Flight Dreams

by Michael Craft

  “That’s right,” says Margaret, opening the cage. “But we just call them Al and Abbot. The long titles are their registered names; ‘Carter-Cat Abby’ is our cattery prefix. Here we go.” She pulls one of the kittens from the cage and hands it to Roxanne. “This is Abbot.”

  Roxanne holds the kitten awkwardly at arm’s length.

  Margaret coaxes the other kitten from the cage and hands it to Neil. “This is brother Al.”

  “Hello, baby Al,” Neil tells the kitten with a delighted, paternal grin that surprises Roxanne. “Ya bringin’ home lots of ribbons this weekend?” The little cat looks at him with sleepy gold eyes, purring in the nest of his hands. Al’s ears are enormous; his coat glistens; his body is lithe and long as a mink’s. “I’d say you’ve got a little champion here,” Neil tells Margaret while trying out Mrs. Ripley’s sausage-hold on Al.

  The kittens’ cage already sports an impressive variety of awards. Manning says, “I’m confused, Margaret. What do all these ribbons mean? In the judging we watched, it looked like everyone won—some of them several times over.”

  Margaret laughs. “The ribbons always confuse newcomers. You see, of the seven Abbies you watched, six were ruddies and one was a red—the colors are judged separately. Of the ruddies, four were toms and the other two, queens—they’re judged separately too. So a cat can place for best of breed, color, or sex, as a first, second, or third. But the only award that really counts is this one,” she says, fingering a bunting-striped ribbon that hangs among the others on Al and Abbot’s cage. “This is a winner’s ribbon. A judge can award it to any particularly fine specimen. In the FCCA, a cat’s status is determined by how many winner’s ribbons the animal accumulates from show to show. Before a cat receives one of these, it’s called a novice. After the cat gets its first winner’s ribbon, it’s known as an open. Four ribbons make it a champion, sixteen a grand champion, four-times-sixteen a quad-grand, and so on. Few cats get that far, only those that are seriously campaigned by their breeders. Abe—one of the cats that disappeared with Helen—was a champion many, many times over. Abe was the greatest Abby on record.”

  “Who got this winner’s ribbon?” asks Manning. “Al or Abbot?”

  “That one went to Abbot.”

  Neil says to the cat in his hands, “It must have been rigged, Al. We’d better demand a recount.”

  “Don’t worry about Al,” says Margaret. “He’ll do just fine. These kids have four judgings left.” She puts the kittens back into their cage, where they curl into a single ball of ruddy-colored fur. Then she suggests, “Why don’t you folks make yourselves at home and take in the rest of the show? I’m going to track down some missing friends. But don’t forget, Mark—I’d like for you to meet Timothy Chatman later.”

  “I won’t forget,” he assures her as she trundles off in search of old acquaintances.

  Neil tells Manning and Roxanne, “Let’s work our way up and down each aisle. That way we’ll be sure to see everything.”

  As the three of them begin strolling past the first row of cages, Manning remembers Roxanne’s attack of sneezes. “How are you feeling?” he asks her.

  “Much better, thanks. I took a double dose for starters—my trusty antihistamines never fail me.” She pats her purse.

  Manning thinks it’s risky to tamper with the dosage of a potent drug, but he keeps the opinion to himself, unsure of Roxanne’s mood today. Besides—what’s done is done.

  As they round a corner and begin to plod through the crowd in another aisle, Neil stops in his tracks. “Mark, look,” he says, pointing to the back of a rotund man leaning forward to fuss within a cage.

  Manning and Roxanne stare, incredulous. Gaping back at them is a corpulent rump sheathed in burgundy polyester. Roxanne, now pointing too, squeals, “It’s the Hump!”

  Humphrey Hasting does not hear her over the din of the exhibit hall. He continues fussing with something in the cage.

  “My God,” gasps Manning, perturbed, “what the hell is he doing here? I wonder if he’s on to something. Just look at him—snooping around like he owns the place.”

  “Relax, Mark,” says Roxanne, holding forth an open page of the catalog. “Believe it or not, Hasting is here to exhibit a cat. See”—she points to an entry on the page—“he’s showing a blue-point Himalayan.”

  “What’s that?” Manning asks testily.

  Roxanne states the obvious: “One way to find out.”

  Manning doesn’t relish the idea, but admits, “I suppose it would be childish not to say hello.”

