Flight Dreams (15 page)

“The mystery of Helena Carter’s disappearance,” Stirkham intones gravely, “may soon begin to unravel, thanks largely to the selfless, untiring efforts of this dedicated journalist. Tell me, Humphrey Hasting, how did you come to focus your investigation on Carter’s houseman, Arthur Mendel?”

“The conclusion was obvious, Bud, a real no-brainer! I’ve received numerous calls from certifiable clairvoyants, all delivering the same message: The butler did it. Their word is good enough for me, and apparently it’s good enough for the state’s attorney too. As you may have read in yesterday’s
Post,
the mechanisms are at last in place to bring this rogue to justice.”

“Ah, yes. Clairvoyants,” says Stirkham. “I had the pleasure to attend a cocktail party not long ago at the home of attorney Roxanne Exner. In fact, you were there too, Hump, but before you arrived, the rest of us had a chance to engage Mark Manning, reporter for the
Journal,
in an energetic discussion covering everything from psychics to erotic dreams.”

“Really?” asks Hasting, intrigued. “Did Mr. Manning offer any opinions of the paranormal?”

“He said that he’s dealt with many mystics, and he feels they have no powers at all. He went so far as to say that he acknowledges no force in the universe beyond the perceptions of his own mind.”

With a cynical laugh, Hasting asks, “Now
why
doesn’t that surprise me? While it’s only fair to acknowledge that Mr. Manning has steadfastly reported on the Carter mystery since day one, the public has understandably grown weary of his foot-dragging, his refusal to draw self-evident deductions that could prompt official action on the case. It is, after all, a reporter’s sacred duty to shape public consensus and to orchestrate the cry for justice. Mr. Manning’s flagrant disregard for his social mandate can only lead one to suspect the motives for his unconscionable silence.”

Hasting pauses a moment, allowing his innuendo to register fully, then leans close to the microphone as if to share a secret: “I am not alone in this suspicion. During my discussions with deputy police superintendent Murphy on Sunday night, we speculated at length on this issue. I am now in a position to reveal that the state’s attorney is prepared to summon Mark Manning to testify at Arthur Mendel’s inquest. Manning’s waffling stance on this story has clearly hurt his credibility, suggesting that his role in the mystery may be other than that of an objective observer …”

Hasting’s speech is aborted when Manning turns off the engine of his car, now parked in the courtyard of the Carter estate.

Manning mindlessly checks his pockets for notebook and pen while stepping up to the front of the house and ringing the bell. When the door opens before him, he is surprised to be greeted not by Arthur Mendel, but by Margaret O’Connor.

She smiles and says, “Good morning, Mark.” Her tone has an air of business to it, a hint of urgency that precludes small talk. “Arthur’s just a
wreck
over all this,” she tells Manning, ushering him into the hall. “He’s in the kitchen—he’s been anxious to talk to you.” She strides off toward the back of the house. Manning follows without speaking.

As they enter the kitchen, Arthur stands, switching off the radio that has been playing. Manning hears just enough—“a modicum of social responsibility”—to know that Arthur is fully aware of Humphrey Hasting’s rantings. There is no mistaking the fear in the old houseman’s eyes as he reaches to shake Manning’s hand with both of his, saying, “I’m so glad you’re here.” In deference to the
Journal’
s reporter, he does not wear his usual work clothes, but is dressed uncomfortably in an ill-fitting tweed suit. Manning cannot help wondering if the clothes once fit better, if the suit remained constant over the years while Arthur’s body shrank.

Margaret excuses herself from the kitchen, letting the door swing closed behind her. The two men sit across from each other in a breakfast nook, where a bay window overlooks the lake. With an unsteady hand, Arthur pours them both coffee from a glass pot, already half empty.

Manning tells him, “Don’t take Humphrey Hasting too seriously.” He laughs before adding, “No one else does.”

Pointedly, Arthur observes, “The police seem to. It’s just unbelievable—it’s
depressing
—to hear that guy suggest I had anything to do with Mrs. Carter’s disappearance. Good Lord, she was all we had. Aside from the fact that I thought of her as more of a sister than a boss, I’d be crazy to do anything to harm her. It’d be like bitin’ the hand that feeds you.”

