Flight Dreams (12 page)

Neil and Manning rejoin the crowd in the living room. The music convulses hysterically while bursts of laughter punctuate the beat. Clarice Stirkham’s head bobs with enthusiasm as she listens to Humphrey Hasting, who tells her, “I was at a party last weekend with my sister, and we had a little chat with Nathan Cain. He agrees entirely.”

She responds, “It’s so refreshing—”

Neil interrupts her briefly as he hands Hasting the drink.

“My, how
pretty,
” says Hasting, holding the glass before him as if it contained a rare wine.

Clarice Stirkham says to Manning, “I was just remarking to your distinguished colleague,” referring to Hasting with a courtly bow of her head, “how refreshing it is to find a journalist with a true and proper sense of social mission.”

Hasting giggles modestly, his free hand fluttering to straighten a pouffy red velvet bow tie. “I’m not all
that
progressive, Clarice. I’ve
yet
to master those damned computers at the office—I still write my stories on an ancient newsroom Underwood. It’s a bit banged-up, but it gets the job done.”

“Really?” Manning asks him, amused. “Every writer seems to have his quirks. I myself take notes with a fountain pen. I can’t stand using a ballpoint—it’s like writing with a nail.”

“Even so,” Clarice continues, “a great many of the ills facing our woe-ridden masses would be brought quickly into perspective if more journalists could fathom—as our dear Mr. Hasting does—the vast potential of the role they play in our complex social fabric. I
shudder
to think,” she says, forcing her torso to quiver while the bones of her necklace clatter menacingly, “I shudder to think of the sorry situation that would face us if
all
reporters limited their practice to …
reporting.
”

The music shrieks violently. Then a stunning shard of lightning explodes just beyond the windows. Someone drops a glass. Mary Klein screams. The lights flicker—a momentary outage sufficient to cause the CD player to mistrack, plunging the room into silence.

As the partygoers exchange disoriented glances, Humphrey Hasting finishes his drink with a burst of suction noises from his straw.

J
ERRY KLEIN, CHIEF OPERATING
officer of CarterAir, sits behind the big mahogany desk in front of a big window in his big office. The little man rises, curling his lips into a little smile as Manning is escorted into the room.

The reporter tells him as they shake hands, “I enjoyed getting to know you at Roxanne’s party last week. Thanks, Jerry, for taking time to see me.”

“My pleasure.” Klein gestures that they should sit. “I’m totally at your service. Anything to help solve this mystery.” Two ornately framed photos—one of the heiress, the other of company founder Ridgely Carter—are conspicuous among the few articles atop Klein’s clean desk.

Manning settles into his chair, flips open his note pad, and uncaps his pen. He’s had a few days to look into Klein’s background. The
Journal’
s business editor, as well as Roxanne, confirmed Manning’s impression of the timid man who was a protégé of Ridgely Carter and a close friend to Helena after she was widowed. Klein is regarded as a crack accountant, intellectually well qualified for the position that was thrust upon him, but only awkwardly suited to its trappings. During his seven years at the airline’s helm, he has grown to be an able administrator, but has never donned the mantle of leadership worn so naturally by his charismatic mentor.

Klein says, “Most folks assume Helena is dead, but
you
have doubts. I share those doubts, and I’m grateful for your persistence. I’m also sorry that your convictions have put you in such a fix with Nathan Cain.” Klein sees that Manning is surprised that he knows of the ultimatum, so he explains, “Nathan phoned to explain what had happened—he thought I’d be interested.”

Manning asks, “Do you know him well?”

“Only through the Carters, and they’re gone, of course. When Ridgely was alive, Nathan was a frequent guest at the estate, as I was, so we became well acquainted. But he’s always struck me as an odd duck, rather cold—not someone I’d choose to spend time with on my own, so we haven’t.” Klein pauses while Manning finishes making a note, then tells him, “Enough of unsavory subjects. We were talking about Helena. Have you learned anything at all that convinces you she’s alive?”

