Free Thai Die by Monica Ferris Page B

went to college here.” Doris blushed faintly. “It was just a technical college—a trade school, really,” she said, anxious not to mislead them into thinking she went to the Minnesota State University.
    “I did, too,” said Phil, determinedly on her side. “We went to the same school, took the same classes. Just not in the same years.”
    “What did you study?” asked Bershada.
    “Steam,” said Phil. “We both have boiler’s licenses. I was among the last of the steam engine drivers; then years later I went into heating plants. Dorie was one of the very few women after World War Two who worked in a factory maintaining the steam power units.” There was pride in his voice.
    “Have you two ever watched Lars Larson work on his steam car?” asked Shelly. “He’s explained how it works to me a couple of times, but I don’t really understand.”
    “I’ve seen him driving it around town, but I haven’t talked to him about it,” said Doris. “I’d love to, though, sometime,” she added a little wistfully.
    Phil said, “When the weather turns warm, I’ll take you over to his place and get him to start the old machine up for you.”
    “What p.s.i. does he run it at?” she asked.
    “Would you believe six hundred?”
    “Oh my goodness!”
    He nodded. “My old steam locomotive did just fine at two, two-fifty.”
    “My first factory boiler burned fuel oil and ran at thirty.”
    The conversation became even more technical at this point, until they saw incomprehension on the faces of the other two and bashfully fell silent.
    “Look at this, we’re crossing the Minnesota River again !” exclaimed Shelly. “Are you sure there’s only one river called the Minnesota?”
    “Only one,” said Bershada, “but, girl, it gets around.”
    After the excitement of Mankato, the land flattened out again, and there was little to see until Vernon Center, which appeared to consist of a house, a bar, and several shedlike structures gathered tightly along the highway, as if waiting for a bus to take them away to Mankato’s bright city lights.
    Not long after that, Bershada slowed the car, as it approached a sign along the highway. AMBOY, the sign said, with an arrow pointing left.
    “Now, nobody blink, or you might miss it,” said Bershada, making the turn.
    Actually, there were two blocks of dwellings, nice single-family houses set back a little from a street lined with trees. Some of the houses already had lights turned on inside. Although it was barely noon, the sky had darkened, and clouds were dropping lower as they thickened.
    Alice leaned forward and looked up through the windshield. “I think it’s going to snow.”
    “Well, I don’t,” Phil said. “The weather report last night said cloudy, but no precip.”
    “The weather forecast this morning predicted light snow,” said Bershada. “But my car can go through up to six inches of the stuff, no problem. And here we are,” she added, pulling to the curb.
    “Where?” asked Shelly. All she could see was a large antiques shop outside the passenger window.
    “Across the street.”
    There, on the corner, stood a picket fence in front of a small lawn divided by a curved walk. It led to a little cream-colored stucco building with a steep, dark roof set with a single small gable. A Model A Ford would have looked right at home parked in front of it. AMBOY COTTAGE CAFÉ, announced a modest sign on the wall beside the door.
    “Is everybody hungry?” asked Bershada.
    “You bet!”
    “Well then, come on!” She climbed out and everyone hustled after her as she crossed the street.
    The interior was about thirty feet wide but only twelve feet long, with perhaps a dozen very small, mismatched tables under a high, peaked ceiling paneled in light-colored pine boards. The walls were covered with quilt squares, quaint tchotchkes, small farm implements, and old photographs of the town. Incredibly good smells were coming from the kitchen, which was separated from