The Thanksgiving Day Murder Read Free Page A

her mother’s kid brother, a lot younger than her mother.”
    “Mel’s old roommate mentioned him during brunch. She said he had a weird story to tell. I had no idea this was the man and that was the story.”
    Jack took his key out of his pocket and we turned up the front walk. The snow had been shoveled away and the shrubs we had planted in the fall looked healthy and green in spite of the cold. “Do I get to hear the story?”
    “His wife disappeared during the Thanksgiving Day parade the year before last.”
    “That is weird.”
    “Without a trace. She turned a corner to buy a balloon and he never saw her again.”
    We walked inside and I went to turn the heat up as Jack closed and locked the front door.
    “Feel like a fire?” he called.
    “You bet,” I called back. “Want something to drink?”
    “Maybe some coffee. I tried some of Hal’s special single-malt Scotch, and if I have anything else, I won’t be able to study.”
    I put on a pot and rubbed my hands together, happy for the fire I could already smell. The heat would take time, but the fire was instantaneous. Jack had already talked about the possibility of putting a wood-burning stove in the fireplace and heating the downstairs with it. It struck me as a good idea with a downside; I love the look of a fire. A good fire is more interesting than a television screen. Anyway, it was a thought for the future.
    When I carried in the carafe, the living room was warm and fragrant with the woody smells I love so much.
    “That smells good,” Jack said, referring to the coffee.
    “So does that.” I nodded toward the fire.
    “You know me. Nothing smells as good to a cop as fresh coffee.”
    I leaned over and kissed his cheek, then took the carafe back to the kitchen. When we were sipping in front of the fire, I told Jack what I remembered of Sandy Gordon’s story.
    “Those things are very tough,” Jack said when he’d heard the whole thing. “I have to believe there’s a large possibility this woman planned her disappearance right down to saying she was going for a balloon.”
    “He was at great pains to tell me how happy they were together.”
    “They’re always happy together, Chris. And then one day one of them leaves and the other one can’t believe it. I wish I could tell you this was unique, that I’d never heard anything like it before.”
    “What usually happens?”
    “Sometimes the missing person never shows up. The case is kept open, but it’s not very active. Sometimes we find a body. That’s when we know it was really a case ofkidnapping, assault, rape, whatever. It’s also possible, of course, that the spouse who reports the disappearance is the killer.”
    “I can’t believe that.”
    “Believe it.”
    “Not in this case.”
    “I tend to agree with you. This guy doesn’t strike me as a killer, but you never know. You don’t know what really went on between them, what he found out from her or about her before the Thanksgiving Day parade. What he told you was his well-thought-out story.”
    “But he went to the parade with her and reported her disappearance to the police.” I felt myself arguing Sandy’s point of view.
    “In my scenario, he went to the parade alone. She was already dead and buried when he got to the parade. Who’s ever going to remember this guy after the parade’s over? He told you Seventy-fourth Street. Maybe he was at Fifty-ninth and walked up to Seventy-fourth to report her missing.”
    It is a constant amazement to me that my husband, who has a sense of humor, an easygoing personality, and is full of life and love, has this other side. It isn’t a dark side of him; it’s a knowledge of the dark side of life. He’s seen it, he’s heard about it, in many cases he’s experienced it. Something in me always wants to argue with him, but I know he speaks from direct knowledge.
    “Then why would he try to hire me?” I said finally. “He’s already done enough to prove to the world that he