The Thanksgiving Day Murder Read online

  It gave me plenty to think about on the train ride home. And as I put things together, I found a deep well of sympathy for Natalie. I had never believed she had voluntarily left Sandy, and nothing I had heard or seen since our first conversation had changed my mind. She seemed a contented woman—of whatever age—who had achieved what she wanted, a good husband, a beautiful home, the chance, finally, to have a child. Her life before she met Sandy Gordon had been hit-or-miss at best, and perhaps deeply disturbing. I found that I accepted the possibility that she had stolen her own documents as true. Not only had Martin Jewell claimed to have given her a key to the office, he had identified the one possible key it might have been. She was a woman covering her tracks. What if her former lover-husband had found out where she was working and called H and J as though he were a prospective employer? Whether Natalie had any friends or relatives left in whatever place she came from, he might start snooping around to find her. She might not send birthday cards as Mrs. Jewell did, but she might send a Christmas card or two and someone might be able to furnish a lead.

  But where did she come from? Where had she gone? And how was I going to find out?

  17

  I heard Jack’s car pull up the driveway just as the phone rang, a late hour for anyone to be calling. It was Sandy Gordon in a state of great excitement.

  “I’ve been at it all night and I found it,” he said.

  “The stamp?”

  “The stamp and the piece of envelope it’s attached to, including a postmark.”

  “Sandy, that’s wonderful. Where did it come from?”

  “Indiana. I told you she came from Indiana. The postmark says Connersville. I’ve already checked it out. It’s a small city east of Indianapolis and not far from the Ohio border. Of course, she may not have lived right in that town. The letter may just have been posted there.”

  “I understand, but it’s a good starting point. Is there anything else?”

  “No, that’s it. Will you go out there?” His excitement was so high, he sounded like a kid.

  “Jack’s just coming in the house. I’ll talk to him about it and call you tomorrow.”

  “Am I glad you saw my stamp collection.”

  “So am I, Sandy. Have a good night.”

  —

  “It’s starting to sound very promising,” Jack said when I’d finished my story. He was snacking on leftovers and we were sharing a pot of coffee and some cookies I’d bought before I got home this afternoon.

  “Do I go out there?” I asked. “There must be a million Millers in the Midwest.”

  “I think it’s too soon for that. Give me a couple of good shots of her and I’ll fax them out to Connersville and maybe some towns in the area. Let’s see if the name means anything or the picture means anything.”

  “She could have married a high school sweetheart,” I said. “There’s a chance his family might recognize her even if she has no family of her own left. Or people she went to high school with.”

  “Anything’s possible. Just pick out a couple of good ones and remind me about her hair color.”

  “It was brown originally.”

  “What about her height and weight?”

  “I’ll show you some wedding pictures where she’s standing next to Sandy. You’re a better judge of that than I.”

  He figured her for about five six and 125 to 135 pounds. He wrote down her age as thirty-three to thirty-eight, spanning the range of estimates.

  “You know that if anything turns up, I have to give my information to the detective who’s holding the case.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’m not looking for an exclusive on this.”

  “How nice to work with an amateur,” Jack said with a grin. “Sure you’re not looking for a collar?”

  “Just a woman. Hopefully alive.”

  “Don’t get those hopes up too high.”

  —

  It wasn’t easy to follow his suggestion. He called the next day after he had faxed the picture to several police and county sheriffs’ departments and to the Indiana and Ohio State Police. He also spoke to someone at each location and asked about Natalie Miller. As I had surmised, Miller was a fairly common name—one officer said there were columns of Millers in the phone book—and no one had a criminal file for a woman of that name. Nor was Natalie listed in a phone book, which didn’t surprise me.

  Jack got the name of a newspaper in the area from one police officer and called to see if I could place an ad, together with a picture. When he faxed the picture, the paper said it looked interesting but they’d rather have an original if he could overnight it. By that time Jack had had a number of copies made at a place in Brooklyn the police used, so we put together a few lines of copy and gave Sandy’s business address and his home phone number for responses, and Jack arranged to have the ad run for three days, Sunday through Tuesday. Then I let Sandy know about it.

  Late in the afternoon the phone rang and I heard Dickie Foster’s voice and the kids giggling in the background.

  “Is this Christine Bennett?”

  “Yes, it is. Dickie?”

  “Right. My husband reminded me of something. We talked about Natalie last night. He remembers meeting her in the elevator, too, and he also remembered that when she was with that guy, the one I told you about who stayed with her when we first moved in, she introduced him as her brother.”

  “Did she give a name?”

  “My husband thinks it was Terry. I’m just not sure. And frankly, I’m not convinced he was her brother. She may just not have wanted us to know she was living with some guy.”

  “You mean she was embarrassed about it?”

  “She may have been. Also she may have been worried about having someone stay with her that wasn’t on the lease.”

