Flight Dreams (6 page)

She has spoken softly, without rancor, making flat observations. Her reminiscing has been a bittersweet amusement on this dark, wet morning in front of the fire. “Lord, how I can babble,” she says. “That’s what you get for asking me to start talking.” She pours more coffee.

Manning says, “It was fascinating. But, Margaret …” He is reluctant to tell her that the point of their discussion has slipped her mind. “You said that you once had a theory about where your sister might be.”

She places her fingers over her mouth, eyes popping, then laughs. “I knew I was driving at
something.
After Ridgely died, Helen got involved with our local parish, Saint Jerome’s. She struck up a friendship with our pastor, Father Matthew Carey—such a handsome young priest. Helen joined several church committees and ended up on the parish council. She and Father Carey really liked each other—you could tell from the way they had fun together, at first—but more and more they found themselves at odds.

“It started with minor issues that came up at council meetings, and eventually their differences grew to the point where Helen referred to herself as the ‘loyal opposition.’ I’m not sure what it was all about—her church activities weren’t of much interest to me—but it had something to do with all the changes brought on by the Vatican Council in the sixties. I got the impression that she’d have preferred for them to keep the Church the way she knew it as a girl.”

The pace of Margaret’s speech quickens as she leans toward Manning to tell him, “Helen mentioned several times—and it was unusual because we rarely discussed religion—some sort of movement in the Catholic Church to go back to the old ways. There’s a European bishop or cardinal who’s leading the movement—he’s been in the news from time to time. And there’s a little community, a
town,
somewhere in the West where these people go to live and to have the Church the way they want it.

“I never thought Helen was so serious about her beliefs that she would consider going to such a place, but after she disappeared, I wasn’t so sure. So I talked to Father Carey about it, and he said that the same idea had crossed his mind. He told me that he once knew the priest who eventually became leader of this little town, and he offered to write to see what he could learn. A couple of weeks later, he phoned me to say he received a letter from the other priest. There was no one out there who could be Helen.”

Margaret leans back in her chair, concluding, “And that was the end of my theory, Mark. It was only a hunch.”

“Would you mind,” Manning asks, “if I talked to Father Carey myself?”

“Of course not. If you think there’s any chance he could lead you to Helen, by all means, go see him. He’s really very nice.” She studies Manning curiously for a moment, then adds, “I think you two will like each other.”

He jots down the names of the priest and the parish, then says, “I know you’ve been asked these questions many times, but could you recall for me exactly what happened when your sister disappeared? When did you realize she was gone? How did you know she was missing?”

Margaret O’Connor nestles farther into her chair, seemingly swallowed by its upholstery. Wringing her hands, she says, “It was New Year’s Day and horribly cold. The morning began as usual. I took a warm bath, then dressed and went down to the kitchen to join Helen for coffee. We usually met there around seven o’clock, but it was later that morning because we’d stayed up the night before to see in the New Year. Helen wasn’t there yet, so I started the coffee and then went to the basement to feed the cats—the new cattery was still being built back then, and the cats were kept downstairs. While making the rounds, I noticed that Abe was missing. Abe is the cat you saw in the magazine; he was Helen’s prime stud, the best breeding stock in the country. So I got a little panicky …”

“Excuse me, Margaret, but how did you know Abe was missing? Couldn’t he have been anywhere in the house?”

“Oh
no,
Mark. Fred and Ethel”—she gestures toward the cats lying by the fire—“are pets. We’ve always kept one or two cats as altered house pets. The breeding stock, the show cats, are kept in the cattery. They never leave their cages, except to breed or to show. But Abe was gone.”

“How much was Abe worth?”

“Heavens, you don’t
sell
a cat like Abe.”

“But if you
had
to sell him for some reason, how much would you expect to get? Roughly.”

“Many thousands of dollars, certainly. Abe had recently been judged the finest Abyssinian in the country—possibly the world. He was priceless. Then I noticed Eve’s cage empty too.”

“Eve?” he asks, guessing the answer.

“Eve was Helen’s prime queen.”

“Worth about the same as Abe?”

“Almost. Studs are generally more valuable.”

Manning is taking notes so quickly now, his writing is reduced to a scribble. More to himself than to the woman, he says, “We all knew that a wealthy heiress had disappeared and that a couple of cats were missing with her, but no one understood just ‘who’ those cats were.”

