The Missing Chapter

“That is God’s truth,” she whispered, finally turning to face me. She shook her head. “Can you believe it? If Aunt Louise had gotten some word, any word, I know she would’ve told Mama, and Mama would’ve told me. In fact, Aunt Louise telephoned Charles in New York three or four different times, and he always told her that he hadn’t heard from Clarice. But she didn’t believe him — she told Mama that each time, he was real short with her on the phone, and that wasn’t like Charles. He’s always been real polite to Aunt Louise — and to all of us.”

“Do you believe what he told your aunt?” I asked.

“No sir, I do not,” she said quietly but very firmly. “A few days before Clarice disappeared, or whatever you want to call it, she told me she was going to marry Charles en and where is this going to happen?’ I asked. And she said, ‘Soon.’ That’s all she said. She wouldn’t tell me nothing else, but she sure sounded positive about it.”

“Did Clarice’s mother make any attempt to find her, other than the calls to Charles Childress?”

“Aunt Louise phoned Information for all the area codes around New York City — there must be about six — and none of ’em had a number for Clarice Wingfield or Clarice Avery — she took back her maiden name after she and Wendell split up. And she’s never gotten a letter or even a postcard — nothing.”

“Was your Aunt Louise upset about Clarice’s pregnancy?”

“Yeah, I’d have to say so. Aunt Louise is the most religious one in the family. She goes to church every single Sunday. Not like me and Mama — we hardly ever go, except at Easter and around Christmas. And she’s even been both an elder and a deacon. When Clarice got divorced, Aunt Louise was real unhappy for a long time, even though she didn’t care for Wendell herself. Mama said she told Clarice that she was terrible, terrible disappointed in her.”

“Miss Meeker, I’d like to go back to what you said first when you came to see me: Who do you think killed Charles?”

I got a look that suggested I was not playing with a full deck. “I thought that was pretty obvious to you by now,” Belinda stated, folding her arms across her chest with finality. “Clarice killed him. He wouldn’t wed her — his obituary in the Mercury said he had a fiancée in New York — so she shot him. Clarice had a temper, that’s for sure. I saw her take a shotgun one time years ago and fire away at a cat on their farm who’d knocked over a pitcher of lemonade on a table out in the yard. She missed the poor animal, but that shows what she could be like when she was angry. Besides, who was the only relative who didn’t come to the service for Charles at the Presbyterian church in town? Clarice, that’s who. Doesn’t that tell you something?”

“Wherever she is, maybe she didn’t know he’d been killed,” I put in.

“She knew, Mr. Goodwin,” Belinda Meeker said, getting to her feet as though it were an effort. “She knew only too well.”

“Do you know if Mr. Childress had made a will?”

“Mama said he did, and that he’d left a little money to her — she didn’t tell me how much — and a little to Aunt Louise. That’s all I know.”

“One last question,” I said as I stood to face her under the dim yellow light. “Did you mention your suspicion about your cousin to anyone else?”

She tilted her head up at me and shook it vigorously, her face expressionless.

“Why not?”

“Ah, ah, that makes two questions,” Belinda answered, one corner of her mouth twitching slightly. Okay, scratch what I said earlier about her having no sense of humor.

“When we got the word that Charles had died — killed himself according to your police in New York — I knew right away it had been Clarice who shot him in a bad rage. No way Charles woulda done that; he was the kind who liked himself too much. But I figured, hey, if she got away with it, that’s life. And besides, she’s got herself a baby to raise. At least, I suppose she’s got a baby, and that she kept it.

“But then you came around today,” she said, and the stammer worsened, “and I knew that the suicide idea had gone out the window. That meant somebody was going to get charged with murder, and I said to myself, ‘What if you people back in New York pick the wrong person, someone that’s innocent?’ That’s when I started praying. I never liked Cousin Clarice all that much, and that’s God’s truth, Mr. Goodwin. But I wouldn’t wish her ill, except that it would be even worse if somebody who didn’t do it got blamed. That would be a sin, wouldn’t it?” This time she looked directly up at me, her eyes dark and unreadable.

“I guess that’s as good a word as any,” I responded. “Before I forget it, do you have a picture of your cousin?”

“Yeah, I do, I got one here. I thought you’d ask for one.” She reached into the rear pocket of her slacks and tugged out a billfold. “It’s getting old now, three or four years at least, but she still looks pretty much like this — at least she did when she left to go off to New York.”