  “Dickie, I can’t thank you enough for calling. And thanks to your husband for his good memory. If anything else occurs to you, I’d like to hear about it.”

  “There is something else. Remember I told you the last time I talked to Natalie was when she applied for a job? And then she went away and I never saw her again? I actually heard from her.”

  “How?”

  “She must have taken a little vacation around the time she moved. She sent us a postcard.”

  “Do you remember where it came from?”

  “No, but it could turn up. I’m a real pack rat, and things like postcards are hard for me to throw away. If I come across it, I’ll call you.”

  “That would be great,” I said. That was an understatement.

  —

  The weekend was quiet and Jack and I spent it together. We did some walking, took in a movie at the old movie theater that had recently been converted to four smaller ones, and brought home a pizza laden with everything you can imagine for a late dinner.

  “So your ad gets published in Indiana tomorrow,” Jack said, sprinkling hot pepper flakes on his first slice.

  “I don’t think Sandy’s leaving the phone for a minute.”

  “If someone recognizes her, they’ll call.”

  “What if it’s twenty years since she left and her looks have changed so much, no one recognizes her?”

  “I’ve got an idea on that, but let’s give it a couple of days. Anything new on your father and the mystery woman?”

  “Nothing. But I have a new thought. We lived in the house I grew up in for about ten years, and my mother was very friendly with one of the neighbors, a woman named Elsie Rivers. If Elsie’s still there, she might be able to remember something—if my mother confided in her, which is iffy.”

  “Sounds like a good idea. She listed in the phone book?”

  “There’s a Rivers on the right street. It’s funny, I haven’t been back to the old house since my mother died. Aunt Meg put it up for sale and took care of everything. Maybe I’m old enough to see it again.”

  “Want me to go along?”

  “I’d love it.”

  “What’s a Sunday for?”

  —<
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  Houses get smaller and trees get bigger. We had planted the dogwood in the front yard not long after we moved in, a small, wispy thing that produced lovely pink flowers in the spring and bright red berries in the fall, only not many of either. Now it had spread itself to shade most of the downstairs of my early home. Even leafless it had the grace and delicacy of a mature dogwood, and I felt my heart do funny things as I looked at it from the car.

  Jack took my hand. “You OK?”

  “I thought it was such a big house.”

  “You were such a little girl.”

  “I guess so.”

  “Want to ring the bell?”

  “No.” But I couldn’t take my eyes off the house and the tree.

  We sat in silence for another minute. Then Jack said, “How do I find Elsie Rivers?”

  “Circle the block. She lived behind us, one or two houses down.”

  We drove slowly to the corner.

  —

  “No,” the plump woman with big glasses said in amazement. “You’re Francie’s little girl? You’re Kix Bennett?”

  She wrapped her arms around me and I felt as though I had come home to my own, the prodigal daughter returned. A mite tearfully I introduced Jack and she pulled us inside to the warmth of her living room.

  “Oh my Lord,” she said, “if only Francie could have lived to see this. Sit down, kids, sit down. Let me just push away the paper. I read the Sunday paper all over the living room.” She gathered up sections quickly and dropped them on the floor where they were out of the way.

  We accepted her hospitality because we couldn’t refuse. She made tea—I remembered her and my mother sitting over teacups in the afternoon—and found half a coffee cake that was restored to life with the heat of a toaster oven. Then we talked, Jack listening more raptly than I had anticipated. I told her everything that had happened since the death of my mother. She wept as she remembered moments of their friendship, my mother’s illness, her own last moments with me. I didn’t linger or dwell. When we were up to date she was smiling just as I remembered her.

  “So you’re a married woman now with your own home. Oh, Francie would have loved it. And Eddie, too. Never was a nicer man than your daddy, Kix.”

  I felt a little embarrassed. It wasn’t going to be that easy, asking for secrets. “I was especially remembering him recently,” I said. “Someone mentioned the Thanksgiving Day parade and I remembered how he used to take me.”

  “I’m not surprised. You were the apple of his eye. I’ll bet your mom never went to those parades.”

  “She didn’t.”

  “Too cold for her. She hated the cold weather. I think she had southern blood in her veins. She was always putting on a sweater when I was taking mine off.”

  “I remember,” I said. “But my dad wasn’t like that.”

  “Oh, he couldn’t be. He was always out meeting clients. I remember he used to go through shoe leather like nobody else.”

  I felt comforted by hearing these little details of my parents’ lives. As she spoke, I could see my mother checking the thermostat—never putting it higher because that would cost money—and then going for a sweater. And I remembered Daddy’s shoes. I always wait till I get a hole in the second one to have them soled, he would say. How wonderful to hear their voices again, to see them as they were.

  “Elsie, I’m going to ask you something a little odd, something you may know about. When my father took me to the parade, we used to meet someone there, a woman that I never saw anywhere else. She didn’t work with Dad, but she may have lived near Central Park West in the Sixties where we watched the parade. Do you have any idea who she might have been?”

