The Thanksgiving Day Murder (18 page)

“Let me ask you something. I've been hearing that someone calling himself Natalie's brother may have been looking for her before she disappeared. Would you know if such a person called H and J?”

“There's no way of knowing. If someone called and asked for her, they'd put him through and no one would ever know who called. You think that's who's responsible for her disappearance?”

“I think he may not be a brother but he may be the responsible one. He inquired at the place she lived before she moved to Greenwich Avenue.”

“So he may have found her.”

“I'm just not sure how, unless the Thanksgiving Day parade was an accidental meeting. The super in her old building didn't know where she'd moved.”

“How did you find the old building if we didn't have the address?”

“I worked backwards. An old woman in the Greenwich
Avenue building remembered the name of the moving company.”

“You're pretty resourceful. You looking for a job at an advertising agency run by a driven woman?”

I smiled, feeling flattered. “Probably not, but I'll let you know if I change my mind.”

“Let's have dessert.”

We talked about more general things for the rest of the evening. I hadn't learned much, but she had had the opportunity to clear herself of suspicion. And maybe she'd managed to get a few things off her chest. For my part, I saw her differently and I understood why she had been so difficult when I had first shown up at H and J.

We finished our coffee in the living room, sitting as we had when I had arrived. I walked over to the windows and looked at New York in the dark.

“You don't see the grubbiness from up here,” Arlene said.

“It's really quite beautiful. Did you have any sense of where Natalie came from originally?”

“Probably not New York, but I couldn't tell you how long she'd lived here when she came to work for us.”

“She'd lived in the old apartment at least two years and she'd had at least two jobs.”

“I'm sorry about what happened to her. I didn't like the woman and she did things that hurt me, but I didn't wish her the kind of harm that's probably befallen her.”

“I think we're going to find her,” I said, looking her straight in the eye.

“Do you know where?”

“Not in the city. If you remember anything else about her, I'm still interested.”

“I'll try.”

“Thank you for a wonderful dinner and a wonderful evening.”

She smiled. “The job offer was sincere.”

I promised again I would consider it.

“So you think she cleared herself,” Jack said as we talked about my evening later that night.

“She admitted she hated Natalie. If she'd had anything to do with Natalie's disappearance, I think she would never have said that to me.”

“Maybe she just reads character pretty well and she figured how you'd react.”

“Maybe. But she had no motive, Jack. When Martin Jewell was involved with Natalie, that's when Arlene had a motive. Three years later—that's hard to see.”

“Let me ask you a potentially embarrassing question: If Natalie didn't make herself disappear, who've you got?”

It was embarrassing because I still didn't know whether Natalie had engineered her own disappearance, and if she hadn't, I had no real suspect and almost no one even marginally suspicious. “Sandy, of course, although I don't believe he did it, Martin Jewell because he had a close relationship with Natalie, and this mysterious ‘brother' who has popped up a couple of times and, as far as Sandy is concerned, doesn't exist.”

“And Arlene Hopkins.”

“You see a smoldering resentment.”

“No question about it. Four years ago she thought it was all over. Suddenly you appear on the scene, dragging up unpleasant and embarrassing facts. She has a knock-down-drag-out with Jewell that's so bad, they decide to go their
separate ways. If she's still so touchy about Natalie, it's possible she just bided her time and got her at the parade. I'll bet your friend Arlene works out in a gym twice a week and is just as tough physically as she is in her office.”

“I guess I just don't like to think of a woman as a killer.”

“Your problem, my lovely wife, is that when someone invites you to her home and serves you up a good meal and good conversation, you give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“So you've figured me out,” I said with resignation.

“It's not bad. I like it. It's just you may be writing off a suspect.”

I went off to teach my poetry class on Tuesday morning still thinking about Jack's comments on Arlene Hopkins. The class went well and when it was over I decided to stay and have lunch in the college cafeteria, which was much better than the usual institutional eatery, a direct result of a food service program at the college whose students prepared and served the food. On that Tuesday they offered a wonderful split pea soup, which I ate with saltine crackers and a glass of tomato juice, feeling warm and satisfied when I finished.

I got home to find our answering machine blinking and two messages recorded on the tape.

“This message is for Christine Bennett. This is Al DiMartino, Chris. Your busts are ready. I got them done and dried enough and I'm just working on the color now. Drive up any time. I'm always here.”

The second message was from Jack. “Hiya, love of my life. Have I got news for you. Give me a call.”

