Free A Murderous Yarn by Monica Ferris Page B

again almost insufferable. Nevertheless, Charlotte donned her hat, draping the veils carefully around her head and shoulders—“It’s easier than trying to carry it,” she remarked. She did carry her duster and a handful of pamphlets she’d scooped out of the booth in Excelsior. Betsy brought her and Charlotte’s stitching. She noticed that by the worn appearance of Charlotte’s carpet bag, it was another antique. Its nubby surface was scattered with “orts,” what stitchers called the little ends of floss. They walked around the blinding white building and across the broad paved area to the booth, where they collapsed on folding chairs.
    “Whew!” said Betsy, fanning herself with a pamphlet. “How did people stand this back before air-conditioning?”
    “It’s not so hard to bear if you don’t keep going in and out of air-conditioned spaces. People survived much worse weather than this before there was air-conditioning. Think of St. Louis—or Savannah—back when what I’m wearing was a marvelous improvement on the much heavier Civil War era clothing.”
    “Yes, of course, you’re right. You know, we didn’t have air-conditioning until I was about fourteen, and while I remember how much I loved having it, I don’t remember suffering like I am now without it.” She looked out across the shimmering heat lake of the parking area to the trees lifting tired arms in the sun. “Hard to believe we had our last snow just two months ago.”
    “And that in three months we may have another one,” said Charlotte. “But that’s why we love it here in Minnesota.” Her tone was only a little dry. She reached into her carpet bag and pulled out a square of linen tacked onto a wooden frame. On it, in a variety of stitches, was a flowering plant with caterpillars on the leaves and two kinds of bees and a ladybug hovering among the flowers. She saw Betsy’s eye on her work and said, “It’s from a hanging designed by Grace Christie back in 1909. I’m going to work more of the squares and have them made into pillows.”
    Betsy said, “Do you know what that plant is? It looks familiar, somehow.”
    “Someone told me it’s borage, an old medicinal herb.”
    “Oh, of course, ‘Borage for Melancholy.’ ”
    Charlotte looked at the nearly finished piece. “Does it work, I wonder?”
    “I understand St. John’s Wort does. So perhaps borage does, too.”
    Two tourists in shorts and sunglasses—a man and a woman—came up. Pointing, the woman said, “What a crazy hat!”
    Charlotte laughed and said, “You’re too kind.”
    The man said, “We came to see the old cars.”
    “They’re on a round trip to Excelsior,” said Charlotte.
    “Who drove to Excelsior?” asked the woman, frowning.
    “The owners of the antique cars,” replied Charlotte.
    “So where are the cars?” asked the man.
    “The owners drove them to Excelsior.” An element of patience had come into Charlotte’s voice.
    “Why did they do that? The paper said they were going to be here.”
    “They were here,” said Charlotte more patiently. “But they drove to Excelsior to put on a display there.”
    “But I thought the paper said they’d be on display here!” said the woman.
    “They were here, early this morning,” said Charlotte, speaking very slowly now. “Then they drove to Excelsior. And now they’ve started driving back. At”—she consulted her watch—“four-thirty or so, they should be back from Excelsior.”
    “How come they’re driving from Excelsior?” said the man. “The paper said they’d be here.”
    Betsy started to make a low humming noise, and when the woman looked at her, she coughed noisily, eyes brimming.
    “They were here,” said Charlotte, ignoring Betsy, “and they’ll be back here in a couple of hours.”
    “I don’t understand why they aren’t here now, when the paper said they would be,” said the woman.
    Charlotte, speaking as if to a first grader, said, “The paper said they’d be