The Thanksgiving Day Murder Read online

  “Anyway, if I didn’t have a date on Saturday night, I’d go into the city and try to pick up a single ticket for a play or a concert. I like that sort of thing and sometimes you meet people at intermission. One Sunday afternoon I took myself over to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I hadn’t been to the Egyptian section for a long time and they had some new stuff I wanted to see. I went into that big room that’s all glass and light, and there she was.”

  “Natalie,” I said.

  “Natalie. She was just standing and looking at the temple as though she was totally lost in it. She was wearing a big rose-colored sweater, black leather pants, and she had her coat over one arm. I went over, not too close, and looked at it myself. It was a winter day, not very sunny, and all the light in the room seemed to focus on her.”

  There’s not much you can do when a man is hooked. I let Sandy go on for a while, describing this and that about Natalie, how they exchanged their first words, how they sort of but not quite walked together to another chamber, how they went out of the museum in each other’s company and went to one place for a drink and another place for dinner.

  Was Natalie waiting in the museum that winter afternoon to be picked up? Who knows? Did I ever visit a museum on a weekend afternoon when I was single? Yes, I certainly did. Did I do it to meet men? Most assuredly not. And in the end, what difference did it make?

  The tale went on, the immediate “chemistry” between the two of them, the frequent dates, the movement toward intimacy.

  “Was she always available when you called?” I asked.

  “As a matter of fact, no.” He seemed a little surprised at the question.

  “Did you think it was because she was going out with other men or because she wanted you to think she was?”

  “What does that have to do with anything?”

  “Sandy, you said you would answer my questions. We’re talking about a real person, someone who is old enough to have had experience with men, to know how to handle them. I’m wondering if there’s someone she left when she met you.”

  “Someone she might have gone back to,” he said wryly.

  That was exactly what I was thinking. “Someone who might know something about her,” I said gently.

  “I can’t tell you that.”

  “Did you visit her at her apartment?”

  “I usually picked her up there.”

  “Were there signs of anyone else around? Cigarettes? Clothes that didn’t look like hers?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Did she cook for you?”

  “Infrequently.”

  “Where did you go to eat?”

  “Restaurants, mostly in Manhattan.”

  “Did you ever meet any of her friends?”

  “Never. We sometimes went out with friends of mine.”

  “I’m going to start with Susan Diggins,” I said, “and go on from there. Maybe one day I’ll come out and see the house, but at the moment, unless you’ve got cartons of stuff stashed away, I can’t see any reason to. I assume your detective talked to Susan, too.”

  “I’m sure he did.”

  “And to Hopkins and Jewell.”

  “He went down there.” He picked the keys up off the table and looked at them. “I wish I knew where these came from,” he said.

  “Sandy, if you find any old pocketbooks of Natalie’s, would you look inside them and see if there’s anything that could give me a lead? And don’t throw anything away, even little scraps.”

  “I’ll take care of it.”

  “Did she have any charge accounts before you married?”

  “I don’t think so. I filled out a lot of forms for her so she could open them. They were essentially in my name because I had the income. I got the feeling she’d always used cash.”

  “Did any bills come in after she disappeared?”

  “Yes, but they were department store bills, the clothes I told you she bought for our winter vacation. Nothing was dated after Thanksgiving Day.”

  “And I assume she wrote no checks and took no money out of the bank after that date.”

  “Nothing.” He said it with a sense of satisfaction. He was proving to me that he was right, that she had not left of her own free will.

  “I’ll keep you posted,” I said, closing our conversation.

  He took a wallet out of his pocket and counted out some bills. Then he laid five hundred-dollar bills on the table. I stared at them. The first time I ever saw a bill that large was in the supermarket in Oakwood after I moved here. “I don’t need it,” I said.

  “Then put it away and use it when you do. Mel says you’re honest. I trust you.”

  “I’ll account for every cent.”

  He gave me a smile. “Every dollar’ll do. Just come up with something.”

  —

  The address and phone number of Susan Diggins Hartswell were in the envelope as promised. She lived in a Westchester suburb that I could drive to in less than an hour. Although I assumed she was still working and wouldn’t answer her home phone, I dialed the number and was rewarded by having her pick up.

  “Mrs. Hartswell,” I said, “my name is Christine Bennett and I’m a friend of Sandy Gordon.” I used the word loosely and to good effect.

  “Yes. Has something happened? Has Natalie turned up?”

  “I’m afraid not. Sandy has asked me to look into her disappearance.”

  “It’s been so long now,” she said sadly. “I don’t know what you can do at this point. I talked to the detective he hired last year and that didn’t lead anywhere.”

  “I have a little experience investigating and maybe I’ll turn up something the detective missed. I’d like to start by talking to you.”

  “Well, I’m home being pregnant, so I’m available and I want to do everything I can to help. So name your time.”

  “This afternoon if you’re free.”

  “Let’s see. If you can be here by twelve-thirty, we can talk over lunch. I cook salt-free, but I’ll let you add salt at the table.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll see you then.”

