“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.”
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?