The Thanksgiving Day Murder Read online

  I turned down Seventy-fourth and walked the block to Columbus Avenue. Up here, Broadway was two blocks and one triangle west of Central Park West. The street was lined with town houses with plenty of doorways that a woman could be dragged into. I looked at each of them as I passed. At Columbus I continued on to Amsterdam, then turned left to find the subway at Seventy-second where Broadway and Amsterdam converged. I got an express, made a change at Times Square, and shuttled over to Grand Central Station. I caught the last train home before the rush hour.

  —

  I told Jack about my father and the woman when he got home.

  “That’s what’s been bothering you,” he said. We were sitting at the kitchen table, he eating some warmed-up stew left over from a meal I had cooked over the weekend.

  “I want to find out more about it.”

  “Why?”

  “Curiosity.”

  “What are you afraid of? That your father had a girlfriend?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t really believe he did, but I’m sure she was someone he knew, someone he met by appointment, not accident, at least after the first time.”

  “You think you met her more than once?”

  “I’m sure of it. I’m sure I went to the parade more than once and I’m sure she was there each time.”

  “What about this Sandy Gordon thing?”

  “I’ll give it a try. But only if he has more to tell me. With what I have now in that carton, I don’t have enough to go on. He must be holding something else, some papers or something. She must have filed a tax return that would tell me where she worked. If not, that’s it.”

  “Where are you starting on your father’s case?”

  I had thought about that. “I guess downtown Manhattan where he worked—if the company is still there.”

  “You know where to turn if you need help.”

  “Thanks.” I leaned over and kissed him. “Anyone ever tell you you’re a peach?”

  “Yeah, but I kissed her good-bye years ago.”

  5

  “Is my uncle driving you crazy?”

  Mel and I were taking our morning constitutional together. It’s how we met just after I moved into the house I inherited from my aunt. While we do it less in the cold weather, we both found ourselves out on this crisp winter morning.

  “Not crazy. I think his problem is driving him crazy, though.”

  “He asked you to help?”

  “At your brunch on Sunday. Then he dropped over on Tuesday afternoon and gave me a carton of stuff about his wife.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Of course not, Mel. He’s living in limbo, not knowing what’s become of her.”

  “I think she ran away because something in her past caught up with her.”

  “You sound like you’ve thought about it. What makes you feel that’s what happened?”

  “What else could it be? Sandy’s rich, adoring, the kind of husband women would die for. They weren’t even married a year. I don’t know if he’s told you, but they found out a few very strange things about her after she disappeared.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like she was born yesterday. Like she came into existence when she was about thirty years old. No history before that. Sounds like a secret life, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly,” I said cautiously.

  “I don’t know how you can marry a person you don’t know anything about.”

  “What did Jack know about me?”

  “Enough. You were Mrs. Wirth’s niece, you’d spent fifteen years at St. Stephen’s with a lot of respectable people to vouch for you. I would have provided a reference, if needed.” Melanie is a fierce friend. “And you weren’t Natalie.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I never met her, Chris. What I know is family gossip. But he picked her up—”

  “Where?”

  “At one of the more acceptable places to pick people up, a museum or lecture. And they started dating. She claimed to have no family, not a lot of friends, and an autobiography that turned out to be full of holes.”

  “How did you know Sandy talked to me about her?”

  “He called last night. He must have tried you and you weren’t home. He’ll probably call again today.”

  “I’ll be in and out,” I said. “But I think if we’re going to work together, I should have his number so I can call him.”

  “Are you working together?”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I’m intrigued.”

  “I’ll give you his number when I get home.”

  —

  I left Sandy’s number near the kitchen phone and took care of some errands I had to run, thinking about the woman whose past might have caught up with her. It was hard for me to imagine what those words meant. There was very little about my own life that was mysterious or that I kept secret. I had been eight, almost nine, when my father died My mother had been widowed over five years when she herself succumbed. During those years I went from child to teenager, from grade school to high school. She gave me a wonderful life that included home-baked cookies, family, enough new clothes that I never felt I needed anything, and she worked until her illness prevented her from leaving the house. She never let me forget I had had a good father, but she never let me feel my life was lacking because he was no longer around. Everyone seems to be looking for role models nowadays. I don’t have far to look. Anything I needed was available in my family.

  But maybe Natalie Gordon hadn’t been so lucky. Perhaps even finding a husband as wonderful as the one Mel had described hadn’t been enough to protect her from old ghosts, whatever they might be.

  When I got back to the house, I called Sandy Gordon.

  “What did you think of the stuff in the box?” he asked.

  “Before we get into that, we need to agree on some ground rules.”

  “Does that mean you’re taking the case?”

  “It means I’m considering it. Mel gave me your phone number this morning. We have to work together, Sandy. You can’t drop in on me without calling first, and I have to be able to call you when I need to.”

