Flight Dreams Read Free Page B

Chicago social circles—but still, the connection helps explain his interest in this story. What has me baffled, though, is why his interest is so sudden and intense. Nearly seven years have passed since the woman disappeared, I’ve written reams about the case, and Cain has never said boo … till today.”
    In a voice laced with mock suspicion, Roxanne says, “He’s up to his eyeballs in this, Mark. You’ve got three months to get the dirt, so start digging.” Laughing, she hands him the photo, then comments, “I’m surprised there’s such a thick file on the mystery woman.”
    Manning explains, “Obviously, she was something of a socialite, but she also enjoyed a measure of fame among cat-people as a top-ranked breeder.”
    “Really? What kind of cats?”
    “Some rare breed,” Manning replies, riffling through a pile of photos. “Here we are. Abyssinian cats. Look at this one—really a magnificent animal, something like a little cougar.”
    “My, yes,” Roxanne agrees. “Elegant.”
    “I’m driving up to Bluff Shores next week to interview Carter’s sister, Margaret O’Connor. I haven’t talked to her since the disappearance. She lives at the estate and looks after the cats. Maybe there’s an angle there.”
    “Are there any color photos of the cats?”
    “I think I saw one—must have been from the Sunday magazine. Here it is.” Manning shows Roxanne a picture of the heiress posing with a ruddy-colored cat next to a towering trophy declaring the animal a quad-grand champion. Helena Carter beams a victorious smile; the cat gazes, bored, directly at the camera. “How about that? Carter’s hair matches the cat’s. She must have dyed it that goofy red.”
    Roxanne peers at the photo. She shakes her head. “That’s not red dye, Mark. It’s a natural rinse that comes from a plant or an herb or something. Been around for centuries. It’s called henna.”
    “Whatever. And as long as I’m up at the estate, I also want to talk to Arthur Mendel, the houseman.”
    “What for? If you’re so convinced that Carter is alive, why waste your time with suspected ‘murderers’?”
    Manning explains, “Even though there is no known evidence of murder, if I’m to prove that the woman is alive, I must first satisfy myself that any possible suspects had no involvement in her disappearance. It’s a lot of grunt work. Truth is, I should have done it long ago.”
    “But you weren’t sufficiently motivated till this morning, right?”
    “Right.” He laughs. “Are you getting hungry?”
    Roxanne orders another drink, deciding to lunch on appetizers—hummus and raw kibbe. Manning has a lamb-and-couscous dish. During their meal, Roxanne brings Manning up to date on some accounting matters relating to the Carter estate, and they agree to meet again at her office.
    Roxanne says, “As long as you have your appointment book out—are you free next Friday, a week from tonight?”
    “Wide open,” says Manning, perusing his calendar, in which he has marked each date with a running countdown of the days remaining till New Year’s—a reminder that the clock is now steadily ticking toward his deadline. “My social life has been less than a whirl of late.”
    “Then do pencil me in. I’ll have an out-of-town houseguest, an artist friend from college, and I’m throwing a fabboo cocktail party to introduce him to my crowd.”
    “Him?”
    “Yes, Mark. He’s a friend. The party’s at my place—anytime after eight.”
    “I’ll be there,” Manning assures her, marking the date not in pencil, but in ink. Pausing a moment, he asks, “You’re sure this guy isn’t more than a ‘friend’?”
    “Don’t I wish!”
    The same afternoon, across the street from the Journal ’s offices on an upper floor of the Post building, Humphrey Hasting waits to see Josh Williams, the Post’s publisher. A flamboyant dresser, Hasting fusses with his bow tie—one of many that he always wears—a sartorial curiosity that