Free A Murderous Yarn by Monica Ferris

behind him and said, “Bill, I’m riding to St. Paul with Betsy Devonshire here, one of the volunteers. All right?”
    “Okay,” grunted Bill. Metal clanged on metal. “Ow.”
    She bent over to murmur something to him, laughed softly at his unheard reply, touched him lightly on the top of his rump. “See you later,” she concluded, and went to open the passenger side door and haul out in one big armload a carpet bag with wooden handles, the duster she’d been wearing, and the big, well-wrapped hat.
    “Let’s go see if Adam will keep these in the booth for me,” she said. “And maybe he has something for me to do.”
    Adam sighed over the size of Charlotte’s bundle, but found a corner for it. And he didn’t have anything for her to do, not at the moment. “But say, if you want to assist Betsy in recording the departure times, that would be nice. They are supposed to tie their banners on the left side, but some interpret that to mean the driver’s side, and if their steering wheel is on the right, they put it there; and some don’t read the instructions at all and put it on the back end or forget to put it on at all.”
    Betsy said, “That’s right. I had to ask a lot of the drivers what their entry number was because it wasn’t where I could see it when they drove up.” One had hadto get out of his car and dig it out of the wicker basket that served as a trunk, remarking he didn’t think it mattered until the actual run.
    “If you’ll stand so the cars run between you,” said Adam, “one of you is bound to see the number.”
    Betsy, remembering the wicker basket, asked, “Why does it matter? If it’s not a race, and they don’t get a medallion for finishing this run, who cares what time they leave here?”
    “We need to keep track,” replied Adam. “So if someone doesn’t show up at the other end, we know to go looking for him.”
    Ceil said, “They have special trucks that follow the route between New London and New Brighton, but they’re not here today. Someone could break down, and if we weren’t keeping track, they might not be missed until dark. Most of these cars shouldn’t be driven after dark.”
    Betsy nodded. “I see.”
    Ceil checked her watch. “The first arrivals can start back in about fifteen minutes. That will be the Winton and the Stanley.”
    Betsy said, “Not the Steamer.”
    Ceil asked, “Why not?”
    “He lives here, he just wanted to see if the car could make it from St. Paul. Kind of a tryout for the big run.”
    Adam asked, “His is the Steamer coming to the run, isn’t it?”
    Betsy nodded, then said, “I haven’t seen the whole list of people signed up. Is there only one Steamer?”
    Adam nodded. “Yes. Generally we get only one. The steam people have their own clubs. Their requirementsand rules are different. Here, why don’t you sit inside the booth? It’s shade at least.”
    “Thanks.” Betsy and Charlotte came in. The booth was roomy enough, even with the big quilt on its stand taking up most of the center. The booth had a board running around three sides of it that made a counter. Handouts about the Antique Car Club of Minnesota made stacks along it. There were also a few maps of the route stapled to a three-page turn-by-turn printed guide, for drivers who had lost or mislaid theirs. Postcards featuring pictures of antique cars were for sale. Mildred had taken up a post, her cash box on one side and the immense roll of double raffle tickets on the other. By the number of tickets dropped into a big, clear plastic jug, business had not been brisk, but she professed herself satisfied.
    “Here, sit beside me,” she said to Betsy. “And you, too, of course,” she added to Charlotte.
    Charlotte sat on Mildred’s other side. She picked up a corner of the quilt and said, “Oh, it’s embroidery, not appliqué. That’s so much more work, isn’t it? How many of you worked on that quilt?”
    “It varies from year to year. Five of us did it this