Flight Dreams (17 page)

“No,” Roxanne answers for the group, “but we see that
you
do.” She gestures with the catalog toward Hasting’s exhibit.

Hasting presumes he is off the hook. The color returns to his face as he waxes rapturous. “Let us leave all animosity at the door, my friends, lest we forget our sacred, fraternal bonding within the cat fancy. Yes, Fluffbudget and I have been entering all the local shows for years now.” He taps the cage lovingly. “Of course, she never wins anything, but we just keep trying, and I do enjoy the fellowship of the club. In fact,” he adds, squaring his shoulders with pride, “my increasing involvement with the federation has recently landed me a board position—I am national secretary of the FCCA—something of a tedious honor, I admit, but it does make good use of my note-taking skills.” His voice becomes suddenly indignant. “If those damned judges had any taste at all, Fluff would be a grand champion by now.” Then sliding again into sweetness, “Isn’t that right, darlin’?”

The cat is aptly named—a breathing mound of off-white fur, its face and paws tipped with the cool gray known to cat fanciers as blue. It has a flat face with a punched-in snout and glistening black pellets for eyes.

Fluffbudget’s cage is truly a home-sweet-home away from home, as attested to by a florid needlepoint sampler hanging on the back wall. Hasting proudly points out that they’ve won the award for best-decorated cage at every show they’ve entered. In the center of the cage is a cat-size four-poster bed of real brass. Its canopy and dust ruffle are of fine lace, its bedspread and pillows of smoky-blue velvet that accentuates Fluffbudget’s “points.” The front of the cage is framed by matching velvet curtains, tied back with tasseled silk cords. The cat will not go near the bed, but sits instead with a surly expression in its litter tray. Manning wonders if the cat prefers to sit among its droppings, or if Hasting has trained the shedding animal to keep off the velvet bedspread.

“Come on, darlin’,” Hasting baby-talks the cat while opening the cage. “Let’s come out and show off our beautiful fur coat.” As Hasting yanks the disgruntled animal from its litter tray, Fluffbudget opens her mouth to meow in protest, but nothing comes out. Hasting displays the cat, holding it in his arms like a muff. “Isn’t she a sweetheart?”

“My, yes,” Roxanne obliges.

“That’s quite an animal,” says Manning, unwilling to be more specific.

“She certainly is,” Hasting agrees, nuzzling Fluffbudget nose-to-nose. The cat tries to back off, seemingly embarrassed by its owner’s affection. “She’s due for another grooming,” adds Hasting, fingering the fur with a touch that suggests it needs a bit of work. “It won’t be long till her next judging.” He picks up a long-toothed metal comb and sets to the task of raking out the Himalayan.

“Good luck, Hasting,” says Manning as he, Neil, and Roxanne begin to wander farther down the aisle.

“We’ll be rooting for Fluffbudget,” adds Neil.

“Thank you, all,” says Hasting. “Enjoy the show.”

Remembering something, Manning halts and turns back to tell Hasting, “By the way—enjoyed your performance on Bud Stirkham’s program Tuesday morning.”

At the mention of the radio show, Hasting hits a snag in Fluffbudget’s coat. The cat bares its teeth and hisses at Hasting, who raps the cat’s head with the comb and hisses back at it, “Little bitch!”

As soon as they are out of earshot, Neil tells his friends, “I don’t know how he can stand to
touch
that beast. Did you see the awful turned-up expression on its face? It looks like it just smelled a fart.”

“And I think I just smelled a rat,” says Manning. “Hasting is on the
board
of the FCCA—his campaign to bring Arthur Mendel to justice is apparently less than altruistic.”

Roxanne laughs. “I’ve no idea what
any
of you smelled, but after all that combing,
I
smell cat dander—which can be lethal.” She snaps open her purse, extracts a dose of preventive medicine, and pops the pill into her mouth, swallowing without water.

Neil warns her, “Those aren’t
candy,
Rox.” Then he tells Manning, “I think we should get her out of here.”

“I agree,” says Manning, “but I really ought to find Timothy Chatman before we go. Tell you what: You guys browse around while I go look for him. When I’m finished, we can go out for an early, leisurely supper. I know a place that makes the most incredible stuffed pizza. It’s something you should try, Neil, while you’re still in Chicago.”

“Sounds good to me,” says Neil. “We’ve missed lunch, and I’m starved.”

