“Well no, but—”

“But I married you, so I did. Do you remember when we first talked about it?”

I did. “You said your mother wouldn’t be very happy about it.”

“But we made the decision together and we did it. And I’m glad we did,” he added, reaching across the table and touching my face. “You get my point? I would never say to anyone that we got married at St. Stephen’s because my wife insisted. And if Natalie said to Sandy, ‘Wouldn’t it be nice to go to St. John?’ the chances are he’d think it’s a pretty nice idea and he’d tell you they made the decision together.”

I did get the point. And Jack was right. Sandy always put the best face on everything that had to do with Natalie. It meant he wasn’t the best source of information, although for many things he was my only source. “So it’s possible she didn’t want to get a passport. The reason is probably that she’s older than Sandy thinks.”

“Not unusual. Many women lie about their age.”

“Her hairdresser said she had quite a bit of gray.”

“Her hairdresser. That’s good. You’re a good investigator, Chris. Not that I didn’t think so before.”

“Her friend Susan is thirty-six and said Natalie claimed to be a few years younger, but Susan thought Natalie was Susan’s age from things she had said.”

“Sounds like she’s a perceptive witness.”

“I think she is. I may get back to her and ask her a few more questions. I wonder if Natalie was married, maybe even had children, and left them to start a new life.”

“Sounds like a possibility.”

“Maybe her former husband came to New York with the kids for the Thanksgiving Day parade and saw her there. That could really explain her disappearance.” I could feel excitement building as the image took shape. “She couldn’t run away from them because of the crowd, and he might follow her and see Sandy. So she goes along with him, knowing she’s been found out and the new good life is over.”

“I think that’s an idea to work on,” Jack said. “That the end of the cookies?”

“I’ll get more tomorrow.” That seemed to satisfy him and we went up to bed.

—

It wasn’t even eight-fifteen when the phone rang the next morning. At the other end was Arnold Gold, already in his office preparing for a nine A.M. date in court.

“Got something for you,” he said. “You awake enough for a hot piece of news?”

“Up and running.”

“I was listening to my favorite music station as usual when I got into the office this morning. They have a report on the advertising world just after the eight-o’clock news, not anything that gets my blood going, but I heard a familiar name mentioned. Hopkins and Jewell. Isn’t that where you said your missing woman worked?”

“Yes. What’s the news?”

“They’re breaking up.”

“They’re what?” I couldn’t believe I’d heard right.

“Going their separate ways. Even the guy who broke the news on the radio seemed surprised. There hadn’t been any rumors, the company’d been doing very well, only got together five years ago, et cetera, et cetera.”

“I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say.”

“You ask them anything embarrassing?”

“Not that embarrassing. Some stuff is missing from Natalie’s file. I asked if Hopkins could have taken it, but I don’t really have a motive for her to have done so. Or at least not a strong one.”

“Well, the advertising man said they would divvy up their assets, work out some deal on the jobs they’re working on, and split up.”

“Thanks for keeping your ears open.”

“I’d guess this’ll be in today’s Times. Back in the financial section if you read that far.”

“Not usually. My quote assets unquote are in the same safe bonds my aunt bought.”

“Probably just as well. Gotta tend to my law practice, Chrissie. Let me know what happens.”

“I will.” I hung up and reported to Jack, who was finishing up breakfast.

“I can’t see what this has to do with your asking questions about a woman who worked for them a few years ago, even one who was in at the beginning.”

“I can’t either, but Arlene Hopkins really came across as trying to limit my access.”

“Could be for ten other reasons.”

“Could be. Maybe I’ll give Wormy a call later on.”

“Don’t forget your Greenwich Village mover. I think that’s your best bet at this point.”

“Right.” I looked at my watch. When the dishes were done, that would be my first call.

—

“Annie’s Angels,” a very sweet female voice answered.

“Good morning. My name is Christine Bennett and I have a question about someone you moved about five years ago. Her name was Natalie Miller and she moved to Greenwich Avenue.”

“What do you need to know?”

“The address she moved from.”

“I’m not sure I have the right to give that out. I’ll really have to ask Annie. Can you tell me what this is all about?”

“She disappeared over a year ago and we’re trying to trace her.”

“What do you mean ‘disappeared’?”

“She may have been kidnapped.”

“This sounds a little crazy.”

I couldn’t dispute her judgment. “When can I reach Annie?”

“She usually comes in around nine. You want to call us back?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll tell her what it’s all about when she comes in.”

Since looking at Sandy’s stamp collection, a few new ideas had started forming in my mind. When Jack and I were married, Jack asked his local post office in Brooklyn to forward his mail to his new address, our house in Oakwood. It was a natural thing to do. Old bills had to be paid, magazines had to be sent on, friends who had only your last address would want their mail to find its way to your new address. And there was something else that was a very long shot, but when you’ve got very little, you try anything. I dialed Sandy’s number at work a little before nine—Jack had just set out for Brooklyn—and sure enough, he was there.

“Two things, Sandy,” I said. “When you married, did Natalie have mail forwarded from the Greenwich Avenue address?”

“She didn’t. She said she was tired of all the junk mail she got and this was a perfect time to cut it off. Her friends knew where she was going and she didn’t care about anyone else. She paid the Con Ed bill, settled everything with her landlord, and didn’t leave a forwarding address. I did, of course, and all my junk mail followed me. I don’t think I ever saw a piece of mail with her maiden name on it.”

“Second question. I noticed while you were upstairs yesterday that you had a lot of stamps still stuck to envelopes.”

“That’s right. Sometimes I save the whole envelope, sometimes just the stamp. I soak the stamps off, dry them, and put them in special albums.”

“So you look over all the mail that comes into the house.”

“Always. All collectors do. Nowadays a lot of mail is marked by a machine. It’s mostly personal letters that have stamps.”

“Did Natalie give you stamps off her envelopes?”

“All the time. She loved my collection. I don’t think she’d ever seen a stamp collection before, and mine is pretty extensive. I showed her how to tear off the right part of the envelope, and every so often she’d give me a bunch. In fact, I remember when we were first married, she—Chris, you’re a genius.”

“What is it?”

“She gave me an old stamp from an envelope that had been mailed a long time before. She started to tear it wrong and I stopped her and showed her what I wanted, including the postmark.”

“Sandy, did you see how it was addressed? I know it was a couple of years ago, but do you remember anything at all about that envelope?”

“It was handwritten. That’s all I caught. She tore off the stamp, with the postmark, and gave it to me. It’ll take me some time, but I can find it for you. I’m sure that’s in a box that I haven’t worked on yet.”

“OK. That’s your assignment. Maybe we’ll find somebody somewhere who knows Natalie Miller.”

“You’ll hear from me.”