by Dorien Grey
“They’re his,” he said. “He wants them. He’s entitled to them. But if you’re somehow implying he’d push somebody down a flight of stairs to get them, you’re out of your mind.”
Actually, I hadn’t been implying that at all…at least not consciously. And even while it might be an interesting thought, it was also more than a little unlikely that pushing one employee down a flight of steps might convince the Burrows Foundation to give up the papers.
CHAPTER 7
By the time I’d hung up with Zach Clanton, I just barely made it to Etheridge’s by twelve fifteen. Being across the street from City Hall, the place was crowded, as always, with lawyers, clerks, and City Building office personnel on their lunch hour, but fortunately Glen O’Banyon apparently had a permanently reserved table and I was surprised to see he was already there.
“Well, this is a first,” I said as I slid into the booth, reaching across to shake hands.
“Just got here,” he said. “Court got out a few minutes early, which happens about once in every ten blue moons.”
The waiter appeared with coffee and a menu—O’Banyon already had his. “I’ll be back in a second,” the waiter said, and moved off to another table.
We small-talked for a minute or two until the waiter came back to take our orders. Though we’d talked a bit about it when we met at Hughie’s, O’Banyon was curious as to how Joshua was doing and how Jonathan and I were dealing with being de-facto parents.
When we’d ordered, O’Banyon sat back and said, “So how’s the investigation going? Anything at all to indicate it was anything but an accident?”
I shook my head. “Nothing definite, but there are an awful lot of tiny arrows pointing in that direction. Maybe it’s just an occupational hazard that I always lean toward the ‘foul play’ scenario, but this just doesn’t feel ‘accidental’ to me.”
“So what did you want to ask me?”
“I just talked to Zach Clanton…which is why I was almost late…and found out he knows Jeremy Butler’s grandson, Collin. I’d been wondering about him and was wondering if you had any idea just how badly he wanted to get back his grandfather’s papers.”
“He’s pretty adamant about it, obviously. Zach’s doing everything he can to keep Butler from going to court, but the interests of the library have little to do with it. I’m afraid Zach still sees the Burrows as an annoying financial drain from his own pocketbook. He’s been trying to convince the board to simply give in and return the papers.”
The waiter brought our food, and as we ate I filled O’Banyon in on my conversation with Clanton, and also on what I’d found out about the strong possibility that Morgan Burrows might himself have been gay.
He looked rather surprised. “Really?” he said. “I had no idea.”
“And from what Zach Clanton said, it appears that Collin Butler isn’t even aware that his father’s papers…or some of them, anyway…are in the Collection.”
O’Banyon wiped the corner of his mouth with his napkin, then replaced it in his lap. “Interesting,” he said. “I wonder what they’re doing there?”
“Excellent question,” I said, suddenly wondering why I’d never asked it myself. “I’ve gone through a lot of them, but only concentrating on the letters he wrote to a service buddy named Scot, and I didn’t see a single direct reference to homosexuality. The ones I skimmed through to other people, including his parents, are totally bland—no real emotion on any subject. I hadn’t realized that until just this moment.”
If Morgan was gay, giving his papers to a collection devoted to gay history would be pretty clear evidence he was trying to say something about himself to posterity. And I was also beginning to suspect that there were more papers than were currently in the Collection. But if that was true, where were they? What had happened to them?
“Well,” I heard O’Banyon saying as I pulled myself back to the moment, “if Morgan Butler was gay, I wonder if his son knew about it?”
“Another good question,” I said. “Off the top of my head, I’d think it was pretty unlikely. If Morgan was gay, he was pretty firmly locked in the closet. I’m sure he never would have told his parents—most certainly not his father—or his wife. And Collin was only four years old when Morgan died.”
O’Banyon pursed his lips and nodded. “From what I know of Collin Butler, he takes after his grandfather as far as his views on gays. He’d really have a hemorrhage if he suspected his own dad was a pre-vert!” He grinned.
“You’ve met him?” I asked.
The grin turned into a wry smile. “Yes, a couple of times. The firm’s done some legal work for him, but our few meetings have only been in a business context. He strikes me as being wound pretty tight. I just recently did something for him, as a matter of fact.”
“But he knows you’re on the board of the Burrows Foundation, of course?”
He nodded. “I’m sure he must, but he’s never mentioned it, and he’s apparently comfortable with separating his need for my legal services from his efforts to get the Butler papers returned.”
“I really think I’d like to talk to him at some point.”
“About what?”
“I’m not sure, exactly. But I’d really like to know how much he knows about his father. My gut tells me that Taylor Cates’ death is related to Morgan’s papers being at the Burrows, and since Taylor had been working with the Butler papers when he died…” I shook my head and sighed. “I don’t know, it’s probably nothing, but…”
“Well, I’m expecting a call from Collin on the matter I just finished for him, and I suppose I could ask him if he’d be willing to talk to you.”
“I’d really appreciate that,” I said.
O’Banyon was quiet a moment, then said, “Actually, I gather Morgan Butler and Chester Burrows were close friends at one time. Mr. Burrows was not always a recluse—he began withdrawing just about the time of Morgan Butler’s death.” He paused and raised an eyebrow. “Hmm,” he said, “do you suppose…?”
“Now, wouldn’t that be a kick in the pants?” I said. “And it just goes to support the strong impression I got from reading between the lines of Morgan’s letters.”
We both concentrated on our lunch for a minute or so until O’Banyon said, “Well, all this is damned interesting, but where does it leave us on the question of Taylor Cates’ death?”