  Neil tells him, “I really dislike that man. I’ll just keep my distance.”

  “Oh no you won’t, kiddo,” Manning chides him. “We’re all in this together.” He motions for the others to follow as he steps up behind Hasting. As if taken by surprise that very moment, he says, “Well, Humphrey Hasting! What a small world.”

  Hasting gapes at them, astonished. “Why, Manning …” he stammers, “of all people.” He breaks into a sweat, wondering whether Manning heard his accusations on the radio a few days ago. Then, recognizing Roxanne, “Miss Exner, so nice to see you again. And your college friend—Mr. Waite, I believe. Do you attend these shows often?”

  “No,” Roxanne answers for the group, “but we see that you do.” She gestures with the catalog toward Hasting’s exhibit.

  Hasting presumes he is off the hook. The color returns to his face as he waxes rapturous. “Let us leave all animosity at the door, my friends, lest we forget our sacred, fraternal bonding within the cat fancy. Yes, Fluffbudget and I have been entering all the local shows for years now.” He taps the cage lovingly. “Of course, she never wins anything, but we just keep trying, and I do enjoy the fellowship of the club. In fact,” he adds, squaring his shoulders with pride, “my increasing involvement with the federation has recently landed me a board position—I am national secretary of the FCCA—something of a tedious honor, I admit, but it does make good use of my note-taking skills.” His voice becomes suddenly indignant. “If those damned judges had any taste at all, Fluff would be a grand champion by now.” Then sliding again into sweetness, “Isn’t that right, darlin’?”

  The cat is aptly named—a breathing mound of off-white fur, its face and paws tipped with the cool gray known to cat fanciers as blue. It has a flat face with a punched-in snout and glistening black pellets for eyes.

  Fluffbudget’s cage is truly a home-sweet-home away from home, as attested to by a florid needlepoint sampler hanging on the back wall. Hasting proudly points out that they’ve won the award for best-decorated cage at every show they’ve entered. In the center of the cage is a cat-size four-poster bed of real brass. Its canopy and dust ruffle are of fine lace, its bedspread and pillows of smoky-blue velvet that accentuates Fluffbudget’s “points.” The front of the cage is framed by matching velvet curtains, tied back with tasseled silk cords. The cat will not go near the bed, but sits instead with a surly expression in its litter tray. Manning wonders if the cat prefers to sit among its droppings, or if Hasting has trained the shedding animal to keep off the velvet bedspread.

  “Come on, darlin’,” Hasting baby-talks the cat while opening the cage. “Let’s come out and show off our beautiful fur coat.” As Hasting yanks the disgruntled animal from its litter tray, Fluffbudget opens her mouth to meow in protest, but nothing comes out. Hasting displays the cat, holding it in his arms like a muff. “Isn’t she a sweetheart?”

  “My, yes,” Roxanne obliges.

  “That’s quite an animal,” says Manning, unwilling to be more specific.

  “She certainly is,” Hasting agrees, nuzzling Fluffbudget nose-to-nose. The cat tries to back off, seemingly embarrassed by its owner’s affection. “She’s due for another grooming,” adds Hasting, fingering the fur with a touch that suggests it needs a bit of work. “It won’t be long till her next judging.” He picks up a long-toothed metal comb and sets to the task of raking out the Himalayan.

  “Good luck, Hasting,” says Manning
as he, Neil, and Roxanne begin to wander farther down the aisle.

  “We’ll be rooting for Fluffbudget,” adds Neil.

  “Thank you, all,” says Hasting. “Enjoy the show.”

  Remembering something, Manning halts and turns back to tell Hasting, “By the way—enjoyed your performance on Bud Stirkham’s program Tuesday morning.”

  At the mention of the radio show, Hasting hits a snag in Fluffbudget’s coat. The cat bares its teeth and hisses at Hasting, who raps the cat’s head with the comb and hisses back at it, “Little bitch!”

  As soon as they are out of earshot, Neil tells his friends, “I don’t know how he can stand to touch that beast. Did you see the awful turned-up expression on its face? It looks like it just smelled a fart.”

  “And I think I just smelled a rat,” says Manning. “Hasting is on the board of the FCCA—his campaign to bring Arthur Mendel to justice is apparently less than altruistic.”