Charmed by Arthur’s candor, Manning hopes that the old man will not feel intimidated by the appearance of his steno pad. He uncaps his fountain pen and begins scratching a few notes. The reporter wants to explore two topics regarding the heiress—cats and religion—and he finds that Arthur knows a great deal about the cats, but almost nothing about Carter’s religious life, except that she seemed devout.

Their conversation stretches on for nearly an hour, detailing Arthur’s history of service to the Carters, which spans more than thirty years, back to the days when there was a full stable of horses to tend. Manning asks him, “When your gambling debts caught up with you, and Ridgely Carter paid them off, was the incident widely known—that is, was it known beyond the household? Were there any news accounts of it?”

“Heavens, no,” Arthur answers, aghast at the thought. “After Mr. Carter helped me out, he never spoke of it again.
Mrs.
Carter knew about it, of course, and she was the type who got a kick out of needling me now and then, but that was just her way of trying to lighten the situation and make me feel better. As for Miss O’Connor, well … it was pretty clear that she disapproved of my gambling, and it was just as clear that she sort of resented Mr. Carter helping me out. But like I said”—he lowers his voice and leans across the table toward Manning—“she’d made a few problems of her own.”

Manning has stopped taking notes. In truth, he has been digging for nothing specific. He has conducted this rambling interview simply to get better acquainted with Arthur, to assure himself that Humphrey Hasting’s accusations are unfounded before proceeding with the investigation in his own direction. He caps his pen.

Arthur tells him, “Before you go, you might want to take a look at something. I got the strangest piece of mail yesterday.” Arthur pulls a lumpy envelope from inside his jacket, which at least partly explains why the suit fits so poorly.

Manning examines the envelope, which carries a Chicago postmark, but no sender’s address. He looks inside and finds it stuffed with cash, thousands of dollars in crisp bills. There is a typed note that reads, “For a good defense. More if needed.” It is not signed. The typewriter’s e’s have not been altered. There is no watermark. Returning the envelope to Arthur, Manning asks him, “Any idea who sent this?”

“Not a clue.”

Manning drums his fingers on the kitchen table, puzzling over the new development, then rises. “Would you mind walking me out to the cattery again? Something’s been on my mind since you first showed it to me a couple of weeks ago.”

Getting up from the table, Arthur tells him, “I’d be delighted. It’s not far from the back of the house. This way, please.” And he leads Manning out the kitchen door.

Crossing the lawn, Manning notes that the weather has improved considerably since his last visit. The lake is blue today, not gray, and the dry autumn air carries that nebulous sense of approaching harvest. Arriving with Arthur under the broad eaves at the juncture of the cattery building’s two wings, he is struck by the manicured perfection of the surroundings, and he wonders what other secrets have fractured the tranquility of this seemingly idyllic setting.

His musing is interrupted by Margaret O’Connor, who emerges from inside the cattery. She wears a bulky sweater and a garden hat to protect her from the chilly breeze. “Oh, Mark,” she says, surprised to see him, “I was just finishing my morning rounds. May I show you inside?”

“Thanks,” he answers, “but right now, I’m more interested in the exterior of this building—or rather, its construction.”

“Oh?” she says, closing the door behind her.

He turns to Arthur, explaining, “I’m curious about the foundations of the two wings—they’re different. One is made of brick.” He points to it.

Arthur nods. “Yes, the main wing of the cattery was built on the footings of the old stable. The shorter wing is entirely new construction, so it was built on a modern foundation of poured concrete—it doesn’t have the charm of the old footings, but it’s much more sturdy.” He gives it a kick with the toe of his shoe. “Built to last.”

Manning asks, “And the construction was under way at the time of Mrs. Carter’s disappearance?”

Margaret answers, “Yes, indeed. It was Helen’s pet project. What a shame she never saw it completed.”

“Do you remember,” asks Manning, “how much of the building was finished on that New Year’s morning?”

“Oh, Lord,” says Margaret, “I have no idea.”

Arthur volunteers, “I remember.” His expression has turned cold, and he continues without inflection. “The main wing was complete, and the shorter wing was just being excavated.”

Manning asks him, “When was the new foundation poured?”

“Shortly after. A week, maybe two.”

“That’s
right,” says Margaret, remembering the details. “There was some confusion as to whether the project should even continue—because of Helen’s disappearance—but we knew she wanted the cattery built, and the equipment and such was already on the property, so we decided to forge ahead. I’m glad we did. Those were fretful times, and it gave us something else to think about. But tell me, Mark: Why do you ask? What difference does it make now?”

