Something Italian—something frivolous and operatic—warbles from the radio and fills the car’s chilly interior, a contrast that Manning finds more irritating than uplifting. The motors of the windshield wipers whir with each swipe of the blades, syncopated with the tempo of the music. Mercifully, the aria climaxes and dies.
“Good morning, friends and neighbors, wherever you are …” It is the drawling radio voice of Bud Stirkham, a local commentator cut from the same philosophical cloth as Humphrey Hasting. In contrast to Hasting’s eloquently affected manner, though, Stirkham’s gravelly style is that of a down-home aw-shucks man of the people.
“… and if the crisis in Ethiopia isn’t enough to shake your faith in international diplomacy, just look at the antics of officials here at home in their clumsy efforts to snag airline heiress Helena Carter’s killer. This spirit of apathy and indifference extends even to the Chicago Journal, which historically prides itself as watchdog of the public interest …”
“Ranting demagogue,” Manning mutters to the radio as he switches it off. Shaking his head as if to clear it of Stirkham’s words, he slows the car at an intersection, peering through the rain at a street sign. He turns off Sheridan Road onto a quiet thoroughfare that leads him past unmarked roads to the vast, secluded estates perched on the lakefront.
Manning slows the car as it approaches a driveway marked by a white rail fence and a country mailbox labeled with block letters: CARTER. Turning onto the winding drive, he is struck by how flawlessly everything is maintained—fencing, ornamental trees, beds of fall flowers. Things have certainly been kept in order, as if for Helena Carter’s imminent return. Rounding a curve of the wooded drive, he finds himself in view of the house, the lake, and a widespread freshly mowed lawn that glows electric green against the blur of a dark sky.
Parking near the front of the house, Manning checks the pockets of his trench coat for pen and notebook before stepping out into the rain. He ducks into his collar, dashes to the door, and rings the bell. As he waits, the lake roils beyond.
When the heavy enameled door at last cracks open, a stooped man in his sixties peers out for a moment, then swings the door wide, saying, “Good morning, Mr. Manning. We’ve been expecting you.”
Manning steps into the checkered-tile entry hall and removes his coat. He fumbles in the pockets for his pen and steno book, studying the little man as they exchange small talk. A uniformed butler would fit this setting to a tee, but the man is dressed in freshly pressed work clothes—chambray shirt and wash pants. His manner is friendly and homey, not the least pretentious. Then Manning remembers. “You’re Arthur Mendel,” he tells the man. This is the nefarious houseman, the cunning majordomo whom Humphrey Hasting seems determined to bring to justice.
“I’m flattered that you remember,” says Arthur. “It’s been nearly seven years. And the day you were here, the day after Mrs. Carter disappeared, things were a bit hectic.” Chuckling at his own understatement, he takes Manning’s coat and leads him through the house, saying, “Miss O’Connor was happy to get your call. She’s waiting for you in the parlor.” Arthur opens a paneled walnut door to let Manning pass, closing it behind him.
The room is intimate in scale, designed for small groups of guests. Comfortable stuffed furniture faces a hickory fire framed by a mantel of coral-streaked marble. On a low table before it, a silver coffee service reflects the flames. Two cups and saucers flank a tray of pastries.
“I didn’t know if you’d have eaten,” says a voice, its speaker hidden by the chintz-covered wings of a plump chair. “I get the impression that young people don’t bother with breakfast.” Margaret O’Connor, sister of the missing heiress, rises to face her visitor, offering her hand as he steps forward. She is a small woman, tastefully dressed—perhaps too formally for the early hour. Her hair has been freshly, primly coiffed, with no attempt to hide the gray that now ousts the brown.
“You’re too kind, Miss O’Connor,” Manning tells her, taking her hand.
“Won’t you please call me Margaret, Mr. Manning? I find ‘Miss’ a touch unbecoming for a woman of my age.” She winks at him.
By Manning’s calculation, she is only forty-eight years old, eight years younger than her sister, but she does, in truth, exude a spinsterly air. He is charmed by her candor. “I’d be delighted, Margaret. Please call me Mark.”
“I’d like that very much,” she answers, patting his hand. “May I offer you anything?”
“Just coffee, thank you.”
They settle themselves, she serves, and they relax for a moment before beginning the interview. “Will you mind if I take a few notes?” Manning asks, opening his book.
She dismisses the question with a wave of her hand. “Of course not. That’s why you’re here.”
A cat appears from around the base of Manning’s chair, brushing the length of its body along his cuff. Its huge gold almond-shaped eyes look up at him; Manning’s green eyes stare back at the animal. The cat’s dense brown fur seems vibrantly orange in the glow of the fire. Each hair is tipped with darker shades of brown or black, like the coat of a wild animal. Its lithe body, long front legs, and big tufted ears give the cat a regal, hieroglyphic bearing. It cocks its head and emits a quiet, inquisitive meow.
“That’s the cat,” says Manning, transfixed by the animal’s gaze.
“What cat, Mark?”
“The cat in the magazine with your sister—when they won the big award.”
“Heavens no,” Margaret tells him with a laugh. “That was this cat’s grandfather. He’s gone. This is Fred.”
“Fred?” he asks with a tone suggesting he expected something more exotic. He leans forward and extends a hand to stroke the cat’s head. Fred nuzzles forward, erupting into a well-tuned purr. At that moment, a second cat appears from behind the chair.
“And who’s this?” Manning asks.
“Ethel.”
“Married?”
“No,” says Margaret, feigning shock. “They’re brother and sister!”
