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.

“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.