked Betsy.

“Six, all Maxwells but one. I thought it would be fun, riding down the road in these old cars, going to meets
and all. And it is. But there are the hours Bill spends in the shed restoring them, and the hours on the Internet talking with other car nuts, and the days he spends traveling all over the country buying parts.”

“He should take you along—I thought you said you wanted to travel.”

“But he finds these parts in some very out-of-the-way places, never Barbados or San Francisco or London. And since I don’t know what the parts are for, I can’t help him shop for them, so I have to go off by myself to whatever museum there is or shop for antique clothing. Sometimes I just go to a movie, which I could do just as well at home.” Her voice had become so querulous that she became aware of it, so she shut up and with a sigh tucked her needle into the margin of the fabric. “Oh, I admit it’s not all his fault. The therapist advised me to change my own ways a bit, too. And when I did, Bill saw I was serious. He said if I was willing to change, then he started to think maybe he could change a little, too. We’ve been reconnecting—that’s my therapist’s term, reconnecting—and things have gotten much better. It will take a while to undo old habits, as we’ve seen today, but Rome wasn’t torn down in a day either, I suppose.”

“No,” agreed Betsy with a smile.

People came up with questions or to pick up a brochure, but in few enough numbers that Ceil could handle most of them. People were far more interested in talking with the owners of the cars than the people sitting in the booth. They went from car to car with their questions, taking lots of photographs. Now and again there was the sound of an old-fashioned horn going
Ah
- ooooo-
ga!
—always accompanied by titters and giggles
and a little rush of people heading for the source of the sound, a beautiful 1911 Marmon.

It was nearly an hour later that Ceil’s cell phone began to play “Fu¨r Elise” and she pulled it from a pocket. “St. Paul,” she said into it. “Yes?” She glanced at Charlotte. “Oh. Oh, my,” she said and quickly turned her back, going as far away as she could without leaving the booth.

Charlotte and Betsy looked at one another, Betsy with concern, Charlotte with the beginnings of fright. Betsy put a hand on Charlotte’s.

“I’m sure it’s nothing too serious,” said Mildred. “He probably ran off the road, broke an axle or something.” That she offered this disaster as “nothing too serious” showed how terribly bad she was thinking it might be, too.

Charlotte began putting her stitchery away, making a fuss about it, keeping herself busy while they waited.

“Char?” said Ceil a few minutes later, and Charlotte turned in her chair. Ceil was looking helpless, as if she couldn’t think where to begin.

“What is it, tell me what’s wrong!” demanded Charlotte.

“It’s Bill. Oh, sweetie, I’m so very sorry—” She sobbed twice, but then took hold of herself and said rapidly, “He’s dead, Charlotte. When Adam got there, the fire department was already there, the car was on fire, and Bill was underneath it. That’s all they know right now.”

Charlotte stared speechless at Ceil. She turned wide, horrified eyes on Betsy, then on Mildred. “No,” she said very quietly, and fainted.

A
dam Smith waited in sick silence as the methodical examination of the scene went on. If someone asked him to list the places on earth he wanted to be, this would be at the bottom or near it. But he couldn’t leave. He’d been asked by a police officer to stay. The man had been polite, putting it in the form of a request, but Adam felt it would be put in stronger terms if he refused.

Besides, if he did leave, he’d have to go back to St. Paul, where Charlotte Birmingham waited. And on that list of places to be, going to talk to Charlotte was probably tied for whatever near-bottom place staying here occupied.

Sooner or later they’d let him go, but he had no idea what he could possibly say to Charlotte about what he’d found while driving up County Highway 5.

It was a charming enough section of Minnetonka, a gently hilly area with small, neat cottages on broad lots lining the two-lane road. Just here, there was a white gravel lay-by across the road from a big church, just up from a cemetery. A horribly appropriate location, because here in the lay-by he had found firemen and their truck, and an ambulance, and several squad cars.

And the Maxwell, blackened and blistered.

And Bill, poor dead Bill, lying on the gravel where he’d been dragged out from under the car.

They hadn’t covered Bill’s body, and Adam’s eyes kept wandering to it, sickening him all over again. Medics were standing around him, but in the idle poses that said they had nothing to do, that Bill was far, far beyond anything they could do.

Adam lifted his eyes a little, to watch a uniformed policeman talking to one of the medics and taking notes as he listened to a reply.

The policeman gestured at Bill’s body, drawing Adam’s attention back to it, so he quickly turned his head to look at Bill’s car. There wasn’t a crumpled fender, a smashed headlight, even a dent, so there hadn’t been an accident. The Maxwell hadn’t run into anything, or been run into, or rolled over. It had been driven into this lay-by, which was perhaps an alternate parking lot for the church, now that Adam thought about it. The Maxwell was at the back of the graveled area, shaded by trees. Bill had probably pulled in here when the engine trouble that had plagued him all day got so bad he couldn’t continue the run. And Bill had slid under it to check something—no, fix something, because there were tools half-visible in the big puddle of dirty water that surrounded the car. The firemen had
made that puddle, putting out the fire that had started while Bill was under it.

