The Thanksgiving Day Murder (11 page)

“Of course not. Listen, where are you now?”

“On Sixth Avenue just south of Greenwich.”

“Suppose I pick you up and take you to the house. I have a clear calendar today. When you're finished, I'll drive you home or hire a car for you.”

“That's fine. Jack's in law school tonight, so I have no dinner to cook.”

“Give me a quarter hour. Is there somewhere you can sit and have a cup of coffee?”

I was touched by his consideration. “I'm fine, Sandy. Just tell me where to stand.”

“There's a bookstore on the southeast corner of Sixth Avenue and Eighth Street.”

“I see it.”

“I'll pick you up right there.”

Fifteen minutes later, almost to the minute, he stopped at the curb and opened the car door for me.

Sandy drove an expensive German car that looked freshly washed, with fragrant leather seats and a dashboard that would have driven me crazy with its complexity. He kept up a pleasant banter as we drove through a tunnel and then along a highway to his New Jersey home. I found him very likable, and if I had any lingering suspicions that he himself might have been responsible for Natalie's disappearance, they were all but gone when he turned in to the driveway of a handsome new house whose garage door opened at the touch of a button.

We walked into a huge family room with a stone fireplace that took my breath away, and from there into a kitchen that his niece Melanie would probably sell her soul for. The counter was marble, the floor tile, the stove had six burners and a name I had never heard of, and the refrigerator looked large enough to store a couple of bodies in. Not that I thought it had ever been used for that purpose.

We had stopped along the way and picked up lunch, which we now sat and ate at the butcher block table in the large eating area just beyond the kitchen. When we were finished, Sandy dumped the leavings in the garbage and led me upstairs to the master bedroom.

It was quite a room, massive with wall-to-wall carpeting in a pale peach, and draperies and bedspread in precisely the same shade. The furniture was imposing and needed a bedroom of that size not to appear too large for its space.
The effect was breathtaking. I don't read many magazines and haven't been in many bedrooms in my life, so perhaps I was more taken than the Gordons' neighbors would have been, but the room was really impressive.

“That's Natalie's dresser. I've gone through it myself and found nothing, and I've removed only her more expensive jewelry and put it away for safekeeping. It was all things I had given her. You're welcome to go through it, and while you're here, if you want to, go through mine, too. I had no idea you were coming today, so I haven't prepared for this visit.”

I felt embarrassed, but I knew I had to do it. “Let me ask you a couple of questions first. I had occasion the other day to go through some old cartons that come from my mother and have been in my basement for many years. Maybe my family is just unusually attached to mementos, but it occurred to me that Natalie must have brought things with her when you married.”

“Very little. Mostly clothes, a handful of books—I think you saw them in the carton of stuff I dropped off at your house—and that's about it. You found those keys; I didn't even know they were there.”

“Did you find any old handbags?”

“They're right here.” He went to a double-doored closet that opened into a small room with floor-to-ceiling clothes, his and hers, expertly hung, shelved, and folded, and came out with several bags of different sizes, shapes, colors, and uses. “This is the one she always carried to work,” he said, handing me a large, black leather shoulder bag. “She replaced it after we were married and she was carrying the new one when she disappeared.”

“I'll start with this one.”

“I'm going to leave you alone here, Chris. I'll be downstairs reading the paper. Take your time; I'm not in any hurry.”

And with that he left the room, closing the door behind him.

I felt awkward sitting on the beautiful bed, so I pulled out the lovely silk-covered chair in front of Natalie's dressing table and sat on that. The bag, which was heavy even without the usual female paraphernalia, turned out to be as empty as one on a store counter, except that it didn't have any tissue paper stuffed in it to keep it in shape. When Natalie had switched to a new everyday bag, she had removed every item from the old one with the exception of a small mirror, a satin change purse that had nothing in it, and a worn emery board so deep in the folds of the zipper pocket that she could easily have missed it when cleaning out the bag. Natalie was obviously so compulsive about neatness that she left nothing behind when she abandoned one purse for another or she was just one of those people who kept only necessities in her purse, and everything needed to be moved. The new bag obviously provided her with the change purse and mirror she needed.

I set it aside and went through the others, a black suede handbag that contained clean tissues, several single dollar bills, probably handy for tipping, a rather elegant hand mirror that magnified the reflection, and nothing else; a gaily colored summer bag of woven straw that contained roughly what the black suede bag did; a handsome and clearly expensive black leather handbag with an Italian name inside and little else; and a small black bag of lizard and the softest leather I had ever touched, hung on a gold chain, and holding nothing but some tissues and a table assignment for Bill and Jenny's wedding. That was it.

Since I was sitting at the dressing table, I went through that next but found nothing of use to me. The enormous dresser was filled with the expected fine lingerie and sweaters, and again, no papers. I finished there and went to the closet. It was clearly divided into his and hers. Sure enough, half a dozen cruise outfits hung on the rack, all
with their price tags. Natalie had left behind a wardrobe worth a fortune.

The bathroom, which was large and elegant, had a sunken tub with a Jacuzzi at one end, something I have yet to experience. A closet held sheets and bedding, dusting powder, skin lotions, and shaving necessities. A few prescription drugs had been issued from a local pharmacy.

Back in the bedroom I went through Sandy's chest, feeling like a voyeur. He had a passport in the top drawer, an old one issued several years ago, but there was none for Natalie. He had other papers that I merely glanced at before looking quickly through his shirts, socks, and underwear.

I was about to leave the bedroom when I noticed the night tables had drawers. I went over to one and opened it Inside was a woman's novel with a bookmark about halfway through. I took it out and underneath found a diaphragm and a tube. To satisfy myself that she hadn't run off with a boyfriend, I flicked the plastic container open, saw the round object inside, and closed it.

There were a few magazines in the drawer and I flipped the pages, but nothing fell out. Then I turned my attention to Sandy's drawer. He, too, had books and magazines, some cough drops, a preparation for athlete's foot, and a couple of tubes of medication. I closed the drawer and went downstairs.

“Done?” Sandy stood as I entered the family room.

“I've gone over everything. I don't have a clue as to where Natalie comes from or what's happened to her.”

Spread out in front of him was a stamp collection. He had been looking at something with a magnifier when I walked in. Now he put it down carefully.

“What else can I do for you? There must be something.”

“A couple of things. Did Natalie go to a hairdresser?”

“Every week.”

“Do you have the name?”

He thought a moment. “Sometimes she wrote a check. I'll look through my canceled checks. I'm sure I'll find it.”

“Good. I saw your passport in your drawer, but I didn't see one for Natalie.”

“As far as I know, she didn't have one.”

“You were making a trip to an island that winter. Didn't she need a passport to get there?”

“We were going to St. John. It's an American possession. All you need is ID like a driver's license.”

“Whose idea was it to go to St. John?”

“I think we decided together. It sounded like the kind of place we'd enjoy.”

“Did she ever talk about the people at Hopkins and Jewell?”

“Sure. She liked them. They hired her early on and she had a kind of proprietary interest in the place. And they appreciated her. She got regular increases, they gave her special assignments, had her train new people.”

“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.”