Another pause. “Not that I could see. Oh, he was always worried about his writing, his work. He was the high-strung type, tense, you know? That was his nature. Always a little jumpy, always on edge.”
“How many times did you go to his place in the Village?”
“Too many,” Clarice said ruefully. “The first time, he was shocked to see me; I had gone without phoning. He didn’t even know I’d moved East, and he didn’t know I was pregnant, either. Believe me, he was not happy to learn either fact.”
“Was he willing to help with the support of the baby?”
“Yes, absolutely,” she answered without hesitation. “I didn’t mean to make Charles out to be some sort of an ogre. When I told him about, well, about the baby, he said he’d pay for everything. That’s what he said — everything. In fact, he set up a trust fund with one hundred thousand dollars. I can draw a certain amount from it each month for my baby, and the rest is drawing interest. I’m not quite sure of all the details. That’s very comforting to have, but what I really wanted was him, more than his damn precious money,” she said bitterly.
“But he wasn’t interested?”
“Not at all.” She underscored each word. “I was too stupid to accept his rebuff the first time I was there, so I kept coming back, begging, I mean really begging, for us to get together. It was pathetic. I was pathetic.”
“You also were under a lot of strain, and understandably so.”
She looked at me dismally, then shook her head. A shadow of a smile touched her lips. “I’m sorry for what I said before, about you trying to analyze me. That was a cheap shot.”
“Don’t worry about it, please. I’ve got the hide of an armadillo. Did you ever spend much time at Childress’s apartment?”
That drew a hollow laugh. “Usually just long enough to get into a shouting match. One night I got really angry with him about — well, about how he had dumped me. I was frustrated, and I was still yelling when I walked out the front door. And who was out in front but the janitor — I guess you call them supers here, don’t you? Anyway, this super, who’s really nosy anyway, was puttering around. He must have heard every single word.”
“But Childress never came over to your place in Hoboken?”
“Never, not once. I left him a key, and I even tried to get him to come and see... his daughter. But he never would. He sent money, all I needed and then some. And, as I said, he set up the trust fund.”
“When’s the last time you saw him?”
Clarice blinked twice. “That’s the worst part.”
“How so?”
A shudder shook her. “I went to see Charles the night before he died. It was sort of a last-ditch thing for me, one final chance to find out if maybe we could get back that feeling we had during the time we had in Mercer when he was taking care of his mother.”
“But now he was engaged, wasn’t he?” I asked.
“No-o-o, not any more he wasn’t, or at least he was about to end it with the Mitchell woman, whom I never met, never laid eyes on. He had told me that a few days earlier, which is what really pushed me to try again.”
“Why was he breaking off with Debra Mitchell?”
“He said something melodramatic about how they lived in different worlds. I got the impression she had a very public life, and thrived on it — you know, parties, dinner out with important people every night, that sort of thing. Charles was no recluse, but he really didn’t care for the cocktail-party circuit or whatever they call it in New York. I think in many ways he was still sort of small-town, even after all these years in the big city. Although he would have hated to hear someone describe him that way.”
“I’m curious. How did he happen to tell you he was ending the engagement?”
One corner of her mouth turned up. “You’re curious about all sorts of things, aren’t you? Well, the second-to-the-last time I went to Charles’s apartment, which was almost three weeks ago now, I asked him what was so special about Debra Mitchell. I guess I was really trying to pick a fight with him. Anyway, he said that he didn’t think she was so special anymore, that he was tired of all the demands she was making on him — all that social stuff I mentioned a minute ago. When I asked if he was going to break off with her, he said something like ‘Yeah, I think so, but don’t get any ideas about you and me. Right now, I’m down on commitment of any kind.’ He seemed very depressed. Still, I have to be honest and tell you that gave me a little hope.”
“You said earlier that you didn’t believe Childress was murdered. That leaves suicide. Got any ideas why he’d want to kill himself?”
She went through a head-shaking routine. “Like I also said before, Charles got depressed about his writing a lot. I picked up on that when he was in Mercer for all those months. I mean, there were periods when days would go by that he’d hardly speak at all. But since I’ve been living here, he didn’t seem particularly mopey. Angry, yes, mainly at me, for bugging him all the time. But depressed — no, I wouldn’t say so.”
“So you don’t have any explanation why he’d be driven to suicide?”
“I really don’t. But from what I read in the papers and saw on the TV news, it sounded like that’s what it was. Nothing was taken from his apartment, was it?”
“Apparently not. Did Childress indicate to you that anybody was particularly angry with him, or possibly was threatening him?”
“Not really. Oh, he did mention a fight he was having with a book reviewer.” She screwed up her face. “And, yeah, he also muttered one time about how ticked off he was at his agent. He’d just been on the phone with the man — Ott, I think his name is — when I got there. And he was fuming. Called the guy all sorts of names and said he was going to fire him and get even with him.”
“How was he going to get even?”
“He didn’t say. But I just figured it was Charles sounding off. He did that a lot when he was angry. He had a bad temper.”
“Did you know he kept a gun in his apartment?”
“No, but I’m not surprised. He told me there’d been some burglaries in his neighborhood.”
“Miss Wingfield, can you account for your time on the day Childress was killed? Specifically, up until three in the afternoon?”
Clarice’s face froze. She got to her feet without a word. “I have told you all that I am going to,” she said tightly, raising her chin. “And I’m warning you, Mr. Goodwin: If you try to follow me back to the gallery, I will phone the police immediately.” Her hands shook as she swept her purse from the table and did an about-face, marching out into the sunlight. I made no effort to go after her.
Eighteen
I got back to the brownstone at four-fifty-five, just as the khaki-garbed elevator crew was wrapping it up for the day. “How’s it going?” I asked the straw boss, Carl — he was the tall, bald one who had come to the house to make the first inspection after the breakdown.
“Hey, we’re movin’ right along, nothin’ to it,” he responded brightly, twitching his shoulders as we stood in the entrance hall. “Should be all done sometime next week, I hope by Thursday.” His helpers, including Scarface, nodded. “One thing,” Carl added with a lopsided grin, “I guess we really riled up your boss about half an hour ago. We were all working at the top of the shaft, just outside his greenhouse, and he got sore about the noise, the drilling and all. He poked his head into the shaft and gave us what-for.” The other two nodded woodenly.
“What did he say?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
Carl rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, something like ‘Gentlemen, will you cease that infernal din? You’ve long since awakened the dead from their eternal rest.’ ”