Manning gathers his thoughts and prepares to respond, but Arthur answers for him.

“He wants to know about our decision to pour the concrete because the timing looks bad for both of us.”

“B
UT I’LL FREEZE MY ASS
off,” whines Roxanne.

“I don’t give a damn,” Manning tells her. “You’re not wearing that thing inside.”

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Rox,” says Neil from the backseat. “You add a whole new dimension to the concept of ‘politically incorrect.’”

It turned cold last night, the first hard freeze of the season. Manning’s car started grudgingly today when he left his apartment to pick up Roxanne and Neil for their trek to the cat show in the booming western suburbs. This weather won’t last, but the morning is still frosty. Even though the car is warm by now, Roxanne snuggles theatrically into the fulsome collar of a lavish lynx coat. She tells the men, “I didn’t know I was keeping company with animal-rights activists.”

“You’re not,” Manning assures her, “but it strikes me as a tad insensitive to flaunt your feline fur among a bunch of cat lovers—on their own turf, no less.”

“Ooga booga!” grunts Neil in a low caveman voice. “Great white huntress gird loins with cat pelts.”

Allowing herself to laugh at Neil’s clowning, she accedes, “All right. The coat stays—locked in the trunk. But I get to borrow one of your jackets for the run from the car to the building. Parking lots can be so nippy.”

Always the gentleman, Manning offers at once, “You can have mine.” He fails to mention that the amphitheater has indoor parking, but he does mention the topic that has dominated their conversation for the last half hour: “In return for this gallantry, may I assume that you agree to represent Arthur Mendel at the inquest?”

She pauses before answering. “Very well. Let me run it past my partners—I don’t think they’ll find a conflict of interest. But honestly, Mark, if I’m taking on a new client, it ought to be
you.”

He breaks his steady driver’s gaze to turn and look at her wide-eyed.
“Me?”
he asks. “What’d
I
do?”

“Nothing, I assume,” she tells him calmly. “But Humphrey Hasting …”

“Roxanne.” His eyes are fixed on the road again. “It’s bad enough that Hasting manipulates the media for the sake of some half-baked social agenda; now he’s trying to manipulate the judicial system as well. Yes, he has a forum, but he’s blowing smoke. There’s no way he can turn his insinuations into substantiated charges.”

Neil says, “Hasting may be a jerk, but he’s a dangerous jerk, and I think you should heed Rox’s advice and prepare for the worst—just to be safe.”

Manning falls silent, as if intent on his driving, but in fact his mind is focused on Neil’s warning, on the possibility that Hasting’s contrivances could prove genuinely threatening. Manning’s New Year’s deadline is little more than two months away. If he’s to save his job, salvage his career, he has his work cut out for him. The last thing he needs right now is the nuisance of fighting off trumped-up litigation.

Roxanne and Neil’s chitchat lapses as the car banks into the curve of the exit ramp. With the amphitheater looming in the distance, Roxanne says, “You’ve gotten kind of quiet, Mark. Tell us something about this cat show. Neil and I are new to the game.”

“So am I,” Manning reminds her, “but I’ve done some research this week. Cat shows are held all over the country all year round. Today’s show is a big one—about three hundred cats. Each show is sponsored by a specific cat club. There are many clubs in the Chicago area, and each is affiliated with one or more national organizations, of which there are seven or eight. The club sponsoring today’s show is affiliated with the Federated Cat Clubs of America. The FCCA, remember, is named as one of the heirs to the Carter estate, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find Margaret O’Connor here with some of her Abyssinians.”

Neil asks, “Will the animals be paraded?”

“No,” says Manning, “it’s not at all like a dog show. The FCCA maintains standards for each breed, and they train and certify judges for the shows. The cats are appraised solely as specimens. Behavior is irrelevant, and the judges don’t let an animal’s ‘personality’ color its evaluation.”

“Sounds kind of dull,” Roxanne tells him. “Is there anything in particular you’re hoping to learn?”

Manning thinks for a moment. “I’ve been trying for nearly seven years to figure out what makes Helena Carter tick. These shows were a big part of her life, and I’ve never been to one. It’s time to correct that. Also, it’s a good excuse for the three of us to get together before Neil flies home tomorrow.”