“There was something missing from her. I can’t tell you what it was, but it almost scared me. Maybe you hit on it. Maybe there was an abusive husband in her life that she never wanted to see again.”

“How old do you think she was?” I asked, tossing out my last question.

“Ageless,” he said with a smile. “Like me. It’s what we had most in common.”

—

So there I was again with nowhere to go and a variation on my theme that sounded as plausible as my own idea. Somehow the notion of an abusive husband hadn’t occurred to me, perhaps because I don’t like to think about things like that, but it would certainly explain a lot of what I now knew. A woman who wants to cover her tracks because of fear of being found by someone who might hurt her is exactly the person who would remove papers with her hometown, high school, and last address on them. If Natalie had come to New York as a young single woman and married here, her husband—or ex-husband—might never have met anyone from her hometown. I had certainly heard enough horror stories of women being stalked by ex-husbands to be impressed with the seriousness of such a situation. My own version, of a wife deserting a family, was surely less flattering to Natalie. Martin Jewell’s version, an abused wife, was far more sympathetic but potentially more deadly. An abusive man whom she had escaped from was far more likely to kill when and if he found her.

It gave me plenty to think about on the train ride home. And as I put things together, I found a deep well of sympathy for Natalie. I had never believed she had voluntarily left Sandy, and nothing I had heard or seen since our first conversation had changed my mind. She seemed a contented woman—of whatever age—who had achieved what she wanted, a good husband, a beautiful home, the chance, finally, to have a child. Her life before she met Sandy Gordon had been hit-or-miss at best, and perhaps deeply disturbing. I found that I accepted the possibility that she had stolen her own documents as true. Not only had Martin Jewell claimed to have given her a key to the office, he had identified the one possible key it might have been. She was a woman covering her tracks. What if her former lover-husband had found out where she was working and called H and J as though he were a prospective employer? Whether Natalie had any friends or relatives left in whatever place she came from, he might start snooping around to find her. She might not send birthday cards as Mrs. Jewell did, but she might send a Christmas card or two and someone might be able to furnish a lead.

But where did she come from? Where had she gone? And how was I going to find out?

17

I heard Jack’s car pull up the driveway just as the phone rang, a late hour for anyone to be calling. It was Sandy Gordon in a state of great excitement.

“I’ve been at it all night and I found it,” he said.

“The stamp?”

“The stamp and the piece of envelope it’s attached to, including a postmark.”

“Sandy, that’s wonderful. Where did it come from?”

“Indiana. I told you she came from Indiana. The postmark says Connersville. I’ve already checked it out. It’s a small city east of Indianapolis and not far from the Ohio border. Of course, she may not have lived right in that town. The letter may just have been posted there.”

“I understand, but it’s a good starting point. Is there anything else?”

“No, that’s it. Will you go out there?” His excitement was so high, he sounded like a kid.

“Jack’s just coming in the house. I’ll talk to him about it and call you tomorrow.”

“Am I glad you saw my stamp collection.”

“So am I, Sandy. Have a good night.”

—

“It’s starting to sound very promising,” Jack said when I’d finished my story. He was snacking on leftovers and we were sharing a pot of coffee and some cookies I’d bought before I got home this afternoon.

“Do I go out there?” I asked. “There must be a million Millers in the Midwest.”

“I think it’s too soon for that. Give me a couple of good shots of her and I’ll fax them out to Connersville and maybe some towns in the area. Let’s see if the name means anything or the picture means anything.”

“She could have married a high school sweetheart,” I said. “There’s a chance his family might recognize her even if she has no family of her own left. Or people she went to high school with.”

“Anything’s possible. Just pick out a couple of good ones and remind me about her hair color.”

“It was brown originally.”

“What about her height and weight?”

“I’ll show you some wedding pictures where she’s standing next to Sandy. You’re a better judge of that than I.”

He figured her for about five six and 125 to 135 pounds. He wrote down her age as thirty-three to thirty-eight, spanning the range of estimates.

“You know that if anything turns up, I have to give my information to the detective who’s holding the case.”

“Sure,” I said. “I’m not looking for an exclusive on this.”

“How nice to work with an amateur,” Jack said with a grin. “Sure you’re not looking for a collar?”

“Just a woman. Hopefully alive.”

“Don’t get those hopes up too high.”

—

It wasn’t easy to follow his suggestion. He called the next day after he had faxed the picture to several police and county sheriffs’ departments and to the Indiana and Ohio State Police. He also spoke to someone at each location and asked about Natalie Miller. As I had surmised, Miller was a fairly common name—one officer said there were columns of Millers in the phone book—and no one had a criminal file for a woman of that name. Nor was Natalie listed in a phone book, which didn’t surprise me.

Jack got the name of a newspaper in the area from one police officer and called to see if I could place an ad, together with a picture. When he faxed the picture, the paper said it looked interesting but they’d rather have an original if he could overnight it. By that time Jack had had a number of copies made at a place in Brooklyn the police used, so we put together a few lines of copy and gave Sandy’s business address and his home phone number for responses, and Jack arranged to have the ad run for three days, Sunday through Tuesday. Then I let Sandy know about it.

Late in the afternoon the phone rang and I heard Dickie Foster’s voice and the kids giggling in the background.

“Is this Christine Bennett?”

“Yes, it is. Dickie?”

“Right. My husband reminded me of something. We talked about Natalie last night. He remembers meeting her in the elevator, too, and he also remembered that when she was with that guy, the one I told you about who stayed with her when we first moved in, she introduced him as her brother.”

“Did she give a name?”

“My husband thinks it was Terry. I’m just not sure. And frankly, I’m not convinced he was her brother. She may just not have wanted us to know she was living with some guy.”

“You mean she was embarrassed about it?”

“She may have been. Also she may have been worried about having someone stay with her that wasn’t on the lease.”

“Dickie, I can’t thank you enough for calling. And thanks to your husband for his good memory. If anything else occurs to you, I’d like to hear about it.”

“There is something else. Remember I told you the last time I talked to Natalie was when she applied for a job? And then she went away and I never saw her again? I actually heard from her.”

“How?”

“She must have taken a little vacation around the time she moved. She sent us a postcard.”

“Do you remember where it came from?”

“No, but it could turn up. I’m a real pack rat, and things like postcards are hard for me to throw away. If I come across it, I’ll call you.”