The car must have exploded into flame, because if it had been just an ordinary fire, Bill would have rolled out from under. And he hadn’t, he’d still been under it when the firemen arrived.

Interesting how Bill’s upper legs in their white flannel trousers were only a trifle smoky, his lower ones were untouched, and his brown leather shoes were unmarked by anything but a little dust. While the rest of him was so bad . . .
Why can’t they cover him decently?
Adam thought again, yanking his eyes away to watch a policewoman on the other end of the lay-by tying yellow plastic ribbon to a tree, pulling a length from a large roll, then walking to a wooden lamppost out near the road, letting the tape unreel on her wrist. Adam frowned at that, then looked at Bill’s Maxwell again.
Crime scene tape? Why?
Despite himself, his attention wandered back to Bill, but ricocheted instantly to the burned-out Maxwell.

There was the crime. What had happened to the car was a sorry crime. Despite its lack of dents, the old machine was history, its metal chassis blistered and blackened, the seats and dash and steering wheel all gone into a heap of ash and metal. Leaves on the branches that overhung the car—it was back here because Bill had sought shade, obviously—were withered or burned away, indicating this had been a serious fire. A great fire could be built from an antique car’s interior of varnished wood, leather, and straw stuffing, Adam knew.

The fire truck’s engine started up. Adam watched it, wondering what kind of horsepower it must pack. Heck
of a sound to that engine. The truck was a pumper, the kind with a blocky back end, parked at an oblique angle beyond the Maxwell. The last few yards of hose were being neatly stowed into the back by two volunteer firemen who had taken off their hats in the heat.

Beyond the fire truck, two squad cars from the Minnetonka Police Department were side by side, and another squad from the Sheriff’s Department beside them, with a severely plain official automobile behind them. An ambulance-sized van with
HENNEPIN COUNTY MED
-
ICAL EXAMINER
painted on its door and rear end had parked between the body and the road, blocking the view of passersby. Cars on the road slowed to see what the fuss was about, naturally, but were being encouraged to move along by a cop who had put on soft white gloves to make his hands more visible. The last vehicle in the lay-by was Adam’s, a midnight blue sedan. He was standing outside it, leaning against the door because he was tired of standing. He considered opening his car door and sitting down, but decided against it.

Two men in civilian dark slacks and shirts were examining the Maxwell. One was standing on the far-side running board, getting black streaks on his white shirt; the other, in a light blue shirt and dark tie, gesturing while he asked a question. He then turned to gesture at a young woman in khaki slacks and green T-shirt who was taking photographs of the back end of the car. As Adam watched, the woman climbed up on the near running board, leaning forward to take a photograph and garner her own sooty streaks, which she brushed at with a weary, used-to-it sigh.

Meanwhile, one of the men went to stoop for a closer
look at the nightmare ruin of Bill, to reach out and touch—Adam turned away again.

After a minute a voice said, “Mr. Smith?”

“Yes?” asked Adam, straightening.

“I’m Dr. Phillip Pascuzzi, with the Medical Examiner’s Office. May I ask you a few questions?” The man wore a white shirt and had a notebook in one hand.

“Certainly.”

“Was Mr. Birmingham a friend or relation?”

“He was a member of the Minnesota Antique Car Club, of which I am President. And he was a friend.”

Writing, “And you’re quite sure the body over there is, in fact, Mr. Birmingham?”

“Yes.” Adam swallowed. Having to go look closely at what had been Bill Birmingham was the worst thing he’d had to do in his entire life.

“The body is badly burned, especially around the upper body. What made you sure?”

“Well, he’s Bill’s size, and he’s wearing what Bill was wearing today, and the car is Bill’s. Nobody else driving in the Run is missing. I don’t see who else it could be.”

“Did you talk to Mr. Birmingham today?”

“Yes, briefly.”

“Where and when was this?”

“In Excelsior, this morning. He was having trouble with the car, and I said something about it, and he agreed it was running rough. As soon as he got parked along the curb, he opened the hood and began working on it. Didn’t quit until it was time to start back for St. Paul. He was the last to leave because his car didn’t want to start. After he left, we tore down in Excelsior and went to St. Paul to greet the cars as they came back
and help them set up an exhibit over there. And when Bill didn’t turn up in St. Paul, I started driving back, following the route, looking for where he broke down.”

“I take it you didn’t follow the route the old cars took when you went to St. Paul.”

“No, we went out 7 and caught the freeway at 494.”

“So Mr. Birmingham was the last to leave Excelsior on this route. Everyone else was either ahead of him or went by another way.”

“Yes, that’s right.” The Antique Car Club had notified law enforcement agencies of the twisting route the antique cars would follow so they could come out and direct traffic or practice a little crowd control or at least be aware if there was a report of trouble involving an antique car, their choice.

“You didn’t suggest that perhaps he shouldn’t make the return trip?”