I dialed his number with a little nervousness. It was the kind of message that could mean information that might blow everything I had learned out of the water.

“Six-five Squad, Sergeant Brooks, can I help you?”

“I hope so,” I said.

“Chris?”

“Is it good news or bad news?”

“Hell, I can never figure that out. But I love it. I did a little checking this morning after I got in. Your friend Arlene Hopkins? Guess what. She has a permit for a target gun.”

“A license for a gun?” I was truly shocked.

“A target gun. They're different from regular handguns. They can be a single-shot precision tool, a .22-caliber or a regular .38 revolver, or a lot of other things.”

“Do they hold killer bullets?”

“Sure do. But the law says she can't walk around with it in her handbag. She can keep it unloaded in a carry case in her car or in a case on her person between where she lives and the place she practices shooting, maybe a local range. Not that that would stop a determined killer.”

“So she could have had it in her bag that Thanksgiving Day.”

“You bet. She's been licensed for several years, three anyway. When was the disappearance? A year and a half ago?”

“Less.”

“Well, there you have it, a suspect with the means and opportunity and a beauty of a motive.”

“I can't believe it,” I said.

“Believe it. She renewed the permit early, so she's a current license holder.”

“And if she's as good at shooting as she seems to be at everything else, she's just become a suspect.”

I told him about the call from DiMartino and we agreed that I would drive up early tomorrow and try to come home the same day. Then I called Sandy and told him I was picking up the busts and when I got them home, I'd need them photographed.

“I have a great camera,” he said. “Call me when you get back and we'll set up a shooting session. It shouldn't take
long. This model isn't going to complain about the pictures.”

I said I'd call him and I went to the bank to take out cash for DiMartino. Besides his fee, he would probably have expenses for the materials he used.

I sat down at my desk with my classwork and started looking over the Quizzes I'd popped at the end of the second hour. They were about what I usually got, a handful of good answers from a group of students who were prepared, a bunch of paragraphs that were written in English but bore no resemblance to answers to my questions from students who couldn't believe they could ever be asked a question without a week's warning, and three almost blank papers from students who probably shouldn't have registered for the course.

While I was working, the phone on the desk rang. When I picked it up, I got a big surprise.

“Is this Christine Bennett?” The voice was male, casual, upbeat, and one I had never heard before.

“Yes it is.”

“Hi, how're ya doin'? This is Ted Miller, Natalie's brother.”

“Who?” I asked, not believing my own ears.

“I'm Natalie Miller's brother. I heard you were looking for her.”

“Where did you get my name and phone number?” No name had been listed in the ad, and only Sandy's phone number.

“Let's just say I have a friend on a paper in Indiana.”

“I see.” I was struggling to think of the right thing to say. If this was really her brother, I could confide in him—maybe. But if this was a husband, abusive or otherwise, I wanted to keep him as far from me as possible, and if he had my name and phone number from a “friend” on a newspaper, he might also have my address as well. “Do you know where she is?” I asked.

“Haven't got the faintest. Do you?”

“No I don't.”

“Well, I've been looking for her for a long time and I haven't come up with anything. You get any responses to your ad?”

“Nothing useful. Are you the person who made inquiries at Natalie's old apartment?”

“What place was that?”

“I don't have the address handy.” And it didn't sound like he was the one. “How do I know you're her brother?”

“I'll send you my birth certificate if you want.”

“Where were you born?”

“Just outside of Indianapolis. Same place Natalie was born. She's my big sister.”

“Did she live in Connersville?”

“Sure did. We grew up there.”

“Then why didn't we get any responses to the ad?”

“Beats me. Maybe folks don't want to call long distance.”

I didn't like any of this. He sounded like a country and western singer ad-libbing a few lines between verses. The only fact he knew was that the ad had appeared in the newspaper, and it was possible that he had the name right. Dickie Foster's husband remembered Terry. Teddy wasn't a far cry from that, but it didn't mean this person was a brother. “Do you know any places Natalie worked in New York?” I asked.

“Yeah, there was an ad agency downtown somewhere. Hopkins and Something?”

“What about before that?”

“Before that?”

“Yes. She worked somewhere before she went to work for Hopkins.” I wasn't going to give him a syllable, although he probably knew the full name of the company.

“You know, I don't remember just now. I'd have to go
back to her old letters and see if she mentioned a name. That's over five years ago.”