Manning breathes an exasperated sigh. “I got a fresh lead last week from Father Matthew Carey at Saint Jerome’s in Bluff Shores, but it didn’t pan out. Even though Carey wasn’t entirely forthright with me, I was intrigued by his story of a community of reactionary Catholics—it’s a little desert town called Assumption. Apparently Helena had an interest in this movement, so I did some checking of my own, to see if maybe she had gone there. I phoned Father James McMullen, who runs the town and reports to some cardinal in Belgium.”

“Cardinal L’Évêque,” says Klein.

“Right,” says Manning, surprised that Klein would know such a detail. “McMullen seemed flustered by my call, which heightened my suspicions. But when I suggested that he might have some knowledge of Helena Carter’s whereabouts, he got miffed and pointed out that the terms of Helena’s will are well known. ‘Her fortune will go to the mainstream Church,’ he told me. ‘What would be
my
motive for deception?’”

“What, indeed …” says Klein, deep in thought.

“I have to admit, he had me,” says Manning. “His logic was simple and airtight, so I apologized, hung up, and lost the only decent lead I had.” Refocusing their talk, he asks Klein, “How do
you
feel about the will?”

“It’s Helena’s money,” he answers with candor. “Personally, I don’t begrudge the Church—or the Federated Cat Clubs—her fortune. As COO of CarterAir, though, I don’t relish the intrusion of new partners in the business. They’ll most likely want to liquidate their assets, which means a public stock offering—and the inevitable complications that go with it.”

“It’s amazing that CarterAir has managed to remain private this long,” notes Manning. “The company has a long history of innovation and progressive management. I can appreciate your pride in it.”

“That was all Ridgely’s doing,” says Klein. “He built the company like a loving father. As a result, we’ve always enjoyed harmonious relations with our unions and have rarely been affected by strikes. He was constantly looking for new ways, little ways, to be better; during his last year with us, for example, CarterAir became the first airline to offer public phone service on every flight. Since then, the company has continued to thrive during a period when many other airlines have folded or been forced to merge. I recognize that my role here is essentially a caretaker’s, but I think I can take a measure of pride in knowing I’ve preserved what Ridgely worked so hard to build.”

“You certainly can,” Manning assures him. Then he asks, “As long as we’re on the topic of the company’s finances, would you be willing to get more specific on a few matters?”

Klein grins. “I’m sure you can appreciate that I wouldn’t normally be inclined to share a private company’s financial figures with the press. But these
are
unusual circumstances, and there’s nothing to hide. Even Hank Ferret, a damned tough lawyer appointed by the court to serve as Helena’s guardian
ad litem,
has been completely satisfied with our accounting. Besides, it seems only fair to supply you with the same information I gave the
Post.”

“What?”

“Humphrey Hasting was here yesterday,” explains Klein while pulling several bulging files from a drawer and presenting them to Manning for his perusal. Klein guides Manning through the material, pointing out significant documents, answering questions, ordering copies of spreadsheets from one of his secretaries.

Manning dutifully takes notes and arranges his own file of the copies he is given, but after a half hour of this number-crunching, he needs to come up for air. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Jerry, but I’m finding it hard to concentrate on all this. Something is troubling me. Humphrey Hasting—I can’t quite believe that he was actually here doing the grunt work of reporting. Either he’s turned over a new leaf, or I’ve badly misjudged him.”

Klein laughs, having wondered how long Manning would wait before questioning him about the other reporter’s visit. “The truth is, Mark, that Hasting didn’t give a damn about the financial. He rushed me through my report and shoved the spreadsheets into his briefcase like so much …
trash.
” Indignation colors Klein’s voice as he taps the folders on the desk. “These numbers represent the labors of thousands of people, spanning two generations, and he showed no interest whatever in the privileged information I offered him.” With uncharacteristic fire, he concludes, “The fat bastard!”

Relieved and amused, Manning asks, “What
was
he interested in?”

“Arthur Mendel, the houseman at the Carter estate.”

“Ahh …”

“Hasting kept pumping me for information about the man, regardless of where I steered the conversation. It was clear from his questions that he sees Arthur as a convenient scapegoat—a scheming, demented psychopath.”

“That sweet old guy?” Manning smirks at the notion, but recognizes that his attitude toward Mendel has been colored by knowledge of the gambling incident.

“It’s ridiculous, of course. Arthur has been with the Carters longer than I can remember. His loyalty is transparent to anyone who talks to him.”

