Missing 62 #3
A man was coming in as I was going out.
He held the door for me — reflexive courtesy, the automatic manners of someone who'd been raised to do it without thinking — and I almost walked past him entirely. Then something made me stop. His lingering stare, maybe. The way he looked at the church interior. Investigative.
He was in his late forties, by the looks. Plain clothes — not casual, just unremarkable. A leather satchel over one shoulder.
“Excuse me,” he said, turning toward me. “Is this Grace Eternal?”
“It is,” I said. “How may I help?”
“I'm looking for the church administrator.” He produced a card from his jacket pocket and held it out. “My name is Gerald Hall. I'm a private investigator.”
I took the card. Looked at it. Looked at him.
A good Catholic girl, my mother would have said, is courteous to strangers. My mother had also never lived in St. Francisville, but the reflex was older than geography.
“I'm the administrative coordinator,” I said. “Can I help you?”
His eyes did a fast, professional assessment — not the way the men at the fundraiser had looked at me, nothing like that.
“I’ve been hired by a local family to look into a certain matter,” he said with a slight drawl and produced a photo from the inside of his linen jacket.
“I'm looking for a girl,” he said. “Perhaps you’ve seen her?”
The moment I took the photo, the cold thing was back. Immediate. There was a crease down the middle — an older picture. In it the girl was younger but I was more than certain this was the one from the flyer. Celeste.
“I saw a flyer,” I said carefully. “On Main Street.”
“Her mother put those up. The girl went missing on the 8th,” he said.
“What happened exactly? If you don’t mind my asking.” I handed the photo back. I was certain of it now. Celeste was the girl I had seen during the fundraiser. Which meant… Judah had lied.
The more important question was — why?
“She simply didn’t come home,” the investigator said, tucking the photo away.
“Police aren't treating it as high priority.
Her mother doesn't agree with that assessment.
Says Celeste was responsible, wouldn't simply run off, you understand.” His eyes narrowed slightly.
“Sweetheart, you said you saw the flyer—”
“Yes. But that’s all I can tell you. I don’t know much else. I’m a newcomer myself,” I told him.
He offered me one of those genuine old man smiles. “It’s always the newcomers who peep what the rest don’t,” he said, almost conspiratorially, tapping the side of his face. “Fresh eyes.”
I took a small breath.
The door — which could’ve only been the one to Judah’s study — opened and closed, and for whatever reason, I became acutely paranoid about what I could’ve disclosed to the PI.
“I wish I could be more helpful,” I told him.
“You’ve been,” he assured, and winked, but his gaze slid past me, to the source of the footsteps closing in.
Judah.
“Pastor Beaumont?” the investigator asked with a polite smile.
“Indeed,” Judah said, stopping next to me. He extended his hand for the investigator. “How can I help you, Mr…?”
“Hall. Gerald Hall.” The investigator's handshake was brief but firm. “The good southern winds have blown me in to look into the disappearance of a certain Celeste Taylor. I understand she attended service here?”
Something passed across Judah’s face, but it was gone before I could think on it. The investigator didn’t notice; he was fishing for something in the pockets of his jacket.
“Yes, with her grandmother occasionally.” Judah’s hand came to rest on the small of my back, so lightly I almost couldn’t feel it. “Though I believe she wasn’t living in St. Francisville.”
“Wasn’t?” the investigator repeated, finally finding what he was looking for. A silver case. Of cigarettes. “You mind if I smoke?”
“Perhaps not quite inside the church,” Judah said, gesturing to the outside. “I’m just locking up; we can talk more outside. While you smoke.”
“Smart thinking,” the PI agreed.
The three of us stepped outside into the humid evening air. The investigator immediately lit his cigarette, taking a deep drag before exhaling a cloud of smoke that hung in the still air.
“So. About the girl,” he continued, studying Judah's face. “You mentioned she wasn’t local?”
“Came and went, as far as I know,” Judah said. His hand remained on my back as we stood. I could feel the heat of his palm through my blouse. “Grandmother lives in St. Francisville, but as I understand, her family is not from here.”
“I see.” The PI rested the cigarette in between his thin lips, nearly catching his moustache on fire, and pushed his hand inside the pocket a second time.
This time he produced a small notepad. Then went back in.
“Rats. I’ve lost my pen somewhere. Sweetheart, you mind if I—” He reached for the pen clipped to the legal pad I was holding.
“Now then.” He flipped the notepad open.
“Grandmother. St. Franc—how do you spell that? Is it Franc—”
“Francisville,” Judah and I both said in unison.
“—isville,” the investigator finished writing, then glanced up with a shrewd smile. “Y'all are in sync, I see.”
“We work together,” Judah said smoothly. His fingers pressed slightly firmer against my back — a warning or reassurance, I couldn't tell which.
“Right. Now, about when you last saw the girl...” Hall tapped the pen against his notepad, and removed the cigarette from his mouth to blow out a proper grey cloud.
“I believe it was about three weeks ago at Sunday service,” Judah said. “Though I can be mistaken. After a time, they all start to blur together.”
“I bet.” The investigator nodded. “Spreading the good lord’s name from dawn to dusk must take a toll on the old noggin’. Sunday service, Easter Service, Fourth of July service — all the same after a while, ain’t it?”
Judah said nothing to that.
The PI didn’t mind; by then, his attention was on me. “And you, Miss…?”
“Evangeline,” I said. “Mercy Evangeline.”
The investigator’s eyebrows shot up. “Would you look at that. Daddy of the religious folk, too?”
“A pastor,” I said. “But not here,” I added quickly. “Mississippi.”
“Ah,” the investigator nodded, taking another drag of his cigarette. “And you haven't seen the girl either, I take it?”
I felt Judah's hand press more firmly against my back, his fingers splaying slightly wider.
“Just the flyer. Like I said.”
The PI studied me for a moment too long, his eyes narrowing slightly before he smiled again. “Well, that's a shame. Fresh eyes and all.” He flicked ash from his cigarette onto the church steps. “Terrible business, a missing girl. Family's beside themselves, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Judah echoed. “We've been praying for her safe return.”
“Prayer's good,” Hall said, tapping his notepad with my pen. “But information's better. If either of you happen to recall anything — even something that seems insignificant — I left my card.”
“With Miss Evangeline,” Judah confirmed, his tone cordial but dismissive.
The cicadas filled the air, giving life to an otherwise quiet evening. And Judah’s hand was still on my back, well past the moment Gerald Hall had said his goodbyes.