“How did you know about Hopkins?”

“She wrote and said she got the job. Then I went away for a while and kinda lost track of her.”

“Would you mind giving me the name and phone number of your parents?”

“Oh, Chris, I wish I could. They're long gone. I'm the only one left. Besides Natalie.” The words kept rolling out, slippery with grease.

“Can you give me your phone number?”

“My phone number?” There was a small sound and then he said, “I'm kinda hard to reach. I'm borrowing a phone right now and I won't be here after today. But I tell you what. If I find out the name of that place she used to work for, I'll give you a ring, how's that?”

“Fine.”

“And can you tell me how it is you're looking for my sister?”

“The people who know her want her found.”

“How'd you get to Connersville?”

“Luck,” I said.

“Well, I hope you keep havin' luck because mine ran out. I haven't seen my sister in over five years and I don't know what's happened to her or where she is. And since she's my only living relative, I'd like to find her.”

“Keep looking,” I said.

The phone call unnerved me. I restrained myself from calling the newspaper I had placed the ad in. If this man really had a friend there, the friend wouldn't be likely to admit having given out my name and phone number. What was certain was that “Ted” knew about the ad. So had the person who had called Sandy. Could they possibly be one and the same person? It seemed doubtful. Whoever had
called Sandy had been threatening. This person had been on the verge of breaking into song.

He hadn't given me one smidgen of information, but he had pumped me for what I knew. In the end it had been a standoff, but he had my name and number and I didn't have his. And the likelihood was, he knew where I lived. Jack wouldn't be any happier about that than I was. My only comfort was that the streets here were empty overnight by law and any car parked on the street in daylight would be visible and raise questions. It was a lot easier to hide in the jumble of the city than in a quiet town.

Jack was concerned enough about my being followed on Wednesday morning that he scouted the area before I left and followed me several miles to where I picked up the highway. He was becoming distinctly unhappy about my involvement in this, his other persona emerging, the tough, morose one that saw the black side of life and wanted to keep it from encroaching on ours.

I worked my way west and north and picked up Route 17, passing old towns that had become familiar to me on earlier trips: Goshen, Monticello, Liberty, Roscoe, and my favorite, Fishs Eddy. There was new snow on the fields, but the road was clean as summer and I made good time to Binghamton, where I got off and followed the handwritten directions once again.

Although New York is such a populous state, I have often thought that you could drop a stranger into any number of parts of it and have him believe he was in the heartland of this country. There are miles of forest and fields, an abundance of tiny dwellings and great estates. What one sees nowadays rather ubiquitously is the satellite dish that carries television to areas outside the heavily populated metropolitan ones. As I passed one after the other, I found myself wishing there were a way to disguise them, to preserve the rustic nature of the land, but I guess it's too late for that. They give a high-tech look to what ought to be the lowest-tech-looking area of the state.

I stopped before the last leg and had some lunch, then, refreshed, continued. Before reaching the orchard, I noticed a car pulled off to the side of the road, apparently empty, a bad place, I thought, to run out of gas or develop car trouble. At the orchard, I slowed, turned, and bumped my way to Al DiMartino's half-hidden driveway.

His carport was empty, so I pulled over in the tracks I had made last week, noticing how fresh they still looked. There hadn't been any snow. I hoped it would hold off another few hours. I had no plans to spend a lot of time here, although I had brought an overnight bag along in case the weather made the return trip look difficult.

I got out of the car and walked around a little, hoping he would return quickly. He had to know I was on my way since he had left the message yesterday morning. But half an hour passed and he wasn't there. I didn't like the feeling of déjà vu, the memory of last week's ordeal before he let me in. It was just as cold this week and I wanted to get home tonight.

Forty-five minutes and still no sign of him. And then it struck me. The car I had passed before reaching the orchard. It could have been DiMartino's car. I am notoriously poor at recognizing automobiles. I am probably one of only a handful of Americans for whom a car is transportation, the cheaper and longer lasting the better. I don't even admit how old my own car is for fear of putting a jinx on it. But if that car had been his, he had had some trouble and might be almost anywhere looking for help.

I got in my car and backed into the garage, then pulled out forward and drove through the trees to the road. I kept my eyes peeled as I went, but there was no one either on foot or in a vehicle. At the crossroad, I turned right and drove past the orchard. I remembered I had spotted the car before I reached the orchard, and as I looked, I saw it, still off the road on my left. I made a U-turn and parked behind
it, getting out to see if he had left any kind of note in the windshield.

