Monica Ferris - A Murderous Yarn

Godwin lifted his head. “Oh, I’ll get through it somehow. After all, now I really need the money.”

“Shelly says you’re staying with her, and can stay as long as you like. That will help.”

Godwin smiled sadly. “Shelly is the nicest person in the world. It’s so lovely having someone coo over you and make you little treats and bring hot cocoa to you in bed. Don’t you agree?”

Betsy laughed. “Ever since I was a little child with measles.”

Godwin straightened. “Why are you so sure I’m feeling too sorry for myself? John has never gone this far before. My beautiful clothes, all dirty and wrinkled! Does he think I’m going to go crawling back to him after this?”

“If he threw you out, don’t you have to wait for an invitation before you go crawling back?”

“Oh,” said Godwin, looking disconcerted. “Well, yes, I suppose I do. Well, say, that puts the ball in his court, doesn’t it? I don’t have to try to think of an excuse to call him, do I? And when he finds out I’ve got a place to stay, he’ll be the one getting anxious. Won’t he?”

“I sure hope so. But what do I know? What do you think?”

“I think John plays by his own rules,” said Godwin, dropping again into gloom.

Shelly came back with a freshly brewed cup of coffee, and Godwin sat sighing over it while Betsy vacuumed and Shelly dusted. Shelly liked to dust; it gave her lots of opportunities to pause and consider a pattern or a new color of wool or floss. She had yet to take home an entire paycheck, spending most of it on things from the shop. Today she picked out a Terrance Nolan butterfly. “I just love his things, but they’re really difficult. I saw you have his kingfishers.”

Betsy said, “I saw the models at Stitchville USA, and decided to order three kits; they’re gorgeous. And I could sell them if I had a model. Would you be willing, Shelly?”

“Not me! His bugs are enough for me; those kingfishers are murder! Maybe you should ask the Turbo Stitcher.”

Bitsy Busby had earned that nickname because she could plow through even a large and complex counted pattern in a week or ten days. A chronic insomniac, she sat up most nights watching old movies on cable and stitching. Despite her speed, her patterns were beautifully worked. She was especially fond of linen, particularly coffee-dyed linen. Godwin had once joked that the reason she was an insomniac was because she absorbed caffeine from the yards of fabric that passed through her fingers.

“Well, I’d better go see what’s going on out there,” said Betsy. “Wish me luck.”

“God bless us every one.”

The temperature had risen ten degrees in the little while Betsy had been gone. Used to the dry heat of southern California, she was disconcerted by how warm seventy-eight humid degrees could be. Her favorite pant suit, cotton khaki with touches of lace, was too much clothing for this weather even with its short sleeves. She could feel it wilting as she walked to the booth.

One of the women was saying to the man, “… a ’14 Hupmobile, he wants fifteen thousand for it.” She had a phone to her ear, but she was talking to the man.

The man replied, “In running condition?”

“He says it is.” She shrugged, showing doubt. “I haven’t seen it.” The phone made a faint sound, and she replied into it, “Yes, standing by.”

Betsy said, “Do you mean there really was a car called a Hupmobile? I’ve heard that name, but I thought it was a joke.”

The man looked at her. “No, it was founded by brothers named Hupp in 1908 and they made cars until 1940. The early ones are collector’s items.”

The woman said, “It’s a Hupmobile on the back of the old ten-dollar bills. Take a look sometime.”

“I’ll do that,” promised Betsy. “Is fifteen thousand dollars a lot of money for a Hupmobile? I mean, I would have thought so a few months ago, until a friend paid seventeen thousand for a Stanley Steamer.”

The man said, “Was it Dr. Fine’s?”

“How did-” Then Betsy smiled. “Oh, you must have been bidding on it, too.”

But he shook his head. “I like rarities, but I wouldn’t own a steamer on a bet. It’s just that the world of antique cars, especially the crowd that drives them as opposed to just shows them-is very small. I’m Adam Smith, by the way, and this is Lucille Ziegfield, called Ceil.” He bent his head sideways toward the woman standing beside him. Still listening to her cell phone, she nodded at Betsy.

“How do you do?” said Betsy. “This is so interesting and exciting! I had no idea there were people who did this. I’m wondering what makes a person decide to get into these old cars. My friend who bought the Stanley is totally focused on the thing, hardly talks about anything else. That’s typical of him, but is that typical of antique car owners?”

Ceil, still listening but apparently to dead air, said, “He has just the one?”

“Well, yes.”

“Then he’s not typical. Most of the people who get into this hobby wind up with several, sometimes several dozen. It’s not a hobby, it’s a sickness. My husband owns seven, all Packards. And not all antiques-the latest model he owns is from 1954.”

Betsy wasn’t sure whether to smile or offer condolences. What would Lars be like with half a dozen Stanleys? “Judging from the time Lars spends working on his one, I don’t see where anyone would find the time to build up a collection,” Betsy said.

Adam said, “Well, usually one of them is hogging most of the attention. The owner works on it until it’s fixed or he can’t stand looking at it anymore, and goes on to another.”

“A CASITA,” nodded Betsy.

“ ‘Casita’?”

“In needlework, sometimes one project demands all the attention until it turns into a CASITA, you CAn’t Stand IT Anymore. So you go on to something else.”

Adam nodding, laughed. “Who would have thought antique cars and needlework would have something in common?”

“I never even thought ordinary people could own antique cars,” said Betsy. “I mean, I thought they were all in museums. Well, except Jay Leno, I know he owns some. But I certainly didn’t know there were clubs of people who drive them.”

Ceil said into her phone, “Well, that’s politics,” folded up her phone, and said to Adam, “The Studebaker the governor was riding in broke down on Selby, so he got out and went home.”

“Damn!” muttered Adam, snapping his fingers.

Ceil continued to Betsy, “It’s mostly men who get into this. It’s not just the money-it takes a working knowledge of machinery, lots of heavy lifting, and a willingness to get really dirty. You’ll see some fellow coming out of a shed in the evening with greasy clothes and disgusting fingernails, and only on second look realize he’s the richest man in town.”

“Who’s the richest man in town?” asked a new voice, and Betsy turned to see Joe Mickels standing close behind her, an expression of deep suspicion on his face. A short, bandy-legged man, he had a wide, thin mouth under a great beak of a nose flanked by large white sideburns. He was in, for him, casual summer wear: light blue suit, white canvas shoes, white shirt, light blue necktie. Joe was the richest man in Excelsior, though he didn’t want that fact generally known. He had dated Betsy for a short while earlier in the year, and had, in what he considered a tender moment, confided his financial status. Now that the brief romance was over, he constantly suspected her of talking about him, sharing the facts of his wealth with all and sundry.

“I have no idea,” replied Betsy coldly. “We were talking about wealthy men who behave like garage mechanics around their antique automobiles.”