  “Not the faintest. Why would I?”

  “I thought maybe Mom talked to you about her.”

  A shadow of a frown formed on her amazingly smooth forehead. She had round apple cheeks and fewer wrinkles than women ten years younger than she. “I don’t think I understand,” she said.

  “My father had one sister, my aunt Meg, who I lived with after Mom died. As far as I know, he never had any others. If he had some woman friend, maybe my mother knew her or mentioned her to you.” I couldn’t come out and make an overt suggestion of a breach of my father’s fealty.

  “Your father was as good as they come, Chris, as loyal and true as a husband and father could be. That woman was just someone taking her kids and herself to the parade. There’s no more to it than that.”

  We stayed a little longer because she didn’t want to let us go. Finally Jack took his detective’s card out of his pocket, wrote my name and our home address and phone number on it, and gave it to her. She hugged us both and walked us outside the door, the cold apparently not affecting her. She stood there waving till we started up the car, then threw a kiss and went inside.

  “Quite a gal,” Jack said.

  “I’d forgotten the sweaters and the shoe leather. They were always so careful, always saving for a future that never came.”

  “It became your future, and I think you’re living the life they wanted for you.”

  “I think she knows something, Jack.”

  “That’s why I gave her my card. If the spirit ever moves her and she feels she can’t talk to you, she might call me at the station house.”

  “And you’ll tell me whatever she says.”

  “Of course,” he said easily. “What else?”

  —

  There was no message on the machine from Sandy and I decided not to call. I would hear from him when he was ready, or when he had something to tell me. The call came after we had finished dinner.

  “Nothing, Chris,” he said, sounding like the end of the world. “Not a single call.”

  “Give the ad the whole three days, Sandy. People may not want to call on a Sunday.”

  “This has just got to be the right place. Even if she didn’t live there herself, the person who wrote to her knows her.”

  “I think we’re going to find her,” I said. I hadn’t told him half the things I’d learned since Thursday, but I was very encouraged by the new information.

  “I’ll call you,” he said, and hung up.

  “Nothing?” Jack asked.

  “Nothing. I think the time has come to make a visit to St. Stephen’s.”

  18

  Summer or winter, I never mind the drive to St. Stephen’s Convent. There is always the rush of feeling when I see the roofs and spires in the distance. It was my home for fifteen wonderful years, and I left as a friend of the convent and a friend of every nun I had loved while I was there. The woman I knew best and whom I consider my closest friend to this day was Sister Joseph, now serving her first term as General Superior. While she is considerably older than I, she is distinctly of my generation, not of the one that preceded her. As an administrator she runs the convent the way a successful business should be run, and I wouldn’t flinch at the thought of having her take over a large secular company and watch it grow, although that will never happen.

  There is, of course, the other, more important side to her. When I was a member of the convent, Joseph was my spiritual director, and it was she who guided me during the difficult year of my decision to leave. It was also she who welcomed me as a bride last summer, and I’ve never had any doubts that she arranged the perfect weather that accompanied our beautiful wedding in St. Stephen’s chapel.

  As always, I started my visit with a walk around the convent grounds, which include the women’s college I had taught in for many years. A bell rang as I approached the college campus, and a moment later students and brown-habited nuns poured out of the buildings, talking, laughing, enjoying their youth and their education. I watched them with my usual feelings of nostalgia, hoping to see a familiar face.

  “Sister Edward?”

  I turned. A tall, thin girl bundled in a blue down jacket stood beside me. “Janine?” I asked hesitantly, irritated that my memory was failing me.

  “Yes. Janine O’Brien. How are you? It’
s been a long time, hasn’t it?”

  “A year and a half. You must be graduating this year.”

  “I am. I’ve applied to graduate school in a lot of places. I think I’ll go on in English.”

  “That’s wonderful.”

  “What are you doing now?”

  “Unexpected things,” I admitted. “I got married last summer and I work at a couple of part-time jobs.”

  “Married,” she said, as though the news had stunned her.

  “I met him after I left St. Stephen’s. It was all pretty surprising.” I looked at my watch. “I have an appointment with Sister Joseph. Are you walking toward the Mother House?”

  “I’ve got to get back to the dorm.”

  “It’s been wonderful seeing you. Good luck. And I’m Chris Bennett now. If you want a recommendation for graduate school, Sister Joseph will give you my address.”

  “Thank you.” She seemed flustered. “I may just do that. ’Bye.”

  I watched her go, then turned and hurried off for my appointment.

  —

  “Whatever the reason, it’s good to see you,” Joseph said, giving me a hug.

  I had run the gauntlet downstairs, saying hello to everyone I ran into. The long table in Joseph’s office was set with the expected tea and cups, some cookies that had the look of a nun’s hands-on loving care.