The Thanksgiving Day Murder Page 2

  In my mind I could see it, the almost invisible man beneath all the balloons inflated with helium reaching for the sky, children with balloons tied to their wrists to keep them from escaping. How sad that such a beautiful, colorful image meant something so evil to this poor man.

  “Was she pregnant?” I asked finally.

  “I don’t know.” He answered quickly, as though he knew the answer to every question an investigator might ask, and he probably did.

  “I’m so terribly sorry for your loss,” I said.

  “I want to hire you, Chris.”

  I must have looked startled because he said, “Don’t say anything. Just listen for a minute. I have looked for her. I have had a private detective look for her. I have played games with the police while they supposedly looked for her. She’s gone. She’s nowhere. She turned a corner and disappeared off the face of the earth. Whether she’s dead or alive, I must know. I can’t function anymore. I can’t move forward and I’ve never been able to stand still. You have to help me.”

  “I’m not a private detective, Sandy. I can’t accept money to investigate her disappearance, and frankly, I wouldn’t know how to start.” I felt at a total loss. A woman turns a corner and disappears off the face of the earth. Where do you begin?

  “Don’t turn me down so quickly. I know you’re not licensed. I’m not asking you to do anything that isn’t legal. Forget the money; we can talk about that later. If you’d like me to give a donation to your favorite charity, I’m more than happy to do that. I’ll pay your expenses. I’ll give you every picture of her that I have, every scrap of writing that I’ve been able to dig up. I have lists of her favorite foods, her favorite perfume, expressions she always used. And I have a few things that may be useful that I didn’t have when I hired the detective. It’s all yours. My life is an open book; I’ll answer any question you have with absolute truth. Just don’t turn me down.”

  My heart really went out to him, but this was so different from the other cases I’d worked on, cases in which I had a personal interest, in which there was some physical evidence, something to go on. What was there here? A balloon floating skyward, an empty street, a crowd of people who had noticed nothing.

  “Chris?”

  I turned to see Jack standing in the doorway, his coat on and mine over his arm. “Jack. Sandy and I were just talking.”

  “You want to stay? I can make it home alone.” He gave me a smile.

  “Why don’t you go?” Sandy said to me. “I’ll be in touch. Just think about it.”

  I felt troubled and uncertain. “Fine.” I offered my hand and we shook.

  “Nice meeting you, Jack,” Sandy said, standing as I did. “So long, folks.”

  “You look like you’re not all here,” Jack said as he helped me on with my coat.

  “Let’s talk about it outside.”

  We found Mel and Hal and said our good-byes, Mel pressing a CARE package on me as we left.

  “Thank goodness for Mel,” Jack said as we stepped into the cold, dark winter late afternoon. “At least I’m off the hook for cooking dinner.”

  2

  “He get you shook up about something?”

  “He told me a terrible story, but there’s something else shaking me up. You talked to him, didn’t you?”

  “For kind of a long time after lunch. Seems like a nice enough guy.”

  “He said he was related to Melanie.”

  “He’s her uncle.”

  That surprised me. “He looks kind of young to be her uncle.”

  “Said he was her mother’s kid brother, a lot younger than her mother.”

  “Mel’s old roommate mentioned him during brunch. She said he had a weird story to tell. I had no idea this was the man and that was the story.”

  Jack took his key out of his pocket and we turned up the front walk. The snow had been shoveled away and the shrubs we had planted in the fall looked healthy and green in spite of the cold. “Do I get to hear the story?”

  “His wife disappeared during the Thanksgiving Day parade the year before last.”

  “That is weird.”

  “Without a trace. She turned a corner to buy a balloon and he never saw her again.”

  We walked inside and I went to turn the heat up as Jack closed and locked the front door.

  “Feel like a fire?” he called.

  “You bet,” I called back. “Want something to drink?”

  “Maybe some coffee. I tried some of Hal’s special single-malt Scotch, and if I have anything else, I won’t be able to study.”

  I put on a pot and rubbed my hands together, happy for the fire I could already smell. The heat would take time, but the fire was instantaneous. Jack had already talked about the possibility of putting a wood-burning stove in the fireplace and heating the downstairs with it. It struck me as a good idea with a downside; I love the look of a fire. A good fire is more interesting than a television screen. Anyway, it was a thought for the future.

  When I carried in the carafe, the living room was warm and fragrant with the woody smells I love so much.

  “That smells good,” Jack said, referring to the coffee.

  “So does that.” I nodded toward the fire.

  “You know me. Nothing smells as good to a cop as fresh coffee.”

  I leaned over and kissed his cheek, then took the carafe back to the kitchen. When we were sipping in front of the fire, I told Jack what I remembered of Sandy Gordon’s story.

  “Those things are very tough,” Jack said when he’d heard the whole thing. “I have to believe there’s a large possibility this woman planned her disappearance right down to saying she was going for a balloon.”

  “He was at great pains to tell me how happy they were together.”

  “They’re always happy together, Chris. And then one day one of them leaves and the other one can’t believe it. I wish I could tell you this was unique, that I’d never heard anything like it before.”

  “What usually happens?”