There was no note, but there was someone inside stretched out on the front seat and it was Al. I caught my breath and told myself this was not the time to panic. The driver's door was unlocked and I opened it, saying, “Sergeant? Sergeant DiMartino?” as I leaned in.

“Chris,” a whispered sound came. “Chris, Chris.” He had been sitting behind the wheel when he had been stricken, probably with just enough time to pull off the road. Then he had lain or fallen to his right so that his head was near the passenger door. He said something, but I couldn't understand it.

“What?” I asked, knowing I should be getting help, not wasting time talking.

He said it again, then once more, and I realized he was saying “heart.” He'd had a heart attack, or at least he thought so.

For a moment I felt utter confusion, not sure whether I should take my car to the orchard and call an ambulance, push DiMartino over and drive his car there, or drive him to a hospital myself. When I made a decision, it was more to get things moving than to do what was right.

“I'm taking you to the hospital,” I said. “I'll help you move over and then I'll drive into town.” I reached over while I was talking and unlocked the far door. Then I ran around to the other side, opened the door, and got him into the passenger seat with a lot of help from him. When he was sitting, I fastened the seat belt, let the back of his seat down just a little so he would incline backward, and then I ran back and got the car started.

Luckily, I ran into a policeman as I entered town and he not only directed me, he led me, lights and siren going, to the small hospital a few miles away. He must have radioed ahead because they were waiting for us and got DiMartino inside in record time.

Officer Tallman sat with me for a few minutes, getting details about DiMartino. I told him the sergeant was a retired policeman and I saw the subtle change. Officer Tallman was not just doing his duty; now he was helping one of his own.

“He has a wife or ex-wife somewhere,” I said.

“I'll get hold of his wallet and have a look. You have any idea how long he was in that car before you found him?”

“No idea at all. I don't even know if it's since this morning or yesterday.”

“Poor guy.”

An aide came into the waiting room at that moment, saw me, and asked if I was Mrs. Brooks.

“I am. How is he?”

“It doesn't look good, but we have a fine cardiologist here and they're doing the best they can. He wants you to have his house keys. I couldn't quite understand what he was saying.”

“I came to collect something he made for me.”

“I'll drive you over,” the cop said. “You can pick up your car on the way.”

At the house I let us in. The place looked neater than last week, the bed made, the sink almost empty. He had worked at cleaning up for company. I felt terrible. This was a man with talent and energy, condemned to disgrace and a lonely life because a system he had loved and served well had been turned inside out to hurt him.

“He's an artist,” the cop said, amazement in his voice. “I've never seen anything like this.”

“He was a forensic sculptor for the New York Police Department. He did something for me.” I turned to find Natalie and saw her near the woodstove. Next to her was a girl with a lopsided nose and a quirky face, Natalie in her late teens. I walked toward the sculptures holding my breath.

“Musta been in that car a long time,” Officer Tallman said, his hand on the stove. “Stove's cold.”

“Here she is.”

“Who?”

“The woman I'm looking for twenty years ago.”

“How'd he do that?”

“It's his genius. This is how she looked when she disappeared.”

“Fantastic.”

“Yes, really fantastic.” A large envelope was propped against the older Natalie. Inside were several eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of both sculptures. “He must have had these done yesterday,” I said. I realized both heads had hair. Heaven only knew where DiMartino had found wigs, but a wig sat on each head, brown on the younger Natalie, auburn on the older one. They weren't real hair, but the pictures looked so lifelike, I knew they would do for our purposes.

“Here's a book of addresses,” the cop said from the desk. “Loretta DiMartino? Sound like his wife?”

“Sounds like a relative anyway.”

“I'll take it along.”

I had brought a couple of boxes with me and some soft cloth to wrap the heads in. The officer carried one and I took the other out to my car. The pictures I had left with DiMartino last week were on the floor near the stand with one of the sculptures. I had a lot of money I wanted to give him, but I didn't want to leave it in an empty cabin. We drove back to the hospital.

Someone had already called his wife—she was still his wife, it seemed—and she was on her way. I asked a couple of times if I could see him, but they wouldn't let me. Everyone looked grim and I settled in to wait for his wife or for a chance to see DiMartino. I had brought a book with me in case I stayed over. Now I read it distractedly, my attention
wandering at every movement, every sound. I wished I could have a few minutes to address the medical team, to tell them about the man they were working on, to let them know this was a worthy human being, a person who had devoted himself to public service, that he had accomplishments that would be remembered, artistic talent greater than that of most people, that if he had erred, he had already paid a heavy price and he deserved to live out his three score years and ten. I saw myself as his advocate, but I had no audience for my thoughts, only myself, and I was already convinced.