  “No problem there. I apologize for coming unannounced. I had called Tuesday morning and you weren’t home. I didn’t feel like leaving a message.”

  “You told me the carton had information that would give me a point of departure. I didn’t find any. What I found is what Natalie looked like, her cosmetics and perfume, her incomplete dental record, and not much else. I need a lot more. She must have worked at some time, and I want to know for whom, where, what she earned, the kind of work she did. I want to know who her maid of honor was at the wedding and other personal acquaintances she had. I’d like to know where she was living when you met her and any previous addresses that you know of.”

  “Whoa! Hold on. You’re going too fast. I’m trying to write all this down. There’s no problem getting you anything you’ve mentioned so far. I’ve got IRS returns from the year we were married—I didn’t have that when I hired the detective, by the way. I’ve got her maid of honor’s address and phone number, and the address she was living at when I met her. Go on.”

  “Do you know anything about the keys?”

  “What keys?”

  “The ring of keys in the box.”

  “I don’t what you’re talking about. I don’t remember any ring of keys.”

  “They were in the bottom of the box.”

  “I assumed her house keys were in the purse she was carrying on Thanksgiving Day.”

  “Then these must have fallen out of something you gave me.”

  “Interesting.”

  I must admit it gave me a prickle of excitement. “We’ll look at them together when I see you.”

  “How soon?”

  I looked at my watch. “It’s too late for me to drive down to New Jersey today.”

  “You don’t have to make the trip unless you want to see the house for some reason. Let me get these papers together and
bring them to you. What’s convenient?”

  “Tomorrow,” I said without hesitating. I always like to start a new project on a new day. “I’m an early riser.”

  “I’ll be there between nine and nine-thirty.”

  —

  “You knew I’d do it, didn’t you?” I asked Jack when we were getting ready for bed that evening. His law school is four nights a week, and there’s a sense of relief when he gets home Thursday night.

  “I think you want to do it because you hold out hope that there’s a chance she’s still alive.”

  “I do. Not much, but I don’t think it’s hopeless.”

  “I can probably get a look at the file if you want me to.”

  “Sure. I doubt there’s anything there that’ll help me, but I should look. Sandy says he has some papers at home that he didn’t have when she disappeared, her tax returns for that year.”

  “That’s a start.”

  “And the name of her maid of honor. She may have been Natalie’s only friend in the New York area.”

  “Was Natalie from out of town?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t know if he knows.”

  “Sounds like a funny marriage.”

  “That’s what Mel says. But so what? She’s somebody and she’s missing.”

  “Can I ask you the other question?”

  I drew a blank. “What question?”

  “About your father. You going to pursue that, too?”

  “I’m going to try.”

  “Well, these may be the shortest investigations you’ve done so far.”

  For a smart guy, he can be amazingly wrong sometimes.

  —

  Jack backed out of the driveway the next morning seconds before Sandy Gordon drove up it. He came inside with an attaché case, and while I put some coffee on, he opened it and spread papers out on the dining room table. The table is old, somewhat scarred, and due to be replaced, which is why I invited him to use it. I like to spread out there myself when I have a lot of papers to look at and don’t know which one I’ll need next.

  “Here’s our marriage certificate from the State of New Jersey,” he said when I joined him. “And the Jewish one.”

  “How beautiful,” I said in surprise. “I’ve never seen one before.” It was colorful and printed in Hebrew. Two signatures appeared on blank lines, his and hers, and some other names were lettered in. “Who are these people?”

  “Our witnesses. They’re both friends of mine, so I don’t think talking to them will get you anything.”

  “When we were married we were asked if we’d been married before and to produce proof of divorce if we were.”

  “She said she wasn’t. I was and I had my divorce papers with me.”

  “Her maiden name was Miller.”

  “Right.”

  “Do you know where she was from?”

  “Not specifically.”

  I waited for him to elaborate. Both Mel and Jack had found it hard to believe a man could marry someone about whom he knew so little. While I felt I wouldn’t have been able to do it myself, the pictures of Natalie offered an explanation. Sandy had been infatuated with the beautiful younger woman he had met after his marriage broke up. What he did might not have been altogether rational, but it was understandable.

  “I got a lot of flak from my family,” he said. “They wanted to know who her family was, what her background was. What she told me satisfied me. I loved her, Chris. She loved me. We had a great marriage.”

  “What did she tell you?” I took my notebook and opened it to a fresh page.

  “Her parents died when she was young. She was an only child and was raised by relatives she didn’t specially care for and they moved around a lot. When she graduated high school, she packed a bag and came to New York.”

  It was a story that would fly or fail depending on the skepticism and gullibility of the listener. Surely it was true for a large number of Americans. As a teacher in both Catholic and secular schools, I have heard a good sample of improbable stories from students. Some of them have actually been true.

  “Did she ever talk about inviting any family to the wedding?”

  “No.”

  “Where did she say she came from?”

