A Murderous Yarn by Monica Ferris Read Free Book Online Page B

counted pattern in a week or ten days. A chronic insomniac, she sat up most nights watching old movies on cable andstitching. 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.”

 
4
     
     
     
    T he 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 carcalled 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 getinto 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