Margaret continues, “So I ran upstairs to tell Helen. I stood at her door, pounding on it and shouting that something terrible had happened. Finally, I opened the door, not knowing what to expect, afraid of what I might find.” She stares into an indefinite space beyond Manning’s shoulder.

“What did you find?” he asks softly.

She looks at him as though snapping out of a trance. “Nothing,” she says with a shrug. “Helen wasn’t there. Her room was in order. I glanced through her closets, but nothing seemed to be missing.”

“What did you assume, then, about the cats and your sister?”

“I assumed they were together,” she tells him, stating the obvious conclusion. “It was unusual, but nothing worth phoning the police about—not yet. A bit later, Arthur came to the house for his duties.”

“Your houseman, Arthur Mendel?”

“He’s been with the Carter family forever, and now he’s the only permanent staff left on the estate. He lives in quarters near the cattery, where the old stable used to be. When he came to the house that morning, I told him about Helen and the two cats. He said he hadn’t driven Helen anywhere, and as we talked, we both got worried. By evening, Helen still wasn’t back, so we decided to call the police if we didn’t hear from her by midnight. And that’s what we did. You know the rest; you were here with the others the next day.”

Manning asks, “Did the police question you about the cats?”

“Not much. I told them the cats were missing, but I didn’t want to make too much of a fuss over it—we were all concerned about
Helen,
and it seemed trivial to dwell on the cats. Do you think that makes any difference?”

Manning’s pen jabs the page with a period at the end of a note. “I’m not sure. Any new angle is worth exploring.” He flips a fresh page open. “Margaret, may I ask a personal question about your sister? Did Helen dye her hair? A friend who saw the magazine picture said that it looked as if she used a henna rinse. The color seemed to match Abe.”

Margaret chuckles, raising one brow confidentially. “Your friend is very observant. Yes, Helen used a henna rinse, trying to match the rich Abyssinian hue. I suppose it was part vanity—Helen’s hair was grayer than mine,” she says, dabbing at her temples with her fingers. “But there was more to it than that. Henna has been used as a hair color for a long, long time. Cleopatra used it. And I’m sure you’ve noticed how the Abyssinian resembles the sacred cat of ancient Egypt. Helen was intrigued by that connection. She felt it might be useful in her campaigns.”

“What campaigns?” asks Manning.

“‘Campaigning’ is what they call touring a cat for the top national awards. It’s a full-time job, involving lots of time, travel, money, and—what do they call it?—public relations. I guess you’d say that Helen’s henna hair was a gimmick.”

Manning nods, finishes a note, then asks, “After the initial shock of your sister’s disappearance wore off, were you able to determine if anything other than the cats was missing, like clothes or money? What I’m getting at is this: Do you think she could have taken enough with her to keep her comfortable for this long?”

“Helen has closet after closet of clothes. I’m not
sure
if anything is missing, but it’s possible. There were plenty of jewels and furs, too; Ridgely loved to lavish her with beautiful things. But valuables like that were catalogued and put in safe deposit shortly after she disappeared. As far as money is concerned, I never knew much about her finances—investments, savings, and such—we didn’t need to talk about money. You could ask Jerry Klein about it. He runs CarterAir and looks after the estate.”

Manning has dutifully recorded her comments. He caps his pen and is about to slip it into his pocket when something occurs to him. “One more thing, Margaret. When you were telling me about growing up with Helen, you made some reference to ‘the twins.’ Who were you talking about?”

“Our brothers. We had a pair of twin brothers.”

“You
did?”
Manning riffles through his notes, confirming that this detail has escaped him. “In all the time I’ve been covering this story, I’ve never heard anything about brothers.”

“I’d be surprised if you had,” she tells him. “They’ve been gone for over forty years. They went away to school, and something bad happened—I don’t know what—I was too young to understand. One of them died, and the other disappeared. The boys were a few years older than Helen, and I was quite young when it all happened.”

“What were their names?” asks Manning.

“I honestly don’t remember. Isn’t that remarkable? I was very young when they were still at home, and they were
never
discussed afterward.”

On his pad, Manning notes in the margin:
Repressed memories. Heavy denial.