Roxanne agrees to the plan as well, so Manning walks off in search of Chatman, deciding it might be quickest to ask Margaret O’Connor where to find him. Heading toward the area of Al and Abbot’s cage, he sees Margaret gabbing with an aging, distinguished man who wears a tuxedo, looking absurdly out of place.

Margaret spots Manning and waves him forward. “Mark,” she says, “what a coincidence. We were just going off to find you. This is Timothy Chatman, president of the FCCA.”

The two men exchange pleasantries, then Manning says, “You’re looking very dapper for
this
crowd, Mr. Chatman.” He would not normally mention someone’s being overdressed, but the sartorial excess is so blatant that it seems intended to invite comment.

Chatman chuckles. “I suppose I do overdo it, Mr. Manning. But the club gets a kick out of it, in light of my
esteemed
position,” he quips. “Besides, it’s about the only chance I have to get dressed up these days—not many of my friends are getting married anymore.” He smiles pensively, a wistful expression that dwells for an instant on lost youth.

As they review some of the details of Chatman’s relationship to Helena Carter, Manning considers that Chatman has a vested interest in the resolution of the mystery—his organization stands to inherit millions under the terms of Carter’s will—which colors their conversation with new shades of meaning, with possible undertones, with motives for deception. Manning remembers his talk with Father Matthew Carey two weeks earlier. The priest was eyeing the prize, was not what he seemed, was not to be trusted. Yet
this
man, Timothy Chatman, is sincere, decides Manning. His judgment is confirmed when the old gentleman wishes Manning luck in finding the heiress, in bringing her back.

Manning observes, “You still think of her as a friend.”

“Indeed I do. I knew her when she first started breeding Abbies, which I’ve always been partial to. Helena Carter’s work advanced the breed beyond anyone’s expectations.”

Manning pauses a moment before asking, “Do you think of Humphrey Hasting as a friend?”

Chatman also pauses, unprepared for the question, then laughs. “Our new secretary is an avid enthusiast of the cat fancy, but he’s a … uh, rather unusual person. No, I can’t say that I count him among my friends. He’s certainly proven himself a friend of the federation, however, and I believe he must have been
very
friendly with Helena Carter. It was he who convinced her to include the federation in the ‘planned giving’ of her will.”

“Really?” The conversation has revealed more than Manning expected, so he discreetly digs his pen and notebook from a pocket.

“In fact,” says Chatman, “his timing was fortuitous, at least from a mercenary standpoint. Shortly after she added the federation’s codicil, she disappeared.”

Trying to mask the significance he attaches to this new detail, Manning shifts the conversation, asking, “Since her disappearance, have you noticed any difference in the quality of Abbies being shown?”

“Indeed. The breed has slipped appreciably, and it’s apparent to eyes less critical than mine. Good heavens, Helena Carter bred the cats against which all other Abyssinians are judged. When she disappeared—Abe and Eve with her—the only possible consequence was that future Abbies would suffer. It’s so disheartening, traveling around the country as I do, judging cats that represent the finest efforts of earnest breeders, only to find that my favorite breed has actually lost ground in our quest to produce the perfect cat.”

Manning glances up from his notes and sees tears beginning to well in Chatman’s eyes.

The old man clears his throat and continues, “There’s reason for cautious optimism, though. In the past year or two, some extremely fine specimens have been popping up in odd places all over the Southwest. Last month, for instance, I was judging a show in Albuquerque and came across a wonderful Abby kitten entered in the household-pet category, which means that the cat was neither registered nor pedigreed. A cat without a known ancestry is of no use in terms of advancing the breed, so I talked to the kitten’s owner, and he knew nothing of where the cat came from—it was a gift from a friend of a friend, or whatever. And what’s curious, Mr. Manning, is that every time I encounter one of these magnificent animals, I get the same story.”

Chatman ponders the dilemma for a moment, then concludes, “It’s horribly frustrating.”

By late afternoon, Manning, Neil, and Roxanne are settling into a dimly lit booth at the Italian restaurant where Manning is a fan of the stuffed pizza. Though they parked only a block away, Roxanne insisted on wearing her lynx coat from the car to the door. Once inside, she found no secure place to check the fur, so she asked the manager to keep it for her in his office, but her huffy manner made no points with the man, and she now struggles to roll the coat into a ball next to her in the booth. Though Manning was annoyed by the scene she created, he is pleased by the result—he and Neil are seated cozily next to each other across the table from Roxanne and her lynx.

