Flight Dreams (33 page)

In a loft near the park, overlooking Lake Michigan, Manning and Neil work in tandem to position the antique Biedermeier console along a wall beneath the contemporary painting by Clarence Bird. Stepping back to inspect the new arrangement, Neil proclaims, “Perfectly mated.”

“They were
made
for each other,” Manning agrees.

Some of Neil’s furniture was shipped to Chicago earlier this week, and he and Manning have spent recent evenings dressing up the all-but-raw loft space. It’s a temporary decorating scheme, a stopgap till summer, when the interior construction project will get under way. The floors are still bare concrete, but the place is starting to feel like home—for both of them.

“She’ll be here any minute,” says Neil. “Are you sure this is a good idea?”

It’s just past six on a Friday night, and Manning has invited Roxanne over for drinks after work. The three of them have not socialized since Neil’s permanent arrival in the city in February, when he was transferred to his architectural firm’s Chicago office.

“I mean,” Neil continues, “she might think we’re trying to rub it in.”

Facing him squarely, Manning places his hands on Neil’s shoulders and tells him, “She’ll be fine. She’s already dealt with ‘us.’ Now we need to deal with
her.
She’s been a great friend to both of us—and hey, we owe her a lot. I thought she’d enjoy seeing a semblance of order here before this place gets completely torn up, and I could tell from her voice that she was happy to be asked.”

Neil hugs Manning. “Okay,” he says over Manning’s shoulder, “you’re right. But it’s a little awkward.”

“How so? Ashamed to be seen with me?”

“Hardly!” Neil takes Manning’s face into both hands and kisses him. His tone turns suggestive: “Do you suppose we’ve got time … ?”

But the door buzzer squelches Neil’s carnal notion.

It is indeed Roxanne, who makes a grand entrance wearing a fur-lined trench coat and a big-brimmed hat. Neil takes her coat, but she keeps the floppy hat, which seems attached to a new hairdo. If she harbors any grudges, they’re not evident, and it’s clear from the outset—from their instantly animated discussion—that the three friends have a lot of catching-up to do.

She asks Manning, “When did they chisel that cast off your arm?”

“Weeks ago,” he tells her, stretching and flexing his mended limb. “Good as new.”

“Before we settle in,” Neil says to Roxanne, “can I get you something?”

“Just water, thanks. But don’t mind me, boys—the cocktail hour is nigh.”

Manning offers, “I think we’ve got a Pellegrino. Maybe a club soda?”

“Whatever,” she says. “The important thing is, we’re all here.” She strikes a pose against the Biedermeier console, the rakish rim of her hat juxtaposed against the oil painting. Sobriety has been good to her—she looks fabulous.

Neil fetches their drinks, and Manning suggests they get comfortable on some of the new furniture (new to him, anyway). “I’m not used to living with upholstery,” he quips. “What a luxury.”

When they are all seated, Roxanne offers a toast. “To your new home—and your new life together.” It’s a gracious gesture, but with bittersweet overtones. After they drink, there’s a clumsy pause.

Changing the subject, Roxanne tells Manning, “I see that your pal Brother Burt is back in the news.”

“From behind bars, no less.” Manning shakes his head. “It seems the charges just keep mounting. Most serious, of course, is the murder of his fellow seminarian. Then there’s his attempt on
my
life. And now he’s under investigation for fraud—one of those ‘Expose the Right’ watchdog groups figured out that his so-called ‘ministry’ was no more than a fund-raising machine for the strictly
political
agenda of the Christian Family Crusade. His connections appear to run so deep and so dirty that he just may bring down the whole organization.”

“And did you hear how they figured it out?” asks Neil. His tone is gleeful, his expression beaming.

“Something to do with his cable program,” says Roxanne, whirling a hand as she tries to remember the details. “Wasn’t there a … mishap?”

“
I’ll say.
” Neil licks his lips before continuing. “Brother Burt was arrested here in Chicago on December thirty-first. His weekly cable show,
The Holy Altar of Mystic Faith,
was scheduled for live broadcast the next day, New Year’s, from Phoenix. So Miss Viola had to go solo, attempting to explain to her followers how their archdeacon had managed to land himself in the slammer. At the start of the program, she always descends from the ‘heavens’ on this chintzy crescent moon, but that night, something went wrong. The smoke machine, the mechanical angels—everything was out of whack. Miss Viola’s moon was within a few feet of landing on the floor, when it lurched. She carries this cat, and it freaked. It leaped from her arms, and in midair, snatched the wig off her head! So then
she
freaked and jumped off the cardboard moon. In her scramble to get out of camera range, she snagged her gown on the moon’s pointy tip, ripped off her skirt, and ran screaming from the studio in a pair of black lace panties.”

Neil laughs so hard, he can barely talk, so he pauses before explaining, “It was such a hoot, the tape aired everywhere on network news. That’s how it came to the attention of the watchdog group.”

“Talk about a fortuitous blooper,” says Roxanne.

Catching his breath, Neil tells her, “And they
still
don’t know what went wrong. There’s an electronic console that runs the program’s gadgetry, and the CFC issued a statement that the device may have been tampered with. ‘An unknown saboteur,’ they moaned, ‘has scuttled the Crusade’s holy war against the powers of perversion.’”

Manning smiles sheepishly.

Roxanne asks him, “Have you stayed in touch with Helena Carter?”