  Roxanne laughs. “I’ve no idea what any of you smelled, but after all that combing, I smell cat dander—which can be lethal.” She snaps open her purse, extracts a dose of preventive medicine, and pops the pill into her mouth, swallowing without water.

  Neil warns her, “Those aren’t candy, Rox.” Then he tells Manning, “I think we should get her out of here.”

  “I agree,” says Manning, “but I really ought to find Timothy Chatman before we go. Tell you what: You guys browse around while I go look for him. When I’m finished, we can go out for an early, leisurely supper. I know a place that makes the most incredible stuffed pizza. It’s something you should try, Neil, while you’re still in Chicago.”

  “Sounds good to me,” says Neil. “We’ve missed lunch, and I’m starved.”

  Roxanne agrees to the plan as well, so Manning walks off in search of Chatman, deciding it might be quickest to ask Margaret O’Connor where to find him. Heading toward the area of Al and Abbot’s cage, he sees Margaret gabbing with an aging, distinguished man who wears a tuxedo, looking absurdly out of place.

  Margaret spots Manning and waves him forward. “Mark,” she says, “what a coincidence. We were just going off to find you. This is Timothy Chatman, president of the FCCA.”

  The two men exchange pleasantries, then Manning says, “You’re looking very dapper for this crowd, Mr. Chatman.” He would not normally mention someone’s being overdressed, but the sartorial excess is so blatant that it seems intended to invite comment.

  Chatman chuckles. “I suppose I do overdo it, Mr. Manning. But the club gets a kick out of it, in light of my esteemed position,” he quips. “Besides, it’s about the only chance I have to get dressed up these days—not many of my friends are getting married anymore.” He smiles pensively, a wistful expression that dwells for an instant on lost youth.

  As they review some of the details of Chatman’s relationship to Helena Carter, Manning considers that Chatman has a vested interest in the resolution of the mystery—his organization stands to inherit millions under the terms of Carter’s will—which colors their conversation with new shades of meaning, with possible undertones, with motives for deception. Manning remembers his talk with Father Matthew Carey two weeks earlier. The priest was eyeing the prize, was not what he seemed, was not to be trusted. Yet this man, Timothy Chatman, is sincere, decides Manning. His judgment is confirmed when the old gentleman wishes Manning luck in finding the heiress, in bringing her back.

  Manning observes, “You still think of her as a friend.”

  “Indeed I do. I knew her when she first started breeding Abbies, which I’ve always been partial to. Helena Carter’s work advanced the breed beyond anyone’s expectations.”

  Manning pauses a moment before asking, “Do you think of Humphrey Hasting as a friend?”

  Chatman also pauses, unprepared for the question, then laughs. “Our new secretary is an avid enthusiast of the cat fancy, but he’s a … uh, rather unusual person. No, I can’t say that I count him among my friends. He’s certainly proven himself a friend of the federation, however, and I believe he must have been very friendly with Helena Carter. It was he who convinced her to include the federation in the ‘planned giving’ of her will.”

  “Really?” The conversation has revealed more than Manning expected, so he discreetly digs his pen and notebook from a pocket.

  “In fact,” says Chatman, “his timing was fortuitous, at least from a mercenary standpoint. Shortly after she added the federation’s codicil, she disappeared.”

  Trying to mask the significance he attaches to this new detail, Manning shifts the conversation, asking, “Since her disappearance, have you noticed any difference in the quality of Abbies being shown?”

  “Indeed. The breed has slipped appreciably, and it’s apparent to eyes less critical than mine. Good heavens, Helena Carter bred the cats against which all other Abyssinians are judged. When she disappeared—Abe and Eve with her—the only possible consequence was that future Abbies would suffer. It’s so disheartening, traveling around the country as I do, judging cats that represent the finest efforts of earnest breeders, only to find that my favorite breed has actually lost ground in our quest to produce the perfect cat.”

  Manning glances up from his notes and sees tears beginning to well in Chatman’s eyes.

  The old man clears his throat and continues, “There’s reason for cautious optimism, though. In the past year or two, some extremely fine specimens have been popping up in odd places all over the Southwest. Last month, for instance, I was judging a show in Albuquerque and came across a wonderful Abby kitten entered in the household-pet category, which means that the cat was neither registered nor pedigreed. A cat without a known ancestry is of no use in terms of advancing the breed, so I talked to the kitten’s owner, and he knew nothing of where the cat came from—it was a gift from a friend of a friend, or whatever. And what’s curious, Mr. Manning, is that every time I encounter one of these magnificent animals, I get the same story.”

