The Thanksgiving Day Murder Read online

  “What did she think of Arlene Hopkins?”

  He smiled. “I think Natalie thought she was a bright, arrogant woman who was tough to work for.”

  “Did Natalie work for her?”

  “Not directly, but she worked for several people when she was needed.”

  “What about Eleanor Wormholtz?”

  “Oh, Wormy. I’d say a love-hate relationship. Natalie respected her a great deal. Wormy wasn’t a please-and-thank-you kind of person. She’d drop some work on Natalie’s desk and say she needed it by five, and when Natalie gave it back at four o’clock, Wormy’d look at it and nod.”

  “What about Martin Jewell?”

  “She said sometimes she thought of him like a brother. He was patient and understanding. If someone had a problem, they’d take it to him rather than Hopkins. He was the guy with the soft heart.”

  It certainly tallied with the way I had thought of him. “Steve Carlson?”

  “I’m not sure I ever heard the name. There were a lot of names. This one said this, that one said that. They didn’t stay with me. Of all of them, the only one I ever met was Susan.”

  “Can I have the name and address of the beauty parlor?”

  “I’ll be right down.”

  He left me and I went over to the table with the stamp collection. Next to the loose stamps he had been looking at was a shoebox of stamps torn off envelopes and occasionally whole envelopes. Near that were individual stamps and blocks of four in transparent envelopes. In a pile were several white envelopes addressed to Sandy, each with a different stamp on it. Every envelope was enclosed in transparent paper. Without touching, I looked at what was visible. I had not seen a stamp collection since I was a child, but I recalled that when Aunt Meg had written to me at St. Stephen’s, she had always used commemorative stamps, and I wondered whether it was her interest or Uncle Will’s that had led her to do so. I decided to start asking for them myself at the post office. I didn’t write many letters, but unusual stamps would give my envelopes a slight distinction.

  “Like my collection?”

  I was surprised to see him back so soon. “It’s beautiful. It must take a lot of your time.”

  “It’s time I enjoy spending. My daughter enjoys it, too. I started both my kids off when they were young, but my son had no interest at all. I’ve got your name. It’s called Hair Today and it’s about a mile from here. Want to drop in on them?”

  “Definitely.”

  “I’ll get your coat.”

  —

  “Yes, she’s here and I think she’s got a few minutes. Want to talk to her?”

  “Yes, please.” The receptionist disappeared around a corner as I waited. Sandy had come in with me and introduced himself, asking if the staff would cooperate. Then he’d gone out to the car after telling me to take my time.

  The receptionist came back with a thin woman dressed in black tights and a red tunic. “Sharon, this is Christine Bennett. It’s about Natalie Gordon.”

  “Oh, hi. Are you her sister?”

  “I’m a friend of the family. Can we sit and talk?”

  “Sure thing.” She led the way to a group of chairs and asked if I wanted coffee. I said no and we sat away from two women waiting for their appointments.

  “Do you know anything?” Sharon asked, her voice low and slow.

  “No, not yet, that’s why I’m here. I’m trying to help her husband find her. We thought you might have some information. How often did she come in?”

  “Every Friday morning. Sometimes on Saturday if they were going somewhere important.”

  “What did she have done?”

  “A blow-dry, a cut once a month, Diane did her nails every week.”

  “Was that it?”

  “Well, a touch-up every once in a while.”

  “She colored her hair?”

  “Oh yeah.” She said it as though I really should have known without asking.

  “What color was her natural hair?”

  “Well, she was getting some gray, you know, and the natural brown was like losing its luster, you know what I mean?”

  “Yes,” I said, wondering for the first time in my life if my hair was losing something it had always had. “Was there a lot of gray?”

  “There was quite a bit. Not like an old woman, but yeah, it was happening to her. Some people just get gray prematurely.”

  “Can you show me what the color of her natural hair was? I mean the brown.”

  “Sure thing. Come with me.” She got up and I followed her to a place on the wall where there were more hair colors than I’d ever seen in my life. Sharon ran her hand across a stretch of brown hair samples and stopped at one. “Kinda like this, but not as bright.”

  “Could you give me something like that to take with me?”

  “I’ve got some in the back.”

  “And what about the color you dyed her hair?”

  “That’s this one. Glowing Auburn. It’s nice, doesn’t look too red. It’s very natural. You want this one, too?”

  “If I could.”

  “I’ll be right back.”

  —

  It was a long drive back to Oakwood, and we talked intermittently.

  “Did you know Natalie dyed her hair?” I asked after a while.

  “All women dye their hair. My first wife tried every shade of blond in the book and finally decided on the worst of them. She thought it made her look young; I thought it made her look old. I never asked Natalie whether she used color. Her hair looked very natural, and I suspect it was the color she was born with. I’ve known a lot of people who had red hair as kids, and I watched it turn brown as they got older.”

  What he said had merit and I had to agree both with him and with Natalie’s hairdresser, that her hair looked very natural, at least from the pictures I had seen.

  I didn’t ask anything else. As we turned in to Pine Brook Road I said, “I don’t know where I’m going from here, Sandy. I’ve given my name and phone number to a lot of people out there, but if I don’t hear from them with new information, I’m really at a loss.”