  —

  I had a chicken ready to pop into the oven (recipe courtesy of Melanie Gross) when I got home, so I felt pretty free as I got into my car and started to drive.

  I would be lying if I didn’t admit that starting an investigation gives me a high. This one was different from all the others in several ways. I had never known Natalie and didn’t really know Sandy. I hadn’t stumbled on a body, and in a sense I had no personal interest in the subject of the investigation, although I was developing one simply because I’m me.

  What concerned me most was that I was following in the footsteps of a professional and that unless someone said something new or Sandy turned up some fresh piece of evidence, I would go no further than the detective had. What I had working for me was that people sometimes open up more readily to a woman, someone not in a uniform, someone not professional. Also, I enjoy what I do. It makes a difference.

  The Hartswells lived on a pleasant suburban street lined with houses that had once probably resembled each other more than they did today. They had been built along a couple of general designs and changed through creative landscaping, additions, some second stories added on ranches, and a variety of windows. I parked at the curb in front of a two-story white house with bright blue trim, and went up a concrete walk to the front door.

  Susan Hartswell was well into her pregnancy. She opened the door and we introduced ourselves as she took my coat.

  “Has anything new come up?” she asked as I followed her to the kitchen.

  “Nothing that I know of. Sandy is desperate to find her.”

  “Sit where you feel comfortable. They’re both the same.” She was referring to two attractive fruit salads.

  “Where’d you find such beautiful fruit at this time of year?” I asked.

  “We have a great produce market in the next town. They fly stuff in from South America and California, and most of it is
pretty good. You can drink juice or bottled water. I cleaned out all the tea and coffee when I got pregnant so I wouldn’t be tempted.”

  I accepted juice and we dug in. “I have no record of what the detective asked you, or the police, so if I sound repetitive, please bear with me. Do you know how old Natalie is?”

  “Probably older than she told Sandy. I’m thirty-six and she said she was three years younger than me, but I’d guess she’s my age, give or take a year.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “Little things she dropped about high school graduation and what she was doing when Kennedy got shot.”

  That was good thinking. I was talking to someone who used her head. “Do you remember when she met Sandy?”

  “Maybe three years ago. Then they got married about two years ago. They weren’t married for long.”

  “Do you remember where she met him?”

  “In one of the museums, I think. I didn’t go with her that day.”

  “Did you go together sometimes?”

  “Lots of times.”

  “To pick up men?”

  “To see the exhibits and meet interesting people. You can meet men that way. Not a lot, but it happens.”

  “How long have you known her?”

  “I probably met her about four years ago. Maybe four and a half.”

  “Where?”

  “At this advertising agency we worked for. Hopkins and Jewell. She was there when they hired me.”

  “And you just became friends.”

  “We went to dinner sometimes, saw a play, gossiped about office things.”

  “Did you meet any of her other friends?”

  “Not that I remember. I don’t think she’d been in New York very long.”

  “Where had she come from?”

  “Somewhere in the Midwest. She sounded Midwest.”

  I ate a juicy piece of watermelon. “Had she been married before?”

  Susan didn’t answer right away. For the first time she seemed to weigh her words. “Natalie wasn’t the kind of person to let it all hang out. You always got the feeling about her that there was a lot beneath the surface. I respected her for it. She never told me she’d been married before. In fact, she told me she hadn’t been. But I thought there might have been someone once who meant a lot to her, someone she’d had a hard time forgetting. It doesn’t mean she was married.”

  “But you got the feeling she wanted to settle down.”

  “We both did. She wanted to get married, to have a baby, to be a family person, but she wanted to do it with the right man. She wanted to love him.”

  “Did she love Sandy?”

  “Passionately.”

  “I saw your picture in the Gordons’ wedding album. You were Natalie’s maid of honor. Tell me about the wedding.”

  “It was small, tasteful, expensive, traditional.”

  “How did she do with Sandy’s relatives?”

  “There were only a handful of relatives there. I’d guess most of the guests were his old friends and their wives. He joked that one of the men had gone to kindergarten with him.”

  “She get along with them?”

  “Natalie gets along with people. She knows how. Wherever she is now, she’s getting along.”

  We had finished our salads and Susan moved the plates to the kitchen counter. “Feel like a cookie?” she asked.

  “No thanks.”

  She smiled. “Bless you. If you’d had one, I’d have had to join you, and I don’t need the calories. I just keep them in the house because of my husband.”

  “You’re really doing everything right, aren’t you?”

  “You have to. In the dark ages—when I was born—there was so much people didn’t know. They ate the wrong foods and drank the wrong drinks, they were afraid to exercise. This may be my only child, and I’m doing it right because with a baby, you can’t go back and correct your mistakes.”

  I kept my opinion of her rather strong views on child-bearing and generation gaps to myself, but I was pleased she had led into a subject that I wanted to ask about. “Did Natalie confide to you that she was pregnant before she disappeared?”