  “Sometimes the missing person never shows up. The case is kept open, but it’s not very active. Sometimes we find a body. That’s when we know it was really a case of kidnapping, assault, rape, whatever. It’s also possible, of course, that the spouse who reports the disappearance is the killer.”

  “I can’t believe that.”

  “Believe it.”

  “Not in this case.”

  “I tend to agree with you. This guy doesn’t strike me as a killer, but you never know. You don’t know what really went on between them, what he found out from her or about her before the Thanksgiving Day parade. What he told you was his well-thought-out story.”

  “But he went to the parade with her and reported her disappearance to the police.” I felt myself arguing Sandy’s point of view.

  “In my scenario, he went to the parade alone. She was already dead and buried when he got to the parade. Who’s ever going to remember this guy after the parade’s over? He told you Seventy-fourth Street. Maybe he was at Fifty-ninth and walked up to Seventy-fourth to report her missing.”

  It is a constant amazement to me that my husband, who has a sense of humor, an easygoing personality, and is full of life and love, has this other side. It isn’t a dark side of him; it’s a knowledge of the dark side of life. He’s seen it, he’s heard about it, in many cases he’s experienced it. Something in me always wants to argue with him, but I know he speaks from direct knowledge.

  “Then why would he try to hire me?” I said finally. “He’s already done enough to prove to the world that he really wants her back. He hired a private detective after it happened.”

  “Maybe Melanie suggested it.”

  It was possible, of course.

  “Chris, I’m not suggesting that this very nice guy that we met at a Sunday brunch is a killer. I’m just giving you a scenario. Do I think he killed his wife? No.”

  “So either she decided to skip out of this marriage and this life or someone grabbed her
on Seventy-fourth Street and took her away.”

  “And since Sandy has discovered that this woman’s past is a little unclear, to say the least, either one of those things could have happened. Maybe she decided to go back to the other life.”

  “Maybe someone from the other life decided to make her pay for something she did in the other life.”

  “And maybe,” Jack said as he got up to get the carafe, “somebody saw a gorgeous woman alone, buying a balloon, and he grabbed her and spirited her away.”

  “Then she’s dead,” I said.

  He came back with the coffee. “I’d guess that, unless Mrs. Gordon initiated her own disappearance, that was the outcome.”

  “He wants to pay me to find out what happened. I told him that was impossible.”

  Jack didn’t say anything. He’s always been cautious commenting on certain kinds of things, but I’ve noticed that recently, since he started his second year of law school, his caution has increased, as though he sees himself differently, as though perhaps it’s wiser to say nothing than to say something that might be interpreted in the wrong way.

  “But I feel sorry for him,” I added.

  “You know I’m very proud of you,” he said, and I knew something else was coming. “You’ve done this kind of thing so well, I guess you’ve gotten a well-earned reputation. But this is really different.”

  “I know. It’s why I’m not getting involved.”

  “In the other cases, you had a personal interest in the victim. This is more like a police case, something a detective catches by chance.”

  “I’m not doing it, Jack.”

  “But it’s affected you. I sense that you’ve involved yourself in this just by listening to Sandy’s story.”

  “It’s something else.”

  “Something we’re keeping to ourselves?”

  I got up and went to the fire. I have a theory about fires, that they like to be poked. I took the poker and moved one of the logs so that the configuration was different, enabling a small, suppressed flame to creep through to reach a new air pocket. The fire leaped, finding new life.

  “A memory came back,” I said as I sat down again. “I was at the Thanksgiving Day parade with my father.”

  “Is that what’s upset you?”

  “I have very few memories of my father. It was a shock when this one came back. I was vaguely aware that I’d seen the parade as a child, but I’ve never been able to see it in my mind. Or to see him.”

  He put his arm around me. “That’s a nice memory,” he said, “a father and his daughter at the parade. I remember going with my parents.”

  “It was while Sandy was telling me about his wife’s disappearance that it came to me. It’s as though there’s a connection.”

  “There’s no connection between anything he told you and your childhood. And you’re under no obligation, moral or otherwise, to help him in a no-win case.”

  “I know.”

  “So tell me, what are you going to do?”

  I smiled. He had gotten me completely off the hook but knew I would eventually do whatever I wanted. What I wanted was to have nothing to do with Natalie Gordon’s disappearance. “I’m getting the dishes washed and then I’m going to read my book while you hit your books.”

  “Sounds like a great idea.”

  —

  Hours later I had finished my book and he had put aside his law books. The fire had died a slow, natural death about an hour after we put the last log on, and the house was warm. Under the wonderful down comforter that I had bought with some of our wedding present money, we made love before going to sleep, our bodies warming the bed and each other, our love as sure and as satisfying as the day we pledged it.

  Jack fell asleep soon after, but I was unable to. I try hard not to lie, but I often keep to myself things that I would rather not discuss. I had told him honestly about my unexpected recollection of being at the parade with my father, a recollection that was little more than a momentary snapshot. What I hadn’t told him was that there was a third person in the picture, a woman, and it had not been my mother.

  3

  I met Melanie early Monday morning when I went out for my walk. It was really too cold to spend much time out of doors, and we did a quick circle of our block and parted. She didn’t mention Sandy Gordon and I didn’t either.

