“I have nothing to offer you; the fridge is empty.”

“Thank you. I’d just like to talk to you about Natalie. Are you aware that she disappeared a little over a year ago?”

“I heard someone was here asking questions last year when I was in South America. I’m sorry to hear about Natalie. She seemed a nice person. Nice fiancé, too. I met him.”

“Did she ever tell you where she was from? We’re having a lot of trouble locating her family.”

“There isn’t any family. She said they’d died years ago. I was glad she met someone nice. There’s nothing like family.”

“Did she ever tell you where she lived before she moved here?”

“If she did, I don’t remember.”

“You said you met her fiancé. Did you ever meet any of the men she went out with before she met him?”

“I saw them. I can’t say I met them.”

“Did she ever talk about them?”

“Just to say, ‘We’re going to dinner Friday,’ that kind of thing.”

“No names?”

She looked around the room. It was a beautiful room with a fireplace and a mantel covered with framed pictures, candlesticks, magnificent old glass vases. She was a woman of taste and some means, even if—or perhaps because—she lived in an apartment whose rent was more typical of the sixties than the nineties. “Sandy is the one I remember best.”

“That’s the man she married.”

“You think some old boyfriend did something to her?”

“I don’t know. I just know we can’t seem to trace her further back in time than five years ago, and this is the only address I have for her before she married.”

“Susan,” she blurted out. “Susan Diggins. They were friends.”

“Yes, I’ve spoken to Susan.”

“And she doesn’t know anything?” She seemed shocked.

“They met at the agency that was Natalie’s last job.”

“Well, someone has to know where she’s from.”

“I’ll keep looking,” I said.

“There were men. I saw them. My opinion is, they weren’t suitable.”

“By which you mean—?”

“They were already spoken for. Or didn’t amount to much.”

“When are you leaving for your vacation?”

“Tomorrow.” She looked at her watch. “I’ve still got a lot of packing to do.”

I wrote my name and phone number on a scrap of paper. “If any of those names come back to you, would you call me collect?”

“From South America?”

“I want to find Natalie. Believe it or not, you’re the last person on my list to talk to.”

“And I haven’t given you very much, have I?”

“You’ve been very helpful, Mrs. Bernstein. But if you think of anything else, I want to hear it as soon as possible.”

“I’ll do my best.”

—

On my way out I talked briefly to the only other person at home in the building, a single woman with a bad cold. She remembered Natalie but knew nothing about her, had never said more than a greeting to her and added nothing to what I already knew. I thanked the nameless landlord when I got down to the first floor and then found myself out in the cold both literally and figuratively, asking myself what to do next and having no answer. I had checked out Natalie’s last known address, last job, and last husband. I walked to where Greenwich Avenue ended at Sixth Avenue and located a phone. There I called Sandy Gordon.

“What’ve you got?” he asked with too eager anticipation.

“Unfortunately nothing. I’ve just been to the Greenwich Avenue address and I talked to an old woman that the detective missed because she was away last year.”

“That’s terrific,” he said excitedly, and I regretted my phrasing.

“But she had nothing to add, Sandy. She didn’t remember any of the people Natalie had known when she moved in except Susan Diggins, and I’ve seen her already. I gave her my phone number and told her to call collect from South America if she thinks of anything. I hope you don’t mind.”

“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.

14

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.”