  “She said there were a lot of places, mostly in Indiana. She didn’t like to talk about it because they weren’t happy years. By the way, I’m no expert, but she didn’t talk like a native New Yorker.”

  That was a useful observation. I’m not an expert either, but like most people, I can pick out a southern accent, a midwestern one, a New England one. “Where did she work, Sandy?”

  He took a piece of paper from a leather holder in his pocket and wrote. “It’s a fairly new advertising company, one of those places where a couple of young hotshots got together and started making money. They’ve expanded a lot since they opened their shop, but she was with them for a couple of years.”

  “Why did she leave?”

  “Essentially because we were getting married. I didn’t want her making the trip into New York every day, and she didn’t want to either. We bought a house when we got married and I wanted her to make it hers, fix it up her way. She decided to make it a full-time job, at least at the beginning.”

  I looked at the name and address, Hopkins and Jewell. The address was downtown Manhattan, near Union Square. “Where did she work before this?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “She never mentioned a previous job?”

  “Not that I remember. And I didn’t find any old tax returns anywhere.”

  “Strange. My husband keeps his for years.”

  “So do I. Maybe she worked for Hopkins longer than I thought. You know what? Let me call my accountant. I bet he can get hold of her old returns from the IRS. May I use your phone?”

  “Sure. It’s in the kitchen.”

  It wasn’t a long conversation. Sandy was on first names with his accountant, a man he called Alfie. I could tell as soon as the small talk was over that Sandy was being given a hard time. He hung up shaking his head. “Can’t get them,” he said to me.

  I brought the coffee into the dining room and poured for both of us. He took milk and no sugar; I always drink mine black. “Seems strange,” I said. “You’re her husband.”

  “Doesn’t matter. Apparently the IRS is very strict about giving out information. For me to get her returns, or vice versa, I’d need a power of attorney from her. He gave me the form number, as though it mattered. If she were here to sign it, I wouldn’t need the damn thing.”

  “So the government keeps the past a secret,” I said. “I’m not exactly sorry to hear that, except it makes my job harder.”

  “I suppose we could try for a court order.”

  “I’m not in a position to get one and I’m not sure a court will give one even to you. Your wife apparently walked out on you. There’s no evidence of foul play, there was no ransom demand. Why should a judge let you in on secrets she kept from you when you were living together?”

  “I thought you were on my side.”

  “I am,” I said. “I’m just—”

  “I know, I know. It’s the kind of runaround I’ve been getting for over a year.”

  “Tell me about her maid of honor.”

  “Susan Diggins. Nice woman. Just got married a couple of months ago. I’ve got her new name written down. She and Natalie met at Hopkins and Jewell and became friends. Susan left there before Natalie did, got a better job, I think.”

  “Did they ever live together?”

  “I don’t know. I’m not sure. They may have. You’ll have to ask her.” He took an envelope out of his jacket pocket and put it on the table. “I’ve got Susan’s name and address in here and the last address Natalie lived at before we married.”

  “Good.” I took the key ring out of my pants pocket where I’d tucked it this morning and laid it on the table. “Do they look familiar?”

  He picked the keys up and held them on his palm. �
�This one could be a house key, but it doesn’t look like the key to our house.” He reached into his own pocket and took out a large ring of keys. “This one’s the key to our house.”

  There was no similarity. “Maybe they’re from an old apartment,” I suggested.

  “No car keys here. This one looks like a key to a suitcase. I bought Natalie luggage before we were married. I think it used a combination lock of some kind.”

  “Did you pack the carton you gave me?”

  “Not exactly. She kept some pictures in there, in big envelopes, and I just added the other things. Those keys could have been there all along and I wouldn’t have known it.”

  “Did the detective you hired look through the pictures?”

  “He really wasn’t too interested. He wanted one good full-face picture and I gave it to him.”

  “OK,” I said. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I want to hear the story of how you met, how you fell in love, everything you can think of.”

  “I’ll need some more coffee,” he said, looking uneasy.

  6

  “After my divorce, I moved into an apartment. At first it was a relief just to live in peace and quiet. I saw my kids every weekend and I went to work, and sometimes I took in a movie or visited friends. After a couple of months I got restless. I’d drop into bars, go to parties, let myself be fixed up by well-meaning friends. Some of the women I met were nice and I enjoyed going out with them, but in the end, I think they all wanted to get married, sooner rather than later, and I didn’t know if I wanted to.

  “But I wanted their company. I like women. They add to your life. Once, when the pickings got a little lean, I even advertised in New York magazine. I got seventy-six answers in a week, one of them from my ex-wife.”

  “Oh my,” I said.

  “I never let her know. It’s all done anonymously till you write to an advertiser. It was interesting to see how she described herself, even more interesting to see the picture she used. She’d gotten herself all made up and had one of those glamour shots taken. If I’d been someone else, I probably would have called her.