  On Tuesday morning I taught my poetry course at a local college and then came home. It was the beginning of the spring semester and I was still getting to know my students, still trying to match names to faces. At home I had other work to do, preparing materials for Arnold Gold, my lawyer friend in New York who gave me away at my wedding last August. I was typing away at the ancient word processor he had given me when I thought I heard the doorbell ring. I saved my file, having long ago learned the consequences of not doing so, and went downstairs.

  Sandy Gordon stood outside my front door, carrying a box big enough to hold a portable typewriter. “May I come in?”

  “Sure.” I felt a little disoriented, my head still on the legal brief I had been typing. “What brings you to Oakwood today?”

  “You.” He came in, put the box on the floor, and unbuttoned his coat. “Have you thought about it?”

  “I have, yes.”

  He took his coat off and I hung it up, knowing this was an invitation for him to stay.

  “You don’t look very positive.”

  “Jack and I talked about it, Sandy. We both think that unless your wife caused her own disappearance, the chances of finding her alive are very small.”

  “I’m aware of that. I’m resigned to it, although no way do I believe she ran off.”

  “I thought about where I would start,” I said, not responding to his forceful dissent to my suggestion, “who I would talk to, for example, and I came up blank. I can’t believe there’s anything on Seventy-fourth Street or anyone who was there that day that could help me.”

  “I agree with you. I think the parade isn’t the place to start.” He pointed at the carton on the floor. “I think that is. I’ve collected everything I could find in the house and put it all in that box. It’s yours to look at, go through, whatever you want. Then make a decision.”

  “You’re a very persuasive man. Does anyone ever say no to you?”

  “All the time. But I don’t want you to be one of them.”

  “Sandy, I feel very sad about your wife’s disappearance.”

  “You’re leading up to a no and I don’t want to hear it. Will you do this for me? Go through the carton. OK?”

  “I will.”

  “Thanks. We’ll talk again.”

  —

  Maybe that’s why I do it, take on investigations that will lead me away from the safe and the ordinary, that innate desire to know about people’s lives, where they’ve been, what they’ve done, what makes them tick, if anything. The carton sitting on the floor of my living room was too tempting to set aside. I lifted it onto the coffee table and pulled open the four flaps that had been neatly folded into each other. Since I was in my second year and fourth semester of teaching the same course, I had a great lesson plan prepared, and although I changed and updated it regularly, I had little to do to prepare for next Tuesday’s class. And I would get to Arnold’s work later. The carton won.

  On top was a small, white leather photograph album that said OUR WEDDING in gold on the cover. The pages were plastic envelopes and each one was filled, front and back, with a picture the size of the page. The first few pages showed a bride dressing, a white, street-length dress going over her head, her carefully coiffed hair being brushed into place by a man with a brush and a very dedicated expression, mascara being applied in a mirror shot that focused on her reflection.

  Sandy had not exaggerated. She was beautiful, with reddish brown hair and a smile as lovely as it was natural. The dress was simple and elegant, the short veil, when she finally had it put on, very fine-looking. There were a few snapshots also of the ceremony, which took place
under the traditional canopy of a Jewish wedding. In one picture, Sandy was stamping on a white package on the floor, probably the glass he was to break to assure good luck to the couple. The luck hadn’t lasted very long.

  It was a small wedding, with the groom’s father, gray-haired and considerably shorter than Sandy, a woman who was probably his sister, two children who were surely his. His bride, however, seemed to have only a single attendant, a pretty woman about her age in a peach-colored dress. If Natalie Gordon had had any other friends or any relatives, they had not attended, or at least not participated in the ceremony.

  It struck me that my own wedding had resembled this one in some degree. My parents and aunt are gone, and except for my cousin Gene, I am pretty much without family. But I count all the nuns of St. Stephen’s as my friends, and it was there that our wedding took place. Natalie had apparently come to Sandy without family.

  None of the faces in the second half of the book looked familiar. I suppose second weddings are smaller and less lavish than first ones, and only the closest members of the circle are invited. The food looked wonderful, the guests at the handful of tables happy, and the final pictures of the couple being showered with rice a classic conclusion to a wedding.

  I set the small album aside on the coffee table. I must admit I was itching to open my notebook and make some notes, not a good sign for someone who has turned down a case. I restrained myself and continued into the carton. There were a few books near the top—there seemed no organization to the contents; Sandy had probably just gathered things and stuffed them in—and I looked at them with interest. The first one was an anthology of modern American and English poetry, well read, from the look of the jacket. I opened it and found an inscription: “To Natalie with love forever, or for as long as it takes. Ron.” The date was eight years ago. I leafed through the pages, but it was a thick book and I didn’t notice anything special on the pages I saw.

  The second book was quite different, a small, maroon leather-bound volume of Othello, the pages tipped with gold, surely part of a set and perhaps picked up in an antiquarian bookshop. This one had a surprising inscription: “To Scottie, For all the right reasons. With love, Natalie.” Either it was a book she had given to Scottie and he had returned it, or she had inscribed it and never got to present it to him, or decided not to. In any case, it seemed a small treasure.