  Chatman ponders the dilemma for a moment, then concludes, “It’s horribly frustrating.”

  By late afternoon, Manning, Neil, and Roxanne are settling into a dimly lit booth at the Italian restaurant where Manning is a fan of the stuffed pizza. Though they parked only a block away, Roxanne insisted on wearing her lynx coat from the car to the door. Once inside, she found no secure place to check the fur, so she asked the manager to keep it for her in his office, but her huffy manner made no points with the man, and she now struggles to roll the coat into a ball next to her in the booth. Though Manning was annoyed by the scene she created, he is pleased by the result—he and Neil are seated cozily next to each other across the table from Roxanne and her lynx.

  A waiter with an accent introduces himself as Gino, but Manning has a hunch it’s an act. They’re all in the mood for a drink. Manning and Neil order their usual straight vodka. Roxanne, claiming the need to ward off a chill, orders grappa in a heated snifter. “I want the good stuff,” she cautions the waiter, “not that Italian gasoline.” Gino nods his understanding and turns to go, but Roxanne calls him back. “And a bottle of Chianti for the table—let’s get this party rolling, gentlemen.”

  Once the drinks arrive (the wine hasn’t appeared yet, presumably being held for dinner), Neil asks, “Well, Mark? Did you glean the background you wanted from the cat show?”

  “More than I bargained for,” says Manning. “Humphrey Hasting’s history of involvement with the FCCA took me totally off guard. I’m not sure what to make of it, but it’s a whole new twist I’ll need to look into.”

  Roxanne swirls the snifter between her hands, telling Manning, “It seems you’ve uncovered quite a few new twists to this story. When you first told me about your predicament three weeks ago, you said that even though there was no known evidence of murder, you first had to satisfy yourself that any possible suspects had no involvement in Mrs. Carter’s disappearance. You called it ‘grunt work.’ Has it paid off?”

  “Not exactly.” Manning’s pensive tone is
laced with understatement. “Even though there’s still no hard evidence to convince me that Helena Carter was murdered, my investigation has raised more questions than it has answered.”

  “Such as?” asks Neil.

  “First,” says Manning, “why did Arthur Mendel and Margaret O’Connor order God-knows-how-many cubic yards of concrete poured on the grounds of the estate—in the middle of winter—within a week of Mrs. Carter’s disappearance? That’s suspicious enough in itself, but get this: Arthur once had gambling problems with the underworld of the horsey set, and Margaret had fears of being cut out of her sister’s will because of a sexual dalliance she’d had with Ridgely Carter.”

  “Ouch,” says Roxanne. She slurps a mouthful of grappa, swallowing hard.

  “Ouch is right,” says Manning, “but the plot—as they say—thickens. Let’s say for the moment, for the sake of argument, that Mrs. Carter was murdered. What would be the motive? The most obvious, of course, is money. So who has the most to gain? The Archdiocese of Chicago will be the big winner, and to a lesser extent, the Federated Cat Clubs. So we can cast suspicious glances at Archbishop Benedict or any of his minions—Father Matthew Carey, for instance, whom I caught in a lie regarding a minor point of Helen and Margaret’s family history. Or if it’s the cat-folk who have blood on their hands, we should question the motives of Timothy Chatman, president of the FCCA, or even Humphrey Hasting, who’s nutty enough that his involvement just might be plausible.”

  “Christ,” says Neil, shaking his head as if to clear his thoughts, “that’s a lot of loose ends. You’ve been led down a dozen different paths. There’s nothing to tie them together.”

  “But there is.” Manning crosses his arms.

  “Uh-oh,” says Roxanne.

  Manning tells them, “Nathan Cain, revered publisher of the Journal, seems to know everyone, and in fact he’s had recent conversations with nearly everyone I’ve talked to. It’s as if there’s a network of interrelated motives at work, a conspiracy. If that’s the case, it provides an explanation for Cain’s bizarre ultimatum to me, which seemed fickle at best. Or maybe the ultimatum simply was fickle—the flexing of a powerful man’s ego, no explanation required.” He pauses to sip his vodka, swallows, exhales. “I’m stumped.”