“Heavens, no,” Arthur answers, aghast at the thought. “After Mr. Carter helped me out, he never spoke of it again. Mrs. Carter knew about it, of course, and she was the type who got a kick out of needling me now and then, but that was just her way of trying to lighten the situation and make me feel better. As for Miss O’Connor, well … it was pretty clear that she disapproved of my gambling, and it was just as clear that she sort of resented Mr. Carter helping me out. But like I said”—he lowers his voice and leans across the table toward Manning—“she’d made a few problems of her own.”
Manning has stopped taking notes. In truth, he has been digging for nothing specific. He has conducted this rambling interview simply to get better acquainted with Arthur, to assure himself that Humphrey Hasting’s accusations are unfounded before proceeding with the investigation in his own direction. He caps his pen.
Arthur tells him, “Before you go, you might want to take a look at something. I got the strangest piece of mail yesterday.” Arthur pulls a lumpy envelope from inside his jacket, which at least partly explains why the suit fits so poorly.
Manning examines the envelope, which carries a Chicago postmark, but no sender’s address. He looks inside and finds it stuffed with cash, thousands of dollars in crisp bills. There is a typed note that reads, “For a good defense. More if needed.” It is not signed. The typewriter’s e’s have not been altered. There is no watermark. Returning the envelope to Arthur, Manning asks him, “Any idea who sent this?”
“Not a clue.”
Manning drums his fingers on the kitchen table, puzzling over the new development, then rises. “Would you mind walking me out to the cattery again? Something’s been on my mind since you first showed it to me a couple of weeks ago.”
Getting up from the table, Arthur tells him, “I’d be delighted. It’s not far from the back of the house. This way, please.” And he leads Manning out the kitchen door.
Crossing the lawn, Manning notes that the weather has improved considerably since his last visit. The lake is blue today, not gray, and the dry autumn air carries that nebulous sense of approaching harvest. Arriving with Arthur under the broad eaves at the juncture of the cattery building’s two wings, he is struck by the manicured perfection of the surroundings, and he wonders what other secrets have fractured the tranquility of this seemingly idyllic setting.
His musing is interrupted by Margaret O’Connor, who emerges from inside the cattery. She wears a bulky sweater and a garden hat to protect her from the chilly breeze. “Oh, Mark,” she says, surprised to see him, “I was just finishing my morning rounds. May I show you inside?”
“Thanks,” he answers, “but right now, I’m more interested in the exterior of this building—or rather, its construction.”
“Oh?” she says, closing the door behind her.
He turns to Arthur, explaining, “I’m curious about the foundations of the two wings—they’re different. One is made of brick.” He points to it.
Arthur nods. “Yes, the main wing of the cattery was built on the footings of the old stable. The shorter wing is entirely new construction, so it was built on a modern foundation of poured concrete—it doesn’t have the charm of the old footings, but it’s much more sturdy.” He gives it a kick with the toe of his shoe. “Built to last.”
Manning asks, “And the construction was under way at the time of Mrs. Carter’s disappearance?”
Margaret answers, “Yes, indeed. It was Helen’s pet project. What a shame she never saw it completed.”
“Do you remember,” asks Manning, “how much of the building was finished on that New Year’s morning?”
“Oh, Lord,” says Margaret, “I have no idea.”
Arthur volunteers, “I remember.” His expression has turned cold, and he continues without inflection. “The main wing was complete, and the shorter wing was just being excavated.”
Manning asks him, “When was the new foundation poured?”
“Shortly after. A week, maybe two.”
“That’s right,” says Margaret, remembering the details. “There was some confusion as to whether the project should even continue—because of Helen’s disappearance—but we knew she wanted the cattery built, and the equipment and such was already on the property, so we decided to forge ahead. I’m glad we did. Those were fretful times, and it gave us something else to think about. But tell me, Mark: Why do you ask? What difference does it make now?”
