The Thanksgiving Day Murder (23 page)

I had a long talk with Joseph on Wednesday. She called Tuesday evening and said she had a meeting at the Chancery the next morning and could we meet for lunch after that? There was nothing I wanted to do more. My conversation with Sandy had been difficult, to say the least, and I looked forward to sitting down and relaxing with an old friend.

We met at the magnificent restaurant in the Palace Hotel across Madison Avenue from the Chancery at twelve-thirty and Joseph ordered Johnnie Walker Black on the rocks for herself and a glass of Chablis for me. We touched glasses before we sipped.

“I think you have lots to tell me,” she said.

“You were right to be concerned about the key. The woman who was kidnapped had murdered a woman named Natalie Miller, and when she buried the body, she removed the dead woman's keys from her handbag. When the killer, Connie Moffat, moved out a few days or weeks later, she must have turned in her own duplicate key and hung on to the dead woman's keys. There were no keys in the dead woman's bag, but there was identification. She was the real Natalie Miller. Connie took on her identity after killing her. They fought about a job, maybe about the man one of them might work for. I'd guess Connie didn't have the kind of work record that the real Natalie had. This was Connie's
way of setting her life straight. She started over as someone else.”

“And did well in the job, I gather.”

“Very well. She worked hard, was dedicated and devoted, managed to have an affair with the boss that unfortunately for her didn't end in marriage. But they went away for a weekend upstate, and while he slept, she drove to the place where she'd buried the real Natalie.”

“That was chancey.”

“In fact, she got caught. Her cousin was sleeping upstairs and came down with a shotgun to see who was there. They spoke. It was the last time they saw each other.”

“You haven't told me who the killer was.”

“That's really the saddest part of the story, Joseph. It was the real Natalie's brother.”

“A case of revenge.”

“Revenge, anger. He wanted to know where her body was buried and she wouldn't tell him. Now he won't say where she's buried.”

“Maybe that's his true revenge.”

“I gather Connie had a pretty miserable childhood. Her father broke her nose once when he hit her. She must have had it fixed when she came to New York. It's terrible when you see where people are coming from and where they end up. You want to shake them and tell them to give life a chance; violence isn't the way.”

“But we're realists.”

“Yes.”

“And you have another story to tell me.”

“I found my mother's sister.”

It was a long lunch, and since we were both taking trains from Grand Central, we walked over there together, neither of us in a particular hurry.

I had some errands to run when I got home, and coming back, I spotted Mel out with her kids and they came over
to visit. Mel had heard nothing from Sandy, so there was a lot to tell.

By the time she left, I was afraid to call Olive for fear she might be in the middle of an afternoon nap. So I lay down and took one myself.

On Thursday a woman called asking for me. When I said I was Christine Bennett Brooks, she put a man on.

“Mrs. Brooks, this is Stanley Colvin, Olive Cleaver's attorney.”

“Is she all right?” I asked, feeling uncomfortable.

“I'm sorry to tell you Ms. Cleaver passed away Monday night.”

“Oh no. I saw her Monday. She seemed to be doing so well.”

“I think she was very happy to have met you in the last days of her life.”

“Would you like me to arrange a funeral?” I felt choked up, but knew the question had to be asked.

“She took care of everything a long time ago, Mrs. Brooks. Her remains were cremated yesterday, and her ashes will be distributed according to her wishes.”

“I see.”

“She was a very independent person, right up until the end. But she made an addition to her will only a few days before she died. She left you two thousand five hundred dollars and said you would understand why she was giving you that amount.”

My tears were falling by that point, but I managed to thank him for calling. My aunt had repaid her debt for all time.

Arnold took over Ted Miller's case. Ted had no desire to stand trial, and Arnold was able to make an interesting deal with the DA. In return for Ted's telling them where the remains of Connie Moffat could be found, the murder charge
was reduced to manslaughter. Everyone concerned seemed pretty pleased to have it taken care of that way.

He had killed her and left her body in the Pine Barrens way out on Long Island. He led the police to the spot and they found what was left of Connie Moffat. An autopsy determined she had been shot with a small-caliber gun that Ted no longer owned. Because of the deterioration of the body, it could not determine whether she had been pregnant. But it didn't rule it out.

A few days later Detective Evelyn Hogan called to brief me on some new findings. Connie Moffat had lived in New York for a number of years and held a number of jobs. About ten years earlier she had married, but there was no record of a divorce in New York State, so it was unclear whether her marriage to Sandy was even valid.

Sandy and I met finally to talk. He took me to lunch in New York and apologized for a lot of things he didn't have to apologize for. I gave him back the carton of stuff he had given me so many weeks ago, and the way he looked at it, I had the feeling it was headed for the junk pile.

“I have only one question,” I said when the lunch was coming to an end. “Your wedding pictures—you had a Jewish wedding, didn't you?”

“Definitely.”

“Did Natalie say she was Jewish?”

“She did, in fact, after she knew I was. I think she must have done a little research before the wedding because she needed her Hebrew name for the papers.”

“Interesting.”

“And she came up with it when she was asked.”

“She really loved you, Sandy.”

“I was a fool.”

“You're a good-hearted person and you did nothing wrong.”

“Thanks, Chris.”

He settled our expense account and I refused to take anything
for investigating. About a week later I heard that he had sent a very generous donation to the General Superior's fund at St. Stephen's Convent. He couldn't have done better.

I took my inheritance and put it in the bank, where it will accumulate some interest while I think about what to do with it—or forget about it.

Months later, the following November, Jack and I drove into New York early on Thanksgiving Day, parked up near Columbia University, and took a bus down Broadway to Sixty-fourth Street. Then we walked over to Central Park West, passing the Statue of Liberty on the left and Olive's building on the right. On the north corner we stood in the cold and watched the parade. It was everything I remembered and then some, the bands, the horses, the floats, and of course, the huge balloons that floated two stories above us. Jack bought me a balloon and tied it on my wrist, and I laughed a little and cried a little.

I will take my children someday and we will stand on that corner, and while they enjoy the moment, I will remember a time long ago, the happiness of being with my father, and a woman who wanted to make her peace.

For Frank Randall
who's seen more parades than I have

The author wishes to thank Ana M. Soler, James L. V. Wegman, Alan E. Baker, C.P.A., Matthew G. Saltarelli, M.D., Walter Johnson, and Karen Shalom of the School of Art, Old Church Cultural Center, Demarest, New Jersey for their patience, cooperation, and invaluable information.

By Lee Harris

Published by Fawcett Books:

THE GOOD FRIDAY MURDER

THE YOM KIPPUR MURDER

THE CHRISTENING DAY MURDER

THE ST. PATRICK'S DAY MURDER

THE CHRISTMAS NIGHT MURDER

THE THANKSGIVING DAY MURDER