A waiter with an accent introduces himself as Gino, but Manning has a hunch it’s an act. They’re all in the mood for a drink. Manning and Neil order their usual straight vodka. Roxanne, claiming the need to ward off a chill, orders grappa in a heated snifter. “I want the good stuff,” she cautions the waiter, “not that Italian gasoline.” Gino nods his understanding and turns to go, but Roxanne calls him back. “And a bottle of Chianti for the table—let’s get this party rolling, gentlemen.”

Once the drinks arrive (the wine hasn’t appeared yet, presumably being held for dinner), Neil asks, “Well, Mark? Did you glean the background you wanted from the cat show?”

“More than I bargained for,” says Manning. “Humphrey Hasting’s history of involvement with the FCCA took me totally off guard. I’m not sure what to make of it, but it’s a whole new twist I’ll need to look into.”

Roxanne swirls the snifter between her hands, telling Manning, “It seems you’ve uncovered quite a few new twists to this story. When you first told me about your predicament three weeks ago, you said that even though there was no known evidence of murder, you first had to satisfy yourself that any possible suspects had no involvement in Mrs. Carter’s disappearance. You called it ‘grunt work.’ Has it paid off?”

“Not exactly.” Manning’s pensive tone is laced with understatement. “Even though there’s still no hard evidence to convince me that Helena Carter was murdered, my investigation has raised more questions than it has answered.”

“Such as?” asks Neil.

“First,” says Manning, “why did Arthur Mendel and Margaret O’Connor order God-knows-how-many cubic yards of concrete poured on the grounds of the estate—in the middle of winter—within a week of Mrs. Carter’s disappearance? That’s suspicious enough in itself, but get this: Arthur once had gambling problems with the underworld of the horsey set, and Margaret had fears of being cut out of her sister’s will because of a sexual dalliance she’d had with Ridgely Carter.”

“Ouch,” says Roxanne. She slurps a mouthful of grappa, swallowing hard.

“Ouch is right,” says Manning, “but the plot—as they say—thickens. Let’s say for the moment, for the sake of argument, that Mrs. Carter
was
murdered. What would be the motive? The most obvious, of course, is money. So who has the most to gain? The Archdiocese of Chicago will be the
big
winner, and to a lesser extent, the Federated Cat Clubs. So we can cast suspicious glances at Archbishop Benedict or any of his minions—Father Matthew Carey, for instance, whom I caught in a lie regarding a minor point of Helen and Margaret’s family history. Or if it’s the cat-folk who have blood on their hands, we should question the motives of Timothy Chatman, president of the FCCA, or even Humphrey Hasting, who’s nutty enough that his involvement just might be plausible.”

“Christ,” says Neil, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, “that’s a lot of loose ends. You’ve been led down a dozen different paths. There’s nothing to tie them together.”

“But there
is.
” Manning crosses his arms.

“Uh-oh,” says Roxanne.

Manning tells them, “Nathan Cain, revered publisher of the
Journal,
seems to know
everyone,
and in fact he’s had recent conversations with nearly everyone I’ve talked to. It’s as if there’s a network of interrelated motives at work, a conspiracy. If that’s the case, it provides an explanation for Cain’s bizarre ultimatum to me, which seemed fickle at best. Or maybe the ultimatum simply
was
fickle—the flexing of a powerful man’s ego, no explanation required.” He pauses to sip his vodka, swallows, exhales. “I’m stumped.”

Roxanne starts to tell him, “You’ve really opened a can of…” but she stops short, sensing an impending sneeze. She lifts a finger to her nose, and the threat passes. “Worms,” she says, finishing the thought. She raises her snifter to drink from it, and now the sneeze hits—right into the glass, spraying her face with grappa.

The guys can’t help laughing. “Bless you,” blurts Neil. “Sorry,” says Manning, trying to compose a straight face.

Roxanne dabs with her napkin, but needs a mirror and better light. “Excuse me,” she says, rising, purse in hand. Before leaving, she asks, “You’ll keep an eye on kitty?”

“The lynx will be fine,” Neil assures her.

And she’s off to the ladies’ room.

Neil turns his head to face Manning. He grins. “I thought she’d
never
leave.” Under the table, he moves his leg so that his knee rests against Manning’s.

The move is deliberate and unambiguous. While the situation reminds Manning of his recent encounter with Father Carey, there are no mind-games being played today. What’s happening under the table is natural and appropriate, not devious or coy. Manning responds by shifting his own leg closer to Neil’s; they touch from ankle to knee. Manning tells him, “I hope she’s not downing more antihistamines.”