Manning gathers his thoughts and prepares to respond, but Arthur answers for him.
“He wants to know about our decision to pour the concrete because the timing looks bad for both of us.”
Saturday, October 24
69 days till deadline
“BUT I’LL FREEZE MY ASS off,” whines Roxanne.
“I don’t give a damn,” Manning tells her. “You’re not wearing that thing inside.”
“I’ve got to hand it to you, Rox,” says Neil from the backseat. “You add a whole new dimension to the concept of ‘politically incorrect.’”
It turned cold last night, the first hard freeze of the season. Manning’s car started grudgingly today when he left his apartment to pick up Roxanne and Neil for their trek to the cat show in the booming western suburbs. This weather won’t last, but the morning is still frosty. Even though the car is warm by now, Roxanne snuggles theatrically into the fulsome collar of a lavish lynx coat. She tells the men, “I didn’t know I was keeping company with animal-rights activists.”
“You’re not,” Manning assures her, “but it strikes me as a tad insensitive to flaunt your feline fur among a bunch of cat lovers—on their own turf, no less.”
“Ooga booga!” grunts Neil in a low caveman voice. “Great white huntress gird loins with cat pelts.”
Allowing herself to laugh at Neil’s clowning, she accedes, “All right. The coat stays—locked in the trunk. But I get to borrow one of your jackets for the run from the car to the building. Parking lots can be so nippy.”
Always the gentleman, Manning offers at once, “You can have mine.” He fails to mention that the amphitheater has indoor parking, but he does mention the topic that has dominated their conversation for the last half hour: “In return for this gallantry, may I assume that you agree to represent Arthur Mendel at the inquest?”
She pauses before answering. “Very well. Let me run it past my partners—I don’t think they’ll find a conflict of interest. But honestly, Mark, if I’m taking on a new client, it ought to be you.”
He breaks his steady driver’s gaze to turn and look at her wide-eyed. “Me?” he asks. “What’d I do?”
“Nothing, I assume,” she tells him calmly. “But Humphrey Hasting …”
“Roxanne.” His eyes are fixed on the road again. “It’s bad enough that Hasting manipulates the media for the sake of some half-baked social agenda; now he’s trying to manipulate the judicial system as well. Yes, he has a forum, but he’s blowing smoke. There’s no way he can turn his insinuations into substantiated charges.”
Neil says, “Hasting may be a jerk, but he’s a dangerous jerk, and I think you should heed Rox’s advice and prepare for the worst—just to be safe.”
Manning falls silent, as if intent on his driving, but in fact his mind is focused on Neil’s warning, on the possibility that Hasting’s contrivances could prove genuinely threatening. Manning’s New Year’s deadline is little more than two months away. If he’s to save his job, salvage his career, he has his work cut out for him. The last thing he needs right now is the nuisance of fighting off trumped-up litigation.
Roxanne and Neil’s chitchat lapses as the car banks into the curve of the exit ramp. With the amphitheater looming in the distance, Roxanne says, “You’ve gotten kind of quiet, Mark. Tell us something about this cat show. Neil and I are new to the game.”
“So am I,” Manning reminds her, “but I’ve done some research this week. Cat shows are held all over the country all year round. Today’s show is a big one—about three hu
ndred cats. Each show is sponsored by a specific cat club. There are many clubs in the Chicago area, and each is affiliated with one or more national organizations, of which there are seven or eight. The club sponsoring today’s show is affiliated with the Federated Cat Clubs of America. The FCCA, remember, is named as one of the heirs to the Carter estate, and I wouldn’t be surprised to find Margaret O’Connor here with some of her Abyssinians.”
Neil asks, “Will the animals be paraded?”
“No,” says Manning, “it’s not at all like a dog show. The FCCA maintains standards for each breed, and they train and certify judges for the shows. The cats are appraised solely as specimens. Behavior is irrelevant, and the judges don’t let an animal’s ‘personality’ color its evaluation.”