  “Something will happen. You’re doing all the right things. And I’m happy with your work. You’ll know what to do. You’ve got the right instincts.”

  He turned up the driveway and we said good-bye. I had no idea my luck was about to change.

  15

  Over the next day there was a kind of explosion of information, just about all of it unexpected. It started as I put my things down in the house and went to check the answering machine. I have to say I feel uncomfortable having an answering machine in my home, but it came with my husband and I think of it as his, although messages are often left on it for me, as was the case today. I saw the blinking light and pressed the PLAY button.

  “This message is for Miss Christine Bennett,” a slow, careful elderly female voice said. “My name is Mabel Bernstein, B-E-R-N-S-T-E-I-N, and I spoke with Miss Bennett this morning. I have some information for her, but she’ll have to call me back today because I won’t be available tomorrow.” She recited her number, added, “Please give her the message,” and hung up.

  The confusion was caused by Jack’s security-conscious temperament. He refuses to identify us by name and has a rather grim-sounding order to leave a message at the tone. I dialed Mrs. Bernstein’s number as fast as I could.

  “Oh, Miss Bennett,” she said happily, “I wasn’t sure I’d reached the right number.”

  “That was my husband’s voice. Tell me what your information is.”

  “I just remembered the name of the moving company Natalie used. They’re Annie’s Angels and they move people all over the Village.”

  “Annie? A woman’s name?”

  “We’re a pretty independent lot down here. Anyone can do anything. And does.”

  “That’s really terrific, Mrs. Bernstein.”

  “Well, I hope it gives you something to work on. You said I was the end of the line. At least now someone else is.
”

  “I’m sure this is going to help. Thank you very much and have a wonderful vacation.”

  Before I got off the phone, she had given me Annie’s Angels’ phone number. I called immediately and got an answering machine. I supposed Annie was out doing her thing.

  —

  “He let us out early,” Jack said, walking in half an hour before I expected him.

  “Does he take a cut in pay for that?”

  “He gets a round of applause.”

  “Coffee?”

  “You bet.” He followed me into the kitchen and opened the refrigerator, eventually taking out an apple. “How was your trip to the Village?”

  “Profitable, but not until late this afternoon. And I got to see Sandy Gordon’s house in New Jersey.”

  “Sounds like a busy day.”

  I told him.

  “I’m hearing a few interesting inconsistencies,” Jack said as I finished. He had taken a sheet of plain white paper and folded it in quarters as he does to take notes. Along the shorter fold he noted a few things as I spoke. “The landlady, or landlord as she prefers to be called, said Natalie was new in town, but Mrs. B. on the fourth floor, who knew Natalie a hell of a lot better than the landlord, says she used a local mover to move her stuff. Doesn’t sound like it came from Indiana.”

  “Right. So she’d been living in New York before she moved to Greenwich Avenue. And Wormy said she had references, one of which she checked. So Natalie had held at least two jobs in New York before coming to H and J.”

  “So we’ve got a lady who tailors her story to suit her purposes.”

  “But why?”

  “Maybe she stiffed a landlord in New York, you know, moved out without paying the last month’s rent or left the apartment in such a mess, she would have owed a lot of money.”

  “She didn’t do that on Greenwich Avenue.”

  “She had a husband by then and she wanted him to think she was the greatest.”

  “That’s possible.” I looked over my own notes to see if I’d left anything out. “Oh yes. They were planning a vacation and Natalie had bought a lot of clothes for it, which she never wore. They all still had price tags hanging from them. Sandy has a passport. It’s a few years old and I didn’t look inside to see where he’d gone with it. But Natalie doesn’t have one. They were going to St. John, which is an American possession, so she didn’t need one.”

  “Her idea or his?”

  “I asked him. He said they’d made the decision together. Sounds reasonable.” I poured the coffee and put out some cookies.

  “Can I say something?”

  “When did you ever have to ask?”

  He gave me the little smile that hinted something was coming. “Suppose you’re talking to somebody and you mention you were married last summer and the person asks where. You say St. Stephen’s Convent upstate and this woman says, ‘What an interesting place to get married. Whose idea was that?’ And you say, ‘My husband and I picked it because I spent fifteen years there as a nun.’ ”

  “Is that wrong?” I said, getting an odd feeling.

  “Not wrong at all, just slanted. If I’d married any other woman in the United States, would I have gotten married at St. Stephen’s?”

  “Well no, but—”

  “But I married you, so I did. Do you remember when we first talked about it?”

  I did. “You said your mother wouldn’t be very happy about it.”

  “But we made the decision together and we did it. And I’m glad we did,” he added, reaching across the table and touching my face. “You get my point? I would never say to anyone that we got married at St. Stephen’s because my wife insisted. And if Natalie said to Sandy, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to go to St. John?’ the chances are he’d think it’s a pretty nice idea and he’d tell you they made the decision together.”

  I did get the point. And Jack was right. Sandy always put the best face on everything that had to do with Natalie. It meant he wasn’t the best source of information, although for many things he was my only source. “So it’s possible she didn’t want to get a passport. The reason is probably that she’s older than Sandy thinks.”

