The Missing Chapter

Belinda handed me a frayed, wallet-sized photo of a fresh-faced young woman with bangs, light brown hair, wide blue eyes, and a turned-up nose. The face was easy to look at, but the smile appeared forced, as if she’d had to hold it too long, waiting for the photographer to push the button.

“What would you guess her height and weight to be?” I asked.

“I don’t have to guess on the height — it’s exactly the same as mine, five-three in her stocking feet,” Belinda declared. “Weight — well, I’m one-twenty-five, and Clarice was always thinner than me, small-boned, you know? I put her at maybe one-ten or so, unless she kept weight on after the baby.”

I fingered the photograph. “I’d like to keep this for a while, if you don’t mind. I promise I’ll return it.”

She sniffed. “Don’t care anymore if I never get it back.”

“Would I be pushing my luck if I asked you something else?”

She hunched up her shoulders and looked down at a crack in the concrete. “Aw, heck, I was just kidding before about that second question. Go ahead.”

“Do your mother and your aunt also think Clarice killed Charles?”

“It’s never been talked about, at least not around me,” she said after drawing in air. “If I was to guess, I’d say they both are probably darn suspicious. They wouldn’t ever say anything if you asked them about it, though. You won’t tell them I came here, will you?” She sounded scared again.

“No, I won’t tell them. But I do appreciate your coming.”

Belinda shook her head. “It wasn’t easy to do. Nobody likes to think one of their kin is a murderer, even if it’s true. I never felt worse in my whole life than I do right now.”

She turned and walked swiftly toward the battered pickup truck. I wanted to say something to comfort her, but I couldn’t find words that would even begin to help. Maybe there were none.

Thirteen

The rattling of Belinda Meeker’s pickup truck had barely faded when I hit the pillow. I got my requisite 510 minutes’ sleep before rising, sans wake-up call. Taking the motel clerk’s advice, I drove into town and sampled the breakfast fare at the Old Skillet.

The narrow, vaulted, cream-colored room with ceiling fans was crowded, probably for several reasons: Coffee on a par with Fritz Brenner’s; buttermilk wheat-cakes, only a shade below what I get dished up each morning in the brownstone; fried eggs that were neither too soft nor too firm; and sausages cooked precisely the way I like them. As I read the Evansville paper on a stool at the counter, I considered sending my compliments to the chef but opted instead for slipping an extra dollar to my waitress, a grinning, rosy-cheeked, white-haired specimen named Lettie who bustled from tables to counter and back and called everybody in the place by name except me. But I knew that all I’d have to do was come in three days in a row to develop a “Hi, Archie, Baby!” relationship with her, complete with a squeeze on the arm and a motherly pat on the cheek.

That was almost worth staying around for. As I ate, I thought about making another stab at Louise Wingfield but vetoed the impulse without even bothering to call Wolfe. He would have said something like, “Is it probable that she will be more forthcoming than on your previous visit?” to which I would have replied in the negative.

I checked out of The Travelers’ Haven a few minutes before ten, which disappointed the long, lean clerk. “Sorry you can’t stay longer,” Tom twanged, sounding like he meant it. “We got our Spring Festival coming up in town starting Wednesday. It’s a lot of fun, even for city folk like you.”

I told him I was sure I would have enjoyed it, but that duty called. I exceeded the speed limit by ten miles an hour and sometimes fifteen as I headed north, and I settled into a seat on my plane at the Indianapolis airport all of seven minutes before takeoff. On the flight back to New York, I closed my eyes, sipped bad coffee, and reviewed the events of my short stay with the Hoosiers, straining to figure out whether it had been worth either the time or the expense.

Well before we touched down at LaGuardia, I decided the answer to both questions was a qualified yes, although I was by no means confident Nero Wolfe would agree. We now had a new suspect, one Clarice Wingfield — or did we? Maybe I was overly reacting to Belinda Meeker’s earnestness. She seemed genuine, all right, but did her outspoken dislike of her cousin color everything she felt about the woman? As for Clarice, was she really in New York? If so, would we find her? And if she was located, how would we — presumably I — approach her?

When my cab pulled up to the brownstone at two-fifty-five, I put these questions out of my mind and climbed the steps. I unlocked the door with my key, but the inside bolt was on so I hit the bell. Fritz answered after my second ring.