“Sounds kind of dull,” Roxanne tells him. “Is there anything in particular you’re hoping to learn?”
Manning thinks for a moment. “I’ve been trying for nearly seven years to figure out what makes Helena Carter tick. These shows were a big part of her life, and I’ve never been to one. It’s time to correct that. Also, it’s a good excuse for the three of us to get together before Neil flies home tomorrow.”
A loaded silence falls over the car, and Manning wishes he had not mentioned Neil’s departure. The early return to Phoenix has been prompted by a web of emotions that confuses and frustrates all three of them.
“I had my doubts,” says Neil, breaking the tension, “but this whole cat-show business is starting to sound interesting. I wish I knew more about the breeds, but then, this is probably the best way to learn.”
The car plunges into a dark tunnel that leads to the parking garage. Roxanne removes her big Jackie-style sunglasses. As her eyes adjust to the indoor lighting, she tells Manning, “I might have known. While I appreciate the chivalrous offer of your jacket, I thought it came too quickly.”
It is nearly noon, and the show is well under way, so the lot is almost full. Many of the parking spaces are occupied by vans with out-of-state plates, driven there by breeders with their cats, cages, and exhibit paraphernalia. Manning finds a spot, helps Roxanne stow the lynx in the trunk, and removes his sportcoat, which she dons like a cape, its arms hanging limp.
Neil cracks, “Broad shoulders become you, Rox.”
Grinning, she assumes the lead to the elevators and swaggers off à la Joan Crawford, heels snapping at the cement floor.
The threesome enters the hall, paying admission in the lobby. Each gets the back of one hand rubber-stamped with a paw print that allows its wearer to leave and return without paying again. Manning buys a copy of the show catalog—a daunting booklet of computer-printed lists—and gives it to Neil, asking him to try to figure it out.
Roxanne sneezes.
The exhibit hall itself is a single vast room, a utilitarian space with no pretense of decor. The main expanse of its floor is set up with row after row of numbered tabletop cages. Neil notices that these exhibit numbers are also found in the catalog, which lists each cat by lineage, owner, and breeder. The people who are showing the animals stand near the cages or sit on lawn chairs. Some listen to radios. Some drink or eat. Others groom their cats or fuss with cutesy decorations within the cages. The general confusion is compounded by the constant milling of spectators up and down the aisles. The animals make little if any noise, and the room is surprisingly odorless—for a space containing three hundred cats.
Roxanne sneezes again.
Along the far wall are five judging rings—not really “rings” at all, but called that by tradition. Each consists of a long judging table with a raised platform at its center. In back of the table are about a dozen numbered cages; in front are two rows of folding chairs to accommodate onlookers. A droning loudspeaker calls cats by breed and number to each of the rings. Each cat will eventually be seen by all judges. Owners and breeders whisk cats in their arms from the cages in the aisles to the cages in the rings, announcing, “Cat coming through,” parting the crowds.
Again Roxanne sneezes, this time with a blast that makes her nose drip.
“Are you okay?” asks Manning, remembering Roxanne’s history of allergies. “Do cats bother you?”
“Afraid so,” she answers, fingering a blurry gum from the corner of one eye. “But I brought my pills. I’ll be shipshape in a minute. Excuse me,” she says, taking her leave, wandering off in search of a ladies’ room.
Neil tells Manning, “Rox never mentioned that she was allergic to cats. Why on earth would she want to come here?”
“Because we’re here,” Manning says without comment.
Neil nods, enlightened.
The loudspeaker dryly calls the numbers of seven Abyssinians to one of the rings for judging. “Come on,” says Manning, jerking his head in the direction of the ring. “I’d like to see this.”
They jostle through the crowd and arrive at the judging area as the owners deposit their paged Abyssinians into the numbered cages. The two rows of chairs are already filled, so Manning and Neil stand.
