“She said she represented the Amelia Earhart Foundation. Does that mean she’s working for Purdue University?”
“Naw. Purdue set up the Amelia Earhart
“You think she’s dead, Paul?”
He didn’t quite look at me. “Probably. I think she probably crashed into the sea. She bit off more than she could chew, Noonan missed the island, she was tired, and tried to land too high over clear water, or misjudged the distance and flew into a heavy roller. Either one would’ve killed them instantly.”
I didn’t tell him what I knew; the confidentiality clause in the agreement I’d signed with Uncle Sam precluded that. In fact, according to the terms of my contract, I hadn’t even been in California in 1937.
“But ‘probably’ isn’t ‘absolutely,’ is it, Paul?”
He nodded, gazed into his martini, as if an answer might be floating there. “She was a great lady,” he said. “It’s hard to let go.”
“Is that what this is about?”
“I should leave the particulars to the others,” he said. “Margot and the rest’ll be here soon enough.”
“This, uh, Amelia Earhart Foundation…. Does G. P. have anything to do with it?”
“Hell no!” Mantz’s chuckle was edged with bitterness. “Not with me involved.”
“You two were never exactly bosom buddies. Do I detect a further deterioration in the relationship?”
He sipped the martini. “Amelia and I were involved in several businesses, including my charter service. But we both signed a contract that gave the surviving partner the entire business. Gippy, as executor of the Amelia Earhart Estate, is suing for half, just the same.”
I frowned. “How the hell can there be an estate? Doesn’t it take seven years to be declared legally dead, anymore?”
Mantz raised an eyebrow. “Not if you’re married to Gippy Putnam. I don’t know what kind of strings he and his lawyers pulled, but Amelia’s been legally dead since late ’38, I think, or early ’39. Gippy’s been screwing over Amelia’s mother and sister, too, makin’ sure they don’t get a share.”
“He always was a classy guy.”
“Well, he’s scramblin’ for dough. The estate was smaller than you’d think, at least that’s what I hear. They had a lot of their own money tied up in the world flight. I heard he had to sell the house in Rye; the book ‘by’ Amelia, about the last flight, got rushed out but didn’t do so hot. You do know he remarried, don’t ya?”
“No!”
My response seemed to surprise Mantz, who shrugged and said, “Got a good amount of play in the papers out here.”
“Not in Chicago. Remarried…”
Mantz was nodding. “Last year about this time, to a good-looking brunette who got a divorce from a successful lawyer in town—one of these Beverly Hills housewives who hit the garden club circuit. I hear Gippy picked her up at one of his ‘Amelia’ lectures…that’s how he’s makin’ most of his money these days.”
“Didn’t take him long to get back in circulation.”
“Hey, just a few months after Amelia disappeared, he went off on one of his ‘expeditions’ and took this
“Jeez, Paul—you turned into a regular Hedda Hopper.”
That made him smile. “Hey, I figure you might enjoy the dirt on Gippy, since you love him about as much as I do.”
“Maybe more,” I said.
“Ah,” Mantz said, swiveling on his stool, “here’s our little party now….”
In a white frock with a cardigan collar and white buttons down to the navy and white polka-dot sash that served as her belt, pretty Margot DeCarrie had just entered the Cine-Gril, and behind and on either side of her were two well-dressed gents who each carried the unmistakable air of the business executive.
Margot—brunette hair longer now, a sea of curls nestled under a white beret—beamed upon seeing me; her cutie-pie heart-shaped face, its babyish mouth turned cherry red by lipstick, not to mention her Betty Grable frame, would have been the envy of many a starlet, white high-heel pumps doing nice things to her bare, untanned legs. She was hugging a patent leather bag under one arm, a small briefcase in her other hand.
“Nathan, it’s so wonderful to see you,” she said as she approached; some of the chirpiness had matured out of her voice. “Paul, I’m glad you could make it…. Nathan, this is Elmer Dimity, the manufacturer and inventor.”
This was said as if I was supposed to recognize the name, so I said, “Oh, yes.”
Dimity was solidly built and rather tall, in a dark suit whose lapels were trimmed with scarlet suede, and his scarlet tie bore a diamond stickpin, an ensemble that sent a mixed message of austerity and flash, solemnity and goofiness. His dark hair was combed back, his face a long oval, his nose a beak dropping over a small, indecisive mouth, his chin rather weak as well; but the eyes behind the wire-frame glasses were strong and alert, and his expression was open, friendly.
“Heard a lot about you, sir,” he said, in a somewhat high-pitched, clear voice.
We shook hands and there was power in it, but no showing off.