Margaret adds, “My single vivid recollection of them still gives me the chills. One of the boys was interested in Indian lore and had a hatchet with a stone blade that he treasured above all other possessions. One day, Helen and I were playing with him in a vacant lot behind the house. He caught a garden snake, which terrified me enough. Then, with his hatchet,
he chopped off its head.
It made me sick—literally. Mama couldn’t get the bile stains out of my dress, so she threw it away. It had pictures of kittens and puppies on it. I loved that little dress—it was my favorite.”

Her story has ended. She lapses into a long silence, preoccupied with her thoughts of the past, thoughts that have not even scratched her consciousness for many years. She has said enough.

Quietly, Manning caps his pen, closes his notebook, and reaches down to the floor to rub one of the cats behind its ears. Fred gazes up at Manning with an expression that looks like an appreciative grin, then breaks into a rumbling purr. Ethel interrupts her nap long enough to open her eyes a slit, wondering what has roused Fred.

Manning rises. “Don’t get up,” he tells Margaret. “I’ve taken enough of your time today, and I truly appreciate the information you’ve shared with me. You’ve been most helpful.” He steps to her chair and clasps one of her hands with both of his. “I’ll see myself out, Margaret. Thanks again.”

He crosses the room, opens the door, and glances back before leaving. Margaret sits perfectly still, facing the fireplace, eyes fixed on the flames, as if trying to discern some meaning from their ethereal, random dance.

In the hall, Arthur Mendel awaits Manning with his trench coat. “You won’t need to wear this home,” he says. “The rain has finally stopped.”

“Thank you, Arthur,” says Manning, taking the coat. “I wonder if you’d have time to walk me out to the car. Miss O’Connor mentioned that there’s a separate cattery building on the grounds. Could you show me where it is?”

“I’d be delighted,” Arthur tells him, ushering him out the front door. They walk past Manning’s car to the side of the house, and Arthur points to a low L-shaped building on a bluff at the rear of the estate. The sky has lightened some, and whitecaps roll landward from the heaving gray surface of the lake. Arthur asks, “Would you like to stroll back there for a closer look?”

“Sure,” says Manning.

Arthur leads the way along a flagstone path. Though the rain has stopped, a raw wind drives mist from the lake, and Manning struggles to don the coat he carried, its flapping folds of khaki tamed as he cinches the belt with a taut knot. Approaching the building, Arthur says, “Care to look inside?”

“Not today, thanks,” says Manning, huddling under the broad eaves at the juncture of the building’s two wings. “Actually, I just wanted to talk with you privately, Arthur. May I ask you a few questions?”

“Certainly.” The older man’s quick response reveals that he’s flattered by the famed reporter’s attention.

Manning tells him, “I hope this won’t embarrass you, and I raise the issue only because there are people who might construe it as being related to Mrs. Carter’s disappearance.”

With a tone now colored by wariness, Arthur responds, “Yes?”

“During my conversation with Miss O’Connor this morning, she mentioned something that surprised me. She said that after she came to live here with Mr. Carter and her sister, the estate proved to be a happy home, except for a ‘nasty episode with Arthur’s gambling’ …”

“What!” says Arthur, stepping backward. His expression suggests betrayal. “I can’t
believe
she’d mention that, not after the way she threw the household into a tizzy with
her
loose ways. Don’t let her kid you, Mr. Manning. She may come across as Miss Prim-and-Proper, but let me tell you …”

He stops. He’s said too much. He buries his mouth in his hands, regains his composure, then forces a smile and tells Manning, “I’m sorry. That was inappropriate—I hope you’ll kindly disregard those remarks. What Miss O’Connor told you is quite correct.”

“Did the gambling problems relate to the horses?”

“I’m afraid so, yes. As you may know, Mr. Carter enjoyed horses and maintained a stable that I looked after—it was right here, in fact, before the cattery was built. He never raced them, but enjoyed the track, and we both had a passing acquaintance with a lot of pros out there—jockeys, trainers, and such. Mr. Carter placed an occasional bet—it was the social thing to do—but
I
got a little too deep in it. I lost more than I won, and I borrowed from the wrong people. Some threats were made, and it came to Mr. Carter’s attention, which scared me more than the threats. But he was always a perfect gentleman, and he proved to be my best friend.”