The Missing Chapter

Robert Goldsborough The Missing Chapter

To

Mary McLaughlin

and

Fiora Scaffi

“He’s over this way, Sergeant.” Mogoven led Orville Barnstable through knee-high grass and weeds to a gully about two hundred yards north of the sway-backed barn. The man wore denim coveralls and a red plaid shirt. He lay face down, the lower half of his body partially submerged in the shallow, slow-moving water.

“Whoever stabbed him really ran that knife in deep,” the patrolman announced solemnly as Barnstable knelt beside the corpse. “There was a powerful lot of force behind it.”

“It’s old Lightning Greaves,” Barnstable pronounced. “Although, shoot, he hasn’t been called ‘Lightning’ for close on forty-five years now. Christian name’s Edgar, of course. Got tagged with that when we were at Reed’s Grove High. He was one slick basketball player — made All-State twice and took the team farther’n it ever got before or since. I was on that same team, son, keepin’ the bench warm. Too durn slow, which is why Lightning here stuck me with the name ‘Snail.’ That’s okay, though: When they passed out medals for winnin’ the district tournament, mine was the same size as his.”

The sergeant took off his battered felt hat as he got to his feet. “Poor fella. In the years since high school, this man’s life’s been rougher’n a burlap sack on a baby’s bottom. Lost his spread to the bank, then Arla left him. They say the Lord has a plan for us all, but doggone if I can fathom what his plan could have been for Lightning.”

From Death in the North Meadow

by Charles Childress

One

“You’re almost fifteen minutes early,” I told the elegant-looking visitor who stood erect on our front stoop. “We don’t deny admission on a technicality like that, though. And I’ve seen your picture in the newspapers — more than once. Come on in.”

“Thank you,” Horace Vinson said with a smile, smoothing well-tended salt-and-pepper hair that had been ruffled by rude April winds. “I thought the cab ride down here would take a lot longer. You, of course, are Archie Goodwin. I, too, have seen your picture in the papers. And I recognize your voice from yesterday.”

I grinned back and held out a paw. “Guilty as charged. He won’t be down until eleven, but there’s no reason you can’t park yourself in his office. I’ll even keep you company at no extra charge,” I said as I hung his expensive Burberry on a peg and led him down the hall.

Vinson squinted cornflower-blue eyes as he stood in the doorway to the largest room in the house and nodded approvingly. “Just as I pictured it. Arguably the most famous work space in Manhattan. And from a quick look, very possibly the most comfortable, too.”

“Unless you are a murderer Nero Wolfe is about to finger. Have a seat. Can I get you coffee?”

Vinson said yes, heavy on the cream, as he settled into the red leather chair in front of the desk. I went to the kitchen, where Fritz Brenner, chef extraordinaire, keeps a pot warm all morning. Fritz looked at me anxiously as I filled a cup with java and the cow’s finest. “Too early to tell,” I responded to his unspoken question. “Of course Mr. Wolfe hasn’t even seen him yet, let alone heard him out. If something of interest develops, you’ll be the fourth to know.”