  “Not unusual. Many women lie about their age.”

  “Her hairdresser said she had quite a bit of gray.”

  “Her hairdresser. That’s good. You’re a good investigator, Chris. Not that I didn’t think so before.”

  “Her friend Susan is thirty-six and said Natalie claimed to be a few years younger, but Susan thought Natalie was Susan’s age from things she had said.”

  “Sounds like she’s a perceptive witness.”

  “I think she is. I may get back to her and ask her a few more questions. I wonder if Natalie was married, maybe even had children, and left them to start a new life.”

  “Sounds like a possibility.”

  “Maybe her former husband came to New York with the kids for the Thanksgiving Day parade and saw her there. That could really explain her disappearance.” I could feel excitement building as the image took shape. “She couldn’t run away from them because of the crowd, and he might follow her and see Sandy. So she goes along with him, knowing she’s been found out and the new good life is over.”

  “I think that’s an idea to work on,” Jack said. “That the end of the cookies?”

  “I’ll get more tomorrow.” That seemed to satisfy him and we went up to bed.

  —

  It wasn’t even eight-fifteen when the phone rang the next morning. At the other end was Arnold Gold, already in his office preparing for a nine A.M. date in court.

  “Got something for you,” he said. “You awake enough for a hot piece of news?”

  “Up and running.”

  “I was listening to my favorite music station as usual when I got into the office this morning. They have a report on the advertising world just after the eight-o’clock news, not anything that gets my blood going, but I heard a familiar name mentioned. Hopkins and Jewell. Isn’t that where you said your missing woman worked?”

  “Yes. What’s the news?”

  “They’re breaking up.”

  “They’re what?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard right.

  “Going their separate ways. Even the guy who broke the news on the radio seemed surprised. There hadn’t been any rumors, the company’d been doing very well, only got together five years ago, et cetera, et cetera.”

  “I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.”

  “You ask them anything embarrassing?”

  “Not that embarrassing. Some stuff is missing from Natalie’s file. I asked if Hopkins could have taken it, but I don’t really have a motive for her to have done so. Or at least not a strong one.”

  “Well, the advertising man said they would divvy up their assets, work out some deal on the jobs they’re working on, and split up.”

  “Thanks for keeping your ears open.”

  “I’d guess this’ll be in today’s Times. Back in the financial section if you read that far.”

  “Not usually. My quote assets unquote are in the same safe bonds my aunt bought.”

  “Probably just as well. Gotta tend to my law practice, Chrissie. Let me know what happens.”

  “I will.” I hung up and reported to Jack, who was finishing up breakfast.

  “I can’t see what this has to do with your asking questions about a woman who worked for them a few years ago, even one who was in at the beginning.”

  “I can’t either, but Arlene Hopkins really came across as trying to limit my access.”

  “Could be for ten other reasons.”

  “Could be. Maybe I’ll give Wormy a call later on.”

  “Don’t forget your Greenwich Village mover. I think that’s your best bet at this point.”

  “Right.” I looked at my watch. When the dishes were done, that would be my first call.

  —

  “Annie’s Angels,” a very sweet female voice answered.

  “G
ood morning. My name is Christine Bennett and I have a question about someone you moved about five years ago. Her name was Natalie Miller and she moved to Greenwich Avenue.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “The address she moved from.”

  “I’m not sure I have the right to give that out. I’ll really have to ask Annie. Can you tell me what this is all about?”

  “She disappeared over a year ago and we’re trying to trace her.”

  “What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

  “She may have been kidnapped.”

  “This sounds a little crazy.”

  I couldn’t dispute her judgment. “When can I reach Annie?”

  “She usually comes in around nine. You want to call us back?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll tell her what it’s all about when she comes in.”

  Since looking at Sandy’s stamp collection, a few new ideas had started forming in my mind. When Jack and I were married, Jack asked his local post office in Brooklyn to forward his mail to his new address, our house in Oakwood. It was a natural thing to do. Old bills had to be paid, magazines had to be sent on, friends who had only your last address would want their mail to find its way to your new address. And there was something else that was a very long shot, but when you’ve got very little, you try anything. I dialed Sandy’s number at work a little before nine—Jack had just set out for Brooklyn—and sure enough, he was there.

  “Two things, Sandy,” I said. “When you married, did Natalie have mail forwarded from the Greenwich Avenue address?”

  “She didn’t. She said she was tired of all the junk mail she got and this was a perfect time to cut it off. Her friends knew where she was going and she didn’t care about anyone else. She paid the Con Ed bill, settled everything with her landlord, and didn’t leave a forwarding address. I did, of course, and all my junk mail followed me. I don’t think I ever saw a piece of mail with her maiden name on it.”

  “Second question. I noticed while you were upstairs yesterday that you had a lot of stamps still stuck to envelopes.”

  “That’s right. Sometimes I save the whole envelope, sometimes just the stamp. I soak the stamps off, dry them, and put them in special albums.”

  “So you look over all the mail that comes into the house.”