  It was the second time she paused and considered. “She didn’t know for sure, but she thought she might be. She was waiting to be tested. She was supposed to go the Monday after Thanksgiving.”

  “I see.”

  “Sandy had changed his mind about having a baby. When they were dating, he said he didn’t want another child. He has a couple of older children from his first marriage and he didn’t want to start over at his age.”

  “But she married him anyway, even though she wanted a baby.”

  “I told you, she was crazy about him.”

  “Had she told Sandy her suspicion?”

  “No. She wanted to surprise him when she knew for sure.”

  “It’s nice that he changed his mind,” I said. “It really shows the marriage was working.”

  “It was working. It was a great marriage. And I’ll tell you something. I was jealous to the core when she said she might be pregnant. I can’t tell you how much I wanted a baby. Do you have kids?”

  “I was just married last summer.”

  “Don’t wait too long. The clock is ticking.”

  “What clock?”

  “Your biological clock. Let that body of yours do what it was born to do.”

  I promised her I would. “You’ve been very helpful, Sue, and it’s been a great lunch.”

  “Anything,” she said with feeling. “I want her found. I want to know what happened to her.”

  “I’ll do my best. Do you happen to know where she lived before this address?” I showed her the one Sandy had given me.

  She shook her head. “That’s where she lived when I met her. I think she said she’d moved there around the time she started working at Hopkins.”

  “Do you know if she ever had a roommate?”

  “No idea. She didn’t when I met her.”

  “Old boyfriends?” I asked.

  “She went out, but if there was anyone important, I don’t think I knew about him. She would mention names sometimes, but mostly first names. I’m sorry I can’t help you.”

  “You’ve helped me a lot.” I opened my bag and took out the ring of keys. “Do you recognize these?”

  She shook her head. “Can’t say I do, can’t say I don’t. Should I?”

  “I don’t know.” I wrote my name, address, and phone number on a piece of paper and gave it to her. “In case you think of anything. Did you tell the detective substantially what you told me?”

  “Substantially. I didn’t tell him she thought she was pregnant.”

  “Why not?”

  “He didn’t ask and I didn’t think it was his business.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  “Thank you for talking about her in the present tense.”

  I had noticed she had done the same. I shook her hand, wished her well, and got my coat. Outside it was still bitter cold. As I walked to the car, for the first time I thought I heard my biological clock ticking.

  7

  It was two o’clock when I started the car and ten after when I spotted a pay phone. I didn’t know if Friday afternoon was a good time to call for an appointment, but I wanted to get one at Hopkins and Jewell as soon as possible. A very self-possessed sounding woman answered and I told her I was looking into the disappearance of Natalie Miller Gordon and wanted to talk to someone who had known her.

  “Is this concerned with her disappearance?”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “Who do you represent?”

  I told her I was working for Sandy Gordon.

  “I’ll have to check it out, ma’am, before I can make an appointment.”

  I told her that would be fine and she put me on hold. I took some more quarters out of my bag and waited. I always carry quarters with me because they’re good for parking meters as well as pay phones. I haven’t yet co
me to terms with credit cards, although if I ever do, it’s my shoulder that will benefit.

  “He says it’s OK,” she said, coming back sooner than I expected. “When would you like to come in?”

  “I can probably be there in an hour.”

  “I’ll squeeze you in when you get here.”

  —

  I had surprised myself by saying I would drive into the city, but where I was calling from was closer to New York than where I lived, so it made sense to go from here instead of waiting for Monday and going from Oakwood. Besides, the sooner is always the better.

  There was little traffic until I got below Forty-second Street, and it picked up again when I got on Eighteenth Street and drove east. When I was more or less in the area of Hopkins and Jewell, I started looking around for a meter. I realized pretty quickly this was silly on two counts. One was, there weren’t any free, and the other was that Sandy had given me money for just this purpose. But I admit to having pangs of conscience when I drove into a parking garage.

  An attractive young woman sat inside the door of the office and gave me a radiant smile. My name rang a bell and she made a call after asking me to take a seat.

  “I have Christine Bennett here,” I heard her say. Then, “We’ll be right there.” She stood and invited me to join her. She was wearing a very short suede skirt and a matching vest over a black blouse. At a door at the end of the hall, she knocked, waited, then opened it “Go right in,” she said.

  To my surprise, the person who rose from behind the desk was a handsome woman in her thirties, dressed to kill in a pin-striped suit with a silk blouse showing at the neck, fingernails longer than mine have ever grown and lacquered with a startling shade of red, and blond hair that defied description. It was crinkled and seemed to be everywhere from high above her head to almost as far as each shoulder. “I’m Arlene Hopkins,” the woman said, extending her hand.

  “Chris Bennett. Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “We were all devastated by Natalie’s disappearance. Anything we can do to help, we will.”

  “Can you tell me how you came to hire Natalie?”

  “We were just starting up and we needed a core staff. We ran an ad in the Times and she answered it. We didn’t have a personnel department or recruiters or anything very professional at the time. We just let our guts tell us what to do. She was interviewed and she was hired.”