The judge, Mrs. Ripley, is a buxom lady with stiff silver hair. She chats with her two assistants—a younger man and woman who sort through a pile of carbon forms that will record results of the judging. Ribbons of different colors and sizes are arrayed along the front edge of the table. Manning assumes that these ribbons will be awarded throughout the weekend’s show—there are seemingly far too many for the seven cats now assembled.
“What utterly beautiful animals,” Neil says sotto voce to Manning, beguiled by the cats.
With cats, spectators, and carbon forms assembled, the judging begins. Mrs. Ripley goes to the first cage, opens its door, and pulls out the cat. She holds it like a big sausage, one hand between its forelegs, the other grasping its hindquarters. Manning has never seen a cat held this way, but the animal doesn’t mind—in fact, it seems content and docile. The matronly woman looks into the cat’s eyes, coos at it, then clutches it affectionately to her chest—the way any layman would hold a cat. She places it on the little platform in the center of the table. A gooseneck lamp shines on the animal at close range. Still holding the cat with both hands, Mrs. Ripley runs her fingers through the fur, examining the quality of the coat as she parts it to reveal the vivid apricot of the undercoat near the skin. When satisfied that the animal will not bolt, the judge lets it stand freely on the platform, displaying its stance, its “conformity to type.” She picks up a peacock feather and waggles it before the cat. With eyes following it alertly, the animal paws and snaps at the gaudy plume. The judge again picks up the cat in the strange sausage-hold, displaying the animal at different angles to herself and to the onlookers. She deposits the cat back into its cage and returns to the table, where she makes a few brief notes on one of the forms. Without comment, she plucks a ribbon from the table and hangs it on the cat’s cage; there is no discernible reaction from those watching. Mrs. Ripley spritzes her hands and the platform with disinfectant, wipes up with paper towels, then goes to the second cage and begins again.
Manning and Neil look at each other with quizzical glances.
The judge works her way through all seven cats, exhausting the supply of ribbons while her clerks record the results. Some cats receive as many as three ribbons; two receive none. Occasionally Mrs. Ripley chuckles with her audience when one of the animals engages in some antic or another, but the whole proceeding is otherwise carried out in silence. Finally, one of the clerks announces, “The Abbies can return now,” and their owners step forward to retrieve their cats and booty.
Manning and Neil are about to leave in search of Roxanne when Manning notices Margaret O’Connor rising from her seat in the front row.
“Margaret!” calls Manning. “I wondered if I’d see you here.”
“Why, Mark,” she says, bustling toward him, “I didn’t think for a minute that I’d see you here.”
After introducing Neil, Manning says, “You got me interested in Abbies, so I wanted to check out your competition. Are you showing today?”
Manning peers across the room toward the last judging ring. Through the bobbing heads, he can see a figure who he assumes to be Chatman. He tells Margaret, “I’d like that very much, but first, why don’t you show Neil and me your kittens?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” she says with a playful smile, leading the two men down a nearby aisle.
As they approach the cage that houses Margaret’s kittens, Manning is surprised to see Roxanne already standing there, peeping at the animals while checking details in her own copy of the show catalog, which she must have bought while returning from the rest room. He tells her, “I see you’re one step ahead of us.”
“Mark,” says Roxanne, turning, “look who’s here today.” She points to the cage with one hand and holds out the open catalog with the other. “These are Carter’s sister’s cats.”
“And this,” says Manning, ushering Margaret forward, “is Carter’s sister.”
Roxanne blushes, stifling a laugh, while Manning introduces her to Margaret O’Connor.
“That-a-girl,” Margaret tells her. “I’m glad to see you know how to use your catalog. Want to meet my babies?”
“Of course,” Roxanne answers, mustering a show of enthusiasm to offset an allergy-inspired wariness. She traces her index finger down a page of the book. “Let’s see,” she says, all business, “one is Carter-Cat Abby Albert, and the other is Carter-Cat Abby Abbot. They’re five months old.”
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