They both laugh heartily while Fred and Ethel explore Manning’s shoes. Finding little worth sniffing, the cats turn their tails to Manning and drop themselves in front of the fire, Fred sprawling, Ethel curled.
“They’re beautiful,” says Manning. “I’ve never seen an Abyssinian—at least not until last week when I saw that magazine picture.”
“I’m not surprised,” she tells him. “Abyssinians are still rare. The breeding is controlled, and the litters are small.”
Manning sips his coffee. A burning log shifts in the grate and pops, spraying sparks, breaking a momentary lull. Manning tells Margaret, “Your home is in a much calmer state than when I last saw it, the day after the disappearance.”
“Oh, I remember it well. Such a commotion it was,” she tells him, fluttering both hands. “I was in something of a state that day. What with the shock and the uncertainty and the police and the lawyers and reporters—no offense, Mark, but it was an ordeal.” She thinks for a moment, then adds, “You, however, were very considerate.” She reaches over and pats his knee.
“I’m glad to hear that I behaved myself.” He finishes his coffee and sets the cup on the table. “Tell me, Margaret. It’s been nearly seven years since Helena disappeared. Surely you’ve given the mystery a lot of thought. Do you have any idea what may have happened?”
She sighs demurely, shaking her head. “I’m afraid I don’t. So many people seem so sure that Helen is dead, sometimes I almost wish I could believe that—‘closure,’ you know. But I simply can’t imagine why anyone would want to harm Helen. Sure, there’s the money”—she gestures vacantly at their surroundings—“but it hasn’t done anyone any good.”
“If she’s not dead, where do you think she might be?”
“I don’t have any idea at all. Not anymore.” She pauses in thought. “I used to have a … theory, but it was only an empty hunch.”
“What was it?”
“It seems silly now. I’d pre
fer that you not write about this.”
Manning sets his pen and notebook on the table.
Margaret tells him, “I’m sure you already know that Helen was very religious. I found it amazing—sort of inconsistent—that she could combine her staunch faith with so many worldly interests. Actually, I thought she took the whole church thing a bit too seriously, but that’s not an opinion I felt I could express to her.
“We were, of course, brought up Catholic. Papa was a railroad man—a hard worker and a good looker and a pretty good drinker too. All told, he was a fine father. He always showed real love and affection for Mama, Helen, and me. But he wanted a big family. After the twins were gone, Mama just put her foot down and said she was through trying. Well, that never set well with Papa, and we always sensed that he felt sort of cheated. We were comfortable enough, living down near the rail yards, but never what you’d call ‘well off.’ I think he hoped that another child—a son—might grow up to be a doctor or a professor or maybe a tycoon, and that would have made him the happiest man around.”
She pauses a moment, picks up her coffee cup, then returns it to the table without drinking. She tells Manning, “He seemed to take comfort in the church. It was a lasting force of goodness in his life, as it had been for his father when he came over from Ireland. He took the church much more seriously than Mama, which Helen and I found kind of strange because it was just the opposite in all our friends’ families.
“As we were growing up, Mama used to sit down with Helen and me after school sometimes, before Papa got home. She’d explain things to us—woman things, you know. She’d put on a big grin and tell us that even though Papa wanted a rich, successful son, there was no reason he couldn’t have rich, successful daughters. She’d explain how hard it was for a woman to make any kind of business success out of herself—and in those days, it was true. But then she leaned real close to tell us a secret. Helen and I listened with eyes as big as saucers while she told us how we could be successful in a way that would do Papa proud. Pretty little girls like us, she said, should have no problem going out and finding a couple of nice, rich husbands. Helen and I giggled and bit our knuckles, it all sounded so naughty.”
She picks up the cup again, sips from it, then holds it in her lap, coddling it with both hands. “Well, I don’t have to tell you that Helen managed to go out and do exactly what Mama said. I tried, too, but was never so lucky. When Helen found Ridgely Carter, Mama told her that she should call herself Helena because it sounded more sophisticated. Papa died before the wedding. Helen moved out when she married, of course, so I ended up staying home with Mama. Money wasn’t a problem. We had Papa’s railroad pension, and Helen was always generous when any special need came up. Then Mama died. That was the end of the pension. I was uneducated, unemployed, and—at thirty, I assumed—forever single.”
Margaret returns her cup to the table, setting it in its saucer with a decisive clank. “So Helen and Ridgely took me in. They were always sweet about it, but I couldn’t help feeling that I had invaded their home. ‘Nonsense,’ Ridgely used to tell me, ‘with all the guests and hired help we have around here, we’ll hardly even notice another face in the halls.’ And he was right. Those were good years, while Ridgely was alive. Helen married him for his money—make no mistake about that—but he loved her from the start, and her love for him grew and grew as the years went by. It was a happy home, mostly, in spite of that nasty episode with Arthur’s gambling. Ridgely was wonderful, always. He tried to teach us all something about managing money. It’s a good thing he did—when he died, Helen got everything.
“She’d been religious all her life, and Ridgely’s death seemed to boost her zeal. It’s funny. Mama always said we had to marry rich—and Helen did. Papa always said we had to keep our faith—and Helen did. I don’t know if Helen was accommodating, clever, or just plain obedient. She was clever, smart as a whip, got top marks in school. I was a little awed by her; it seems I’ve always lived in her shadow. She’s eight years older than me, and when you’re a child, that’s a big difference. She was kind of a second Mama. Now that she’s gone, it’s left to me to look after her house and take care of her cats.”
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.”
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