Eager to switch topics, Manning tells her, “After our splashy court appearance, and then my series of stories about Helen, I was on the phone with her every day for a while, but that tapered off. Now she’s traveling the cat-show circuit again, with Margaret and Arthur in her retinue. She seems to have forgiven Margaret for that long-ago fling with Ridgely; Margaret, in turn, has forgiven Helen for pulling her seven-year stunt. You might say they’ve traded transgressions.”

“All’s well that ends well,” says Roxanne. “How’s Arthur adjusting?”

“Arthur is … well,
Arthur.
He’s still the loyal manservant, good-natured as ever, in spite of Humphrey Hasting’s attempts at character assassination.”

“I’d almost forgotten about the Hump,” says Neil. “We haven’t heard much from
him
lately.”

“Nor are we apt to,” says Manning. He can’t help grinning as he tells them, “His sister—wife of the
Post’s
publisher, you’ll remember—sentenced him to Siberia in one of their suburban bureaus. Elgin, I think.” Manning chuckles. “Writing obits.” He explains through a laugh, “That’s about as low as you can go.” He laughs even harder, having thought of something. “I hear they even drummed him out of the cat club.”

“Poor Fluffbudget,” says Neil, “innocent victim of her master’s sordid past.”

Roxanne leans forward to refill her glass from a green bottle. Cocking her head to eye Manning from under the brim of her hat, she says, “Speaking of publishers, you’ve been skirting the topic of—”

“Nathan Cain,” Manning finishes the sentence for her, no longer laughing.

“You had a lot of suspicions about him,” Roxanne reminds Manning. “Obviously, he didn’t murder or abduct Carter—no one did—but do you think he knew more than he was letting on? After all, he’s so …
connected.
”

Manning sighs. “I was getting paranoid, that’s all. Cain’s quirkiness fed that paranoia. Yes, his ultimatum seemed inscrutable, but let’s face it, he’s an odd man. I guess he was just
pushing
me. He’s taught me a lesson too. It should have been self-evident, and I won’t forget it: Never let objectivity be clouded by speculation.”

Neil offers, “He’s really not such a bad guy, Rox. When Mark solved the case and got the story, Nathan Cain was the first to admit he was wrong. Mark got the page-one series, a nice bonus—”

“Plus,”
says Manning, “the Partridge nomination. The forms went up to Cain’s office this afternoon.”

“Congratulations,” says Roxanne.

“That’s a bit premature,” Manning cautions her. “It’s only a nomination. Coming from Cain, it’ll have extra weight, but the decision rests with the national committee, and I’ll be up against the stiffest competition in my field.”

Roxanne rolls her eyes. “You’re a shoo-in, Mark.”

“Maybe,” he admits.

The buzzer interrupts their conversation.

“Oh?” says Roxanne, looking toward the door. “I thought it was ‘just us’ tonight.”

“It
was,”
Manning assures her.

“I’ll get it,” says Neil, rising. He crosses the single vast room, leaving Manning and Roxanne to talk.

They don’t, though. Their eyes follow Neil to the door.

He opens it and tells someone in the hall, “Yes, he’s here.” Then Neil signs for something, closes the door, and returns with a document-size package. Handing it to Manning, he says, “They sent a messenger from your office.”

“Ahh,” says Manning, picking at it, “this must be the Partridge Prize nomination. My editor knew I’d like to have a copy—thoughtful of Gordon to send it over.”

Manning’s eager expression changes to one of curiosity, though, as he opens the large envelope and finds another one within. “No …” he says, “this has nothing to do with the coveted Brass Bird. It’s a FedEx, addressed to me at the
Journal.
From a lawyer’s office. In Wisconsin.”

He’s got the second envelope open. He skims the document within. Then his eyes pop.

Neil asks, “Well?”

“For Christ’s sake,” snaps Roxanne, “what
is
it?”

Manning drops the paper to his lap. “An uncle of mine died. He’s left me his house in central Wisconsin. I saw it only once, when I was a kid, and I was spellbound by it. The place is a whopper—I’m sure it’s worth plenty.”

“Wow,” says Neil. “Your uncle had no kids?”

“As a matter of fact, he had three.”

Roxanne asks, “Then why would
you
inherit the house?”

“I’m not sure,” says Manning. “I have an inkling.” He pauses, smiles. “But that’s a whole other story.”

Turn the page to continue reading from the Mark Manning Mysteries

by Mark Manning


Journal Investigative Reporter


J
UNE 22, 1999, CHICAGO, IL
—Dr. Pavo Zarnik, the renowned astrophysicist who was named director of Chicago’s Civic Planetarium just three weeks ago, stunned the scientific world late yesterday when he announced his discovery of a tenth planet in Earth’s solar system.


Issuing a prepared statement, he told the press, “This tiny, remote body is of course not directly observable, but its existence has been verified by a computer model that accounts for minute anomalies, or perturbations, in the gravitational fields of Neptune and Pluto.”


Planet Zarnik is said to orbit the sun at a distance of 7 billion miles, roughly twice the distance of Pluto, with the Zarnikal year lasting more than 600 Earth years. But because its equatorial diameter is less than 1,000 miles, compared to Earth’s 8,000 miles, it spins through a day in about two Earth hours. The planet is said to be solid, not gaseous.


Reaction from other experts came quickly. A spokesman said that NASA would not recognize the new planet until Dr. Zarnik’s claims have been independently verified. Replicating Zarnik’s complex computer model would take months under ideal circumstances, but because of funding setbacks, the research could take much longer.


Although news of the discovery has been met with broad skepticism, none of the critics has questioned Dr. Zarnik’s professional integrity in making the claim. The NASA spokesman conceded, “The man’s credentials are impeccable.”