Bennett and I’m a friend of Sandy Gordon.” I used the word loosely and to good effect.
“Yes. Has something happened? Has Natalie turned up?”
“I’m afraid not. Sandy has asked me to look into her disappearance.”
“It’s been so long now,” she said sadly. “I don’t know what you can do at this point. I talked to the detective he hired last year and that didn’t lead anywhere.”
“I have a little experience investigating and maybe I’llturn up something the detective missed. I’d like to start by talking to you.”
“Well, I’m home being pregnant, so I’m available and I want to do everything I can to help. So name your time.”
“This afternoon if you’re free.”
“Let’s see. If you can be here by twelve-thirty, we can talk over lunch. I cook salt-free, but I’ll let you add salt at the table.”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you then.”
—
I had a chicken ready to pop into the oven (recipe courtesy of Melanie Gross) when I got home, so I felt pretty free as I got into my car and started to drive.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that starting an investigation gives me a high. This one was different from all the others in several ways. I had never known Natalie and didn’t really know Sandy. I hadn’t stumbled on a body, and in a sense I had no personal interest in the subject of the investigation, although I was developing one simply because I’m me.
What concerned me most was that I was following in the footsteps of a professional and that unless someone said something new or Sandy turned up some fresh piece of evidence, I would go no further than the detective had. What I had working for me was that people sometimes open up more readily to a woman, someone not in a uniform, someone not professional. Also, I enjoy what I do. It makes a difference.
The Hartswells lived on a pleasant suburban street lined with houses that had once probably resembled each other more than they did today. They had been built along a couple of general designs and changed through creative landscaping, additions, some second stories added on ranches, and a variety of windows. I parked at the curb in front of a two-story white house with bright blue trim, and went up a concrete walk to the front door.
Susan Hartswell was well into her pregnancy. She opened the door and we introduced ourselves as she took my coat.
“Has anything new come up?” she asked as I followed her to the kitchen.
“Nothing that I know of. Sandy is desperate to find her.”
“Sit where you feel comfortable. They’re both the same.” She was referring to two attractive fruit salads.
“Where’d you find such beautiful fruit at this time of year?” I asked.
“We have a great produce market in the next town. They fly stuff in from South America and California, and most of it is pretty good. You can drink juice or bottled water. I cleaned out all the tea and coffee when I got pregnant so I wouldn’t be tempted.”
I accepted juice and we dug in. “I have no record of what the detective asked you, or the police, so if I sound repetitive, please bear with me. Do you know how old Natalie is?”
“Probably older than she told Sandy. I’m thirty-six and she said she was three years younger than me, but I’d guess she’s my age, give or take a year.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Little things she dropped about high school graduation and what she was doing when Kennedy got shot.”
That was good thinking. I was talking to someone who used her head. “Do you remember when she met Sandy?”
“Maybe three years ago. Then they got married about two years ago. They weren’t married for long.”
“Do you remember where she met him?”
“In one of the museums, I think. I didn’t go with her that day.”
“Did you go together sometimes?”
“Lots of times.”
“To pick up men?”
“To see the exhibits and meet interesting people. You can meet men that way. Not a lot, but it happens.”
“How
“Yes. Has something happened? Has Natalie turned up?”
“I’m afraid not. Sandy has asked me to look into her disappearance.”
“It’s been so long now,” she said sadly. “I don’t know what you can do at this point. I talked to the detective he hired last year and that didn’t lead anywhere.”
“I have a little experience investigating and maybe I’llturn up something the detective missed. I’d like to start by talking to you.”
“Well, I’m home being pregnant, so I’m available and I want to do everything I can to help. So name your time.”
“This afternoon if you’re free.”
“Let’s see. If you can be here by twelve-thirty, we can talk over lunch. I cook salt-free, but I’ll let you add salt at the table.”
“That’s fine. I’ll see you then.”
—
I had a chicken ready to pop into the oven (recipe courtesy of Melanie Gross) when I got home, so I felt pretty free as I got into my car and started to drive.
I would be lying if I didn’t admit that starting an investigation gives me a high. This one was different from all the others in several ways. I had never known Natalie and didn’t really know Sandy. I hadn’t stumbled on a body, and in a sense I had no personal interest in the subject of the investigation, although I was developing one simply because I’m me.
What concerned me most was that I was following in the footsteps of a professional and that unless someone said something new or Sandy turned up some fresh piece of evidence, I would go no further than the detective had. What I had working for me was that people sometimes open up more readily to a woman, someone not in a uniform, someone not professional. Also, I enjoy what I do. It makes a difference.
The Hartswells lived on a pleasant suburban street lined with houses that had once probably resembled each other more than they did today. They had been built along a couple of general designs and changed through creative landscaping, additions, some second stories added on ranches, and a variety of windows. I parked at the curb in front of a two-story white house with bright blue trim, and went up a concrete walk to the front door.
Susan Hartswell was well into her pregnancy. She opened the door and we introduced ourselves as she took my coat.
“Has anything new come up?” she asked as I followed her to the kitchen.
“Nothing that I know of. Sandy is desperate to find her.”
“Sit where you feel comfortable. They’re both the same.” She was referring to two attractive fruit salads.
“Where’d you find such beautiful fruit at this time of year?” I asked.
“We have a great produce market in the next town. They fly stuff in from South America and California, and most of it is pretty good. You can drink juice or bottled water. I cleaned out all the tea and coffee when I got pregnant so I wouldn’t be tempted.”
I accepted juice and we dug in. “I have no record of what the detective asked you, or the police, so if I sound repetitive, please bear with me. Do you know how old Natalie is?”
“Probably older than she told Sandy. I’m thirty-six and she said she was three years younger than me, but I’d guess she’s my age, give or take a year.”
“What makes you think so?”
“Little things she dropped about high school graduation and what she was doing when Kennedy got shot.”
That was good thinking. I was talking to someone who used her head. “Do you remember when she met Sandy?”
“Maybe three years ago. Then they got married about two years ago. They weren’t married for long.”
“Do you remember where she met him?”
“In one of the museums, I think. I didn’t go with her that day.”
“Did you go together sometimes?”
“Lots of times.”
“To pick up men?”
“To see the exhibits and meet interesting people. You can meet men that way. Not a lot, but it happens.”
“How
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