“Hump wouldn’t think of
that
tactic, so I’d better drive up to Bluff Shores next week and talk to Arthur again myself.” Manning notes it on his pad, then tells Klein, “Hasting may have no appetite for your financials, Jerry, but I do. Shall we get back to them?”

“With pleasure.” Another half hour of amortizations and accruals, profits and losses, returns on investments—and Manning is fully satisfied with the sound management of both the airline and the Carter estate.

The secretary enters Klein’s office to deliver one last set of photocopies. “Mr. Manning,” she says, “Roxanne Exner just phoned and asked me to give you a message. She and a friend are scheduled for a social engagement at your apartment this evening, but she has a conflict and must cancel. She’s terribly sorry—and wonders if it’s all right for her friend to come alone.”

Manning coughs and covers his mouth—to conceal a grin—while saying to the woman, “Could you return a message for me, please? Ask Miss Exner to have Mr. Waite come over around eight.”

Why in hell didn’t I take care of this earlier? wonders Manning as he struggles to hang a painting that has leaned for months against a bare wall in his loft. It’s an oil—or is it acrylic? Such details are beyond him. In either case, it’s five feet square, and hanging it is not a one-man job, even with a good stepladder. He manages at last to slip the wire over the hook, checks the top edge with a level, then climbs down the ladder and steps back to pass judgment. He’s pleased. The windowless wall is at least twenty feet high. It needed
something.

Manning first noticed the painting in one of the little galleries off Michigan Avenue. Richly detailed, but with a restrained palette, it appealed to him at once. The dealer assured him that the artist was “significant” and that the painting, which would surely appreciate in value, was a wise investment. Now it hangs in its intended spot, lending a note of refinement to its sparse surroundings. “Nice,” says Manning aloud. Glad you like it, he reminds himself—it cost as much as a good used car.

He glances at his watch and confirms that he’s running late. It’s twenty to eight, and he suspects that Neil will be punctual. He stashes the ladder and tools in a closet, clears up some kitchen debris, and takes off his shirt as he heads toward the shower.

At one minute past eight, while Manning inspects the results of his grooming in a mirror, a buzzer announces that Neil, as predicted, is prompt. Unsure of what the evening may hold—even more uncertain of what he
wants
it to hold—Manning takes a deep breath, summoning courage, before crossing the apartment to answer the door. He swings it open and cannot control the goofy smile that spreads across his face. “Hi, Neil.”

“Hello there, yourself,” says Neil, stepping inside. He carries a couple of shopping bags and seems winded, explaining, “I decided to walk, and halfway here, it clouded over and threatened to pour.”

Manning takes one of the bags and leads Neil to the kitchen, where they unload the contents onto the counter. “You needn’t have brought all this,” says Manning, surveying an assortment of delicacies that includes fresh breads, paté, chocolate truffles, and several bottles of good wine.

“We didn’t know what you’d be serving,” says Neil, “and Rox felt guilty about canceling, so she stocked me up with goodies to offer as amends.”

“Too kind. Thanks to you both.” Manning stows some of the items in the refrigerator, then extracts from the freezer a bottle of Japanese vodka, offering, “Drink?”

“You temptress,” says Neil, laughing, while Manning performs the ritual of the orange peel.

As they clink their glasses, Manning says softly,
“Compai.
”

Neil winks at him. They taste their drinks. Then Neil asks, “Aren’t you going to show me around? What a wonderful space!”

Manning leads him away from the galley kitchen and into the main living area of the loft. Their footfalls reverberate in the big room. “The cement floor is not an urban ‘design statement,’” Manning assures Neil. “Nor is it entirely the result of a cash crunch. Truth is, I can’t decide how I want to finish it.”

“Then you’re wise to wait,” Neil tells him. “Sometimes your vision of a space has to evolve over time, and
this
space has tons of potential. It’s worth developing carefully, with sure steps. Meanwhile, you seem comfortable enough, and you’ve got plenty of room. There’s no hurry.” Pointedly, he adds, “It’s not as if you’ve got kids to raise here.”

“You
live alone, don’t you?” asks Manning. “Roxanne said you designed your own house. I’d like to hear about it.”