It was a long afternoon. When I knew I would not be able to make it home, I called and left a message for Jack, then called our own number and left the same message on our answering machine. From time to time a nurse would come out and update me, but there was little real news.

“We're still working on him,” one of them said.

“Keep hoping,” from the other.

At six a middle-aged woman in a gray coat and black boots stepped into the waiting room and looked around as though expecting someone to be waiting for her.

“Mrs. DiMartino?” I said, standing.

“Yes. I'm Loretta. Who are you?”

“Chris Bennett. I found your husband. I was coming to pick up some sculptures he did for me.”

“Do you know where I can find the doctor?”

I took her to the nurses' station and they picked up from there. She was gone for a long time and I sat with my open book, wondering what effect her presence would have on DiMartino—if he was aware enough to know she was at his side. She came back to the waiting room finally, looking worn and miserable, and sat beside me.

“There's a lot of damage,” she said in a low voice. “It would've been better if he'd gotten here right away. He was out in that freezing cold for hours.”

“I passed his car on my way to the house, but I didn't know it was his car. I wish I'd stopped.”

“It's not your fault, honey. If not for you, he'd still be out in the cold.” She patted my hand and gave me a smile. “He's a crazy man, my Al. Never learned how to keep his mouth shut. I used to say, ‘Al, do your work and mind your business,' and he'd say, ‘Loretta, I can't stand by and watch them make mistakes. The Constitution gives me the right to say what I think.' But he was wrong. The Constitution doesn't give you any rights on the job. They should have read him the Miranda warnings when he got out of the Academy.”

I smiled at her assessment. “I admire a man who says what he thinks,” I said.

“So do I, but admiration doesn't pay the bills, and they were out to get Al so long, I knew they'd do it eventually. Why can't a man learn to live with his mouth shut? He loved his work. He could've been still doing it and getting a paycheck and living in a decent house with heat and three square meals a day.”

“I only met him once, but he struck me as a good man.”

“Better than good,” she said under her breath. “Just raving mad. You don't have to stay, honey. I'm OK. Go home to your husband.”

“Would you like to go to a motel for the night?”

“I can't leave.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He probably won't make it the night.”

I went to the coffee shop and picked up some greasy hamburgers and worse coffee and brought them upstairs. We ate together, waiting for something to happen, hoping it would be good or, failing that, that nothing would happen, that he would get through the night unchanged and start to recover when the sun rose.

I fell asleep at one point, never one to stay awake easily
after dark. When I awoke sometime after midnight, Loretta was gone. I went to the ladies' room and washed, wishing I had my toothbrush from my overnight bag, but that was out in the car. I found a nurse in the hall who told me Loretta was with Al, so I went back to the waiting room and sat and closed my eyes again. I woke up with a start at two A.M. There was noise and activity, people running. I walked to where I could see them, but they disappeared around a corner and I didn't want to walk down the hall to see where they were going. Sometimes not knowing is a comfort.

At two-thirty Loretta reappeared. I didn't have to ask. It was in her face, her shoulders, the very fit of her skin.

“He's gone,” she said.

I stood and went over to her, put my arm around her shoulders.

“The doctor said, ‘We lost him,' and I said, ‘What do you mean, you lost him? You never had him.' I had him, thirty-two years if you count the ones he lived in that shack. I'm the one that lost him. Goddamn job. It'll kill you every time.”

“Let's go find a place to sleep, Loretta.”

“Why not,” she said.

We slept till after eight, sharing a room in the motel I had stayed in last week. I called Jack when I got up and told him the news. Then Loretta and I dressed and went down for breakfast. She was a thin woman who looked older than I thought she was, and she ate as if breakfast were not part of her daily activities. When we finished, we checked out and drove to the hospital. Loretta had left her car there. She dropped her bag in it and we went inside together. After a few formalities, she called a mortuary in Queens and they promised to drive out to pick up Al's body.

“It's done,” she said as she put down the phone. “I'm glad you were here, but I'm OK now. You go home.”

I protested, but she really meant it.

“I'm a cop's wife. I know the score.”