ago and had it moved to a heated shed, because I remembered a magazine article from somewhere that said some of them are valuable to collectors. I don’t know if she’s of any real value, since she’s a McIntyre, and I never heard of that brand, not like the Maxwell, or a Cadillac or a Model T.”
“How much of it is original?” asked Adam.
Joe shrugged. “All of it. The engine, chassis, transmission, even the paint job, though it looks a little scabby in places. Original wheels, original seat covers, original glass in the windows. And everything works, except the headlights. My uncle wouldn’t drive it at night because the lights were so weak, and now they won’t light at all.”
“What kind of headlights?”
“Big ’uns, made of brass. There’s no lightbulbs in ’em, but I don’t know who took ’em out.” He scratched an earnest eyebrow to hide the wink he gave Betsy from under his hand.
Adam said, “If they’re original, the lights are acetylene, not electric. That kind doesn’t use bulbs.”
“Acetylene? You mean like a welding torch?”
Adam nodded. “I’d kind of like to see that car.”
“Sure, but it’s not for sale.”
“Who said anything about buying it? I saw one at a show a few years ago, where they asked me to judge. I didn’t like the instruments on the dashboard—they were reproductions—and I’d like to see a set of originals.”
Joe produced a business card from an inside pocket. “Give me a call sometime. I’ll be glad to show it to you.” He walked away.
Ceil snorted softly. “Of course you’re not interested in a 1909 McIntyre with all original parts!”
Adam shrugged, eyebrows raised in a show of innocence. “Well, now you mention it, I do know a couple of people who might pay good money to buy that car—from me.” He looked at the card, pulled out his wallet, and slid it into a pocket.
“If you manage to pry that vehicle out of Joe Mickels’s hands for a nickel less than it’s worth, you’re a better man than most!” she said, laughing.
Betsy decided not to warn Adam after all that Joe’s apparently fortuitous appearance at the booth was, in all likelihood, the first move in a plan to sell his McIntyre for at the very least what it was worth. Joe never parted with anything for less than its true value. Moreover, she doubted that sentimental story of it being handed down three generations. Joe? Sentimental? Ha!
There was the sprightly sound of “Fu¨r Elise,” and Ceil, still smiling, pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Excelsior,” she said into it. “Ah!” She checked her watch. “Thanks!” she added, and disconnected. “The Winton just came onto Minnetonka Boulevard. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Not the Stanley?” asked Betsy.
“Why the Stanley?” replied the woman.
“Well, I just thought, because Stanleys are so fast.”
The woman laughed. “Yes, for about twenty-five miles. Then they have to stop for water. Every blinking twenty-five miles they have to stop for water. And of course, if they blow a gasket, or the pilot light goes out, or they run out of steam, then the delays really mount up.”
Betsy flashed on Lars laughing as he chuffed aroundthe table in Crewel World, calling “Get a horse!” to imaginary internal combustion cars. Apparently the laugh was not entirely his alone.
She had her clipboard ready when a soft-yellow car with brown fenders came up the street. It didn’t look like a car from the teens, but more like something out of an early-thirties movie, with its sleek modeling, long hood, and deeply purring motor. A solidly built, prosperous-looking man in a cream suit was driving, and a very pretty woman wearing a cloche hat sat beside him. They both smiled at Betsy as the car pulled up.
“Number ten,” he announced, and Betsy checked off Number Ten, a 1912 Winton, on her list, noting the time beside it.
“Are we the first?” asked the man, though that was obviously the case;
“How much of it is original?” asked Adam.
Joe shrugged. “All of it. The engine, chassis, transmission, even the paint job, though it looks a little scabby in places. Original wheels, original seat covers, original glass in the windows. And everything works, except the headlights. My uncle wouldn’t drive it at night because the lights were so weak, and now they won’t light at all.”
“What kind of headlights?”
“Big ’uns, made of brass. There’s no lightbulbs in ’em, but I don’t know who took ’em out.” He scratched an earnest eyebrow to hide the wink he gave Betsy from under his hand.
Adam said, “If they’re original, the lights are acetylene, not electric. That kind doesn’t use bulbs.”
“Acetylene? You mean like a welding torch?”
Adam nodded. “I’d kind of like to see that car.”
“Sure, but it’s not for sale.”
“Who said anything about buying it? I saw one at a show a few years ago, where they asked me to judge. I didn’t like the instruments on the dashboard—they were reproductions—and I’d like to see a set of originals.”
Joe produced a business card from an inside pocket. “Give me a call sometime. I’ll be glad to show it to you.” He walked away.
Ceil snorted softly. “Of course you’re not interested in a 1909 McIntyre with all original parts!”
Adam shrugged, eyebrows raised in a show of innocence. “Well, now you mention it, I do know a couple of people who might pay good money to buy that car—from me.” He looked at the card, pulled out his wallet, and slid it into a pocket.
“If you manage to pry that vehicle out of Joe Mickels’s hands for a nickel less than it’s worth, you’re a better man than most!” she said, laughing.
Betsy decided not to warn Adam after all that Joe’s apparently fortuitous appearance at the booth was, in all likelihood, the first move in a plan to sell his McIntyre for at the very least what it was worth. Joe never parted with anything for less than its true value. Moreover, she doubted that sentimental story of it being handed down three generations. Joe? Sentimental? Ha!
There was the sprightly sound of “Fu¨r Elise,” and Ceil, still smiling, pulled her cell phone from her pocket. “Excelsior,” she said into it. “Ah!” She checked her watch. “Thanks!” she added, and disconnected. “The Winton just came onto Minnetonka Boulevard. It should be here in about twenty minutes.”
“Not the Stanley?” asked Betsy.
“Why the Stanley?” replied the woman.
“Well, I just thought, because Stanleys are so fast.”
The woman laughed. “Yes, for about twenty-five miles. Then they have to stop for water. Every blinking twenty-five miles they have to stop for water. And of course, if they blow a gasket, or the pilot light goes out, or they run out of steam, then the delays really mount up.”
Betsy flashed on Lars laughing as he chuffed aroundthe table in Crewel World, calling “Get a horse!” to imaginary internal combustion cars. Apparently the laugh was not entirely his alone.
She had her clipboard ready when a soft-yellow car with brown fenders came up the street. It didn’t look like a car from the teens, but more like something out of an early-thirties movie, with its sleek modeling, long hood, and deeply purring motor. A solidly built, prosperous-looking man in a cream suit was driving, and a very pretty woman wearing a cloche hat sat beside him. They both smiled at Betsy as the car pulled up.
“Number ten,” he announced, and Betsy checked off Number Ten, a 1912 Winton, on her list, noting the time beside it.
“Are we the first?” asked the man, though that was obviously the case;
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