“No, our members usually have a pretty good idea whether or not their cars are able to continue a run. You have to realize, these cars are valuable, so most drivers are very reluctant to push a car even up to its limits. And Bill was proud of his Maxwells. I don’t think he’d get stupid about making a trip when a car wasn’t up to it. He tinkered with this one, and got it started and set off, so we assumed he’d be okay.”

“There’s a cell phone on the body. Why do you suppose he didn’t call for help when he broke down?”

“We were wondering why we hadn’t heard from him when he didn’t come in. Probably he got to working on it and time got away from him.”

“Is that also normal behavior for him?”

“Absolutely. It’s a common trait among car collectors. Bill’s wife complained more than once how he’d
forget to come in to supper when he was out working on his cars. It’s very likely the trouble he was having today got bad enough to make him pull in here, where he tried to fix it or at least get the car able to finish the run. Then he got all wrapped up in what he was doing, and somewhere in there . . . this happened.”

“Have you any idea what kind of trouble he was having with the car?”

“The engine was running ragged when he drove up to the booth in Excelsior. I didn’t ask him what he thought it was, I was busy. He went right to work on it, but he still had a hard time getting it started again. He finally did, though he was the last car to leave for the trip back. His wife said she was getting an upset stomach from riding in it, and she opted not to ride back with him. She rode over to St. Paul with one of my volunteers and is in St. Paul now. I don’t look forward to going back there and trying to talk to her about this. We’ve never lost a driver during a run before.”

“Not even in an accident?”

“No, never. We had a close call with a rollover, and a few other injuries—sprained wrists from hand cranking, for example, and Dick Pellow’s Overland caught fire a few years ago, but he’s fine. What I don’t understand is, why didn’t Bill get out from under when she caught on fire? Unless it blew up—I mean like parts scattered to hell and gone—which it didn’t, he should’ve been able to at least roll away, I’d’ve thought.”

“I’m inclined to agree with you, Mr. Smith. And there are some other oddities about this situation.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t want to start speculating, not without further
investigation. We are going to impound the car and there will be an autopsy on Mr. Birmingham. Perhaps you could inform Mrs. Birmingham? She can contact me at my office for further information. Do you have her phone number? I’ll want to get in touch with her.”

Adam read it to him off the card. Dr. Pascuzzi gave him a card with his name, the notation that he was Hennepin County’s Assistant Medical Examiner, and a couple of phone and fax numbers.

“Thank you,” said Adam. “Am I free to go now?”

“Yes, sir, and thank you for your cooperation.”

Charlotte recovered from her faint puzzled at what had caused it, so Ceil had to tell her all over again that Bill was dead. She shrieked loudly, causing heads all over the area to turn toward her, then clapped both hands over her mouth to keep from shrieking some more. Her eyes were wide and terrified.

Betsy sat down on the blacktop beside her and pulled her head onto her shoulder. “There, there,” she murmured as Charlotte began to weep noisily.

“Oh, my God,” mourned Charlotte between sobs. “Oh, my God, my poor Bill! Oh, Broward will be just devastated, he and Bill worked so closely together! Oh, all my children, how can I bear to tell my children? Oh, I can’t bear this!”

It was a minute or two before she felt the discomfort of her twisted position and began to pull back from it. Betsy helped her sit up straight, and took the proffered handkerchief from Mildred so Charlotte could mop her face. Her eyes were puffy and bewildered.

“Did . . . did you say it was a fire?” she asked Ceil. “He caught on
fire
?”

“Yes,” nodded Ceil. “Adam said there was a fire engine there putting it out.”

“A fire,” repeated Charlotte, frowning. “Then why didn’t he just pull over and jump out?”

“I don’t know,” said Betsy.

“Perhaps he meant there was an accident, and it caught fire after,” said Mildred.

“Oh, yes, that must be it,” said Charlotte. “Maybe a tire blew out, and he ran off the road and into a tree or telephone pole. Or did someone run into him? People do that, you know, they see the funny-looking car and steer right for it. Was there another car involved?”

Ceil said, “Adam didn’t mention that.”

“That stupid Maxwell! It was misbehaving all the way out there, he should never have tried to drive back. If it wasn’t a tire, then I suppose something went wrong with the steering or brakes, and he ran into a ditch. And the car caught on fire, and Bill was hurt, unconscious . . . Yes, that must be it, don’t you think?” She looked around at the other women for confirmation, as if figuring out what had happened would make it less dreadful.

But realization still clouded her eyes, and she began to weep again, saying over and over, “No, no, no, it’s too awful, too awful.”

A crowd had gathered, drawn by Charlotte’s distress. Among them were members of the Antique Car Club. Ceil caught the eye of the largest of them, and semaphored a message with her eyebrows. He began to move between the onlookers and the booth, facing outward. “Drivers, go back to your cars!” he ordered in a big, loud voice. “We’ve still got a crowd here with questions, cameras, and sticky fingers, so move it, move it!”
He raised his hands in a backing motion. “As for the rest of you, this isn’t any of your business. Please give this woman a little privacy.”