Free A Murderous Yarn by Monica Ferris Page A

year. We start right after each run to work on next year’s. I hope you noticed that every car on it is a car that has actually been on the run. When we started out, we didn’t know much about antique cars. We got a book from the library and made photocopies of cars that we were interested in, and Mabel turned them into transfer patterns and put them on the squares, and we stitched them. The center square is always the emblem of the club—the Merry Oldsmobile.”
    Betsy said, “Oh, like from the song,
     
    ‘Come away with me, Lucille,
    in my merry Oldsmobile’?”
     
    “Yes, that’s the one,” said Mildred, with a little smile. “Though I think the theme of the run should be ‘Get Out and Get Under.’ You know,” she started to sing in a cracked soprano,
     
    “ ‘A dozen times they’d start to hug and kiss,
       and then the darned old engine, it would miss,
       and then he’d have to get under,
       get out and get under,
       and fix up his automobile!’ ”
     
    Betsy said, “I remember my grandmother singing that song!” She looked up the street. “Looks as if things haven’t changed much with those old machines.” The driver who’d been under his car earlier was still under it.
    Adam put in, “That’s why the run isn’t a race. Just getting across the finish line is enough of a challenge, and anyone who makes it has earned his medallion. By the way,” he added, holding out a clipboard, “here comes the Winton.”
    “Oops!” said Betsy, grabbing it. “Come on, Charlotte, time to get to work!”
    The cars were spaced about three minutes apart—except when, as sometimes happened, a driver couldn’t get his started, and there was a wider gap while another car was waved into its place. This happened with Bill Birmingham’s Maxwell. A thin crowd stood on the sidewalks to cheer and clap as the gallant old veterans putt-putted, or whicky-daddled, or pop-humbled theirway out of town. Bill finally got his Maxwell started after all the others had left. Charlotte blew kisses at the car, which despite Bill’s efforts still went diddle-diddle-hick-diddle down the road. “Happy trails, darling!” she called, then turned to Betsy. “Whew, am I glad I’m not going on that ride!”

 
5
     
     
     
    B etsy checked on Crewel World one last time before leaving for St. Paul. Godwin seemed to have come out of his funk, and was assisting a customer trying out a stitch under the Dazor light. Betsy caught his eye and told him she’d try to be back before closing.
    Then it was through the back into the potholed parking lot with Charlotte to Betsy’s car.
    Betsy’s old Tracer had never recovered from a winter incident involving sliding off a snow-covered road into a tree. In seeking a replacement, she considered several high-quality used cars, envied the mayor his amusing cranberry-red Chrysler PT, but had at last bought a new, deep blue Buick Century four-door, fully loaded. It was the nicest new car she’d ever owned and she was very proud of it.
    But Charlotte was obviously used to a better varietyof cars. She simply laid her duster and big hat in the back seat with her stitchery bag, hiked the bottom of her antique white dress halfway up her shins, and climbed in the front passenger seat.
    They took 7 to 494, up it to 394, then skirted downtown Minneapolis on 94 to St. Paul, taking the Capitol exit.
    Crossing over the freeway put them on a street leading to a big white building modeled on the U.S. Capitol—except the Minnesota version had a very large golden chariot pulled by four golden horses on top of the portico. There were cars parked in slots in front of the capitol, but no people standing around.
    Betsy said, “Looks as if we beat everyone. Even the booth is empty.” A twin to the booth in Excelsior stood on the wide street at the foot of the capitol steps. They drove around back and found a parking space. After the air-conditioned interior of Betsy’s car, the moist heat was