I sighed. “As far as concrete evidence, nowhere. As far as being more and more convinced that it wasn’t an accident…well, there are just too many little ducks not in a row here. I can’t escape the feeling that something odd was going on. I still haven’t talked to Marv Westeen, and I want to talk with Teddy Wilson when he comes into town, and then I want to spend a little more time at the Burrows. The one thing I’m sure of is that Morgan Butler is somehow a key piece in the puzzle. As soon as I’ve done all that, I’ll have a better idea of where Morgan Butler’s piece falls.”
The waiter came by to see if we needed more coffee or wanted dessert, and we declined. Removing our plates, he disappeared, leaving us to finish our coffee.
“Well, if there is anything more you need of me, just ask,” O’Banyon said.
“Like you had any doubt?” I said, and we exchanged grins.
The waiter returned with the bill, and I reached into my back pocket for my billfold, but O’Banyon waved me down. “You can get the next one,” he said, taking a wallet from his jacket pocket.
We finished our coffee and left, exchanging our good-byes on the sidewalk in front of the restaurant.
*
I’d intended to head back to the office to try and reach Marv Westeen again to set up a meeting. He was the last of the people on my contact list, and I suspected that he had closer ties to the Library and the Collection than the other members. But I found myself once again heading toward the Burrows Library. I did stop for gas along the way, and called Irving McGill to be sure my coming by was okay. I didn’t expect him to put up any objection—I was, after all, working f
or the board—but considered it a matter of courtesy, since he did run the place, and I really didn’t want to get too much in the way.
He’d told me to just go to the cataloging room when I arrived, which is what I did.
Janice was at her same table, but I noticed she seemed to be working on a different set of boxes. She told me the cataloging of Butler papers had been completed, and they’d been moved to the stacks.
“Did you want both boxes?” she asked.
“If you would,” I said.
She smiled. “Why don’t you have a seat over there…” indicating a smaller, empty table beside the door, “and I’ll have someone get them for you.”
I was perfectly capable of getting them myself, but of course I realized it was all just a part of the security policy, and when I saw Janice approaching a guy just emerging from another area of the stacks and realized it was the cute redhead I’d seen upstairs a few days before, I didn’t mind at all.
She spoke to him and he looked over at me and smiled, and I nodded and smiled back. Then she returned to her table as he went in search of my request. A minute or so later he came over carrying two new and newly labeled boxes. He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and I noted that carting heavy boxes filled with paper did wonders for the biceps. He placed them on the table in front of me and smiled again…nice smile, my crotch observed…and handed me a clipboard with a 4x6 card on it.
“If you’ll just sign here,” he said, reaching into his shirt pocket for a pen.
I signed and handed the clipboard and pen back to him. He looked carefully at my name. “Dick Hardesty, huh?” he said, his face breaking into a grin.
“That’s me.”
“I’ll bet,” he replied.
I usually hate it when people see my name as a double entendre, but I was willing to make an exception in his case.
“If you need anything else, just let me know,” he said.
“I’ll do that.”
Oh yeah, do that! my crotch said eagerly.
When he’d gone, I opened the box with the correspondence and carefully began going through the letters, from the very beginning. There must have been 300 letters in all, the bulk of them starting when he was in the navy. There were a considerable number to his parents and several other people in his life, but the first letter to Scot was not until September 3, 1945, apparently right after Morgan had been discharged, and continuing sporadically up until his death—maybe fifty letters in all, over a nine-year span. Scot had apparently remained in the military, mostly overseas from what I could tell, but there were references in the last few letters to “adjusting to the real world” and “you’ll find civilian life…,” indicating he may have been getting out of the service. Though all the letters were dated, none included the addresses to which they’d been sent, and I had no idea of what Scot’s last name might be. I carefully re-read the letters I’d gone over the first time I’d looked at them, trying to find…something. And in one I did find a sentence which read, “It must be part of the McVickers charm.” So Scot’s last name was McVickers! I’d almost missed it. But now that I had it, what difference did it make?
Again, all the letters to Scot were pretty innocuous on the surface. But as I read, I became more firmly convinced that what was in the box did not represent all the letters Morgan had written. There were several sentences along the lines of, “as I said in my last letter” or “as I told you,” referencing subjects which, on going back, were not in previous letters. And if Scot were indeed overseas much of the time, it’s unlikely that they could have been in contact by phone. I double-checked the chronological log started by Dave Witherspoon, continued by Taylor Cates, and apparently finished by Janice. Every letter logged, no letter missing. Damn!
I’m sure most people would simply assume any other letters, if there indeed were any, had been either thrown away or lost somehow. But I didn’t buy that idea. Anyone who would go to the time and effort to make carbon copies of handwritten letters obviously wanted to preserve them as a part of himself. His letters were a reflection of himself, and Morgan Butler didn’t strike me as the kind of man who would be casual about something so important to him.
I had glanced through a couple of the letters he’d written to his wife and parents, and while I couldn’t put my finger on it, there was definitely a different…feel…to his letters to Scot. Damn! Did I think Morgan Butler was gay just because I…for God knows what reason…wanted him to be gay? Just because a guy writes another guy doesn’t mean he’s gay. Something was missing.
That belief was strengthened by two other sentences, buried within separate letters, which again almost skipped notice but somehow caught my eye. One, in June of 1947, said: “…I find writing is becoming more a compulsion than a hobby,” and the other, in September of 1952 said: “…up until three again last night, writing.”
“Writing” ? I thought. Writing what? The few articles and short stories I’d found? There were only two manuscripts in the box, and one of them only went to Chapter 9. Even if he was a very slow writer….
After I’d finished reading and replaced all the letters, I opened the second box, took out the unfinished book manuscript and began reading. Other than the writing style, I hadn’t particularly been impressed with what I’d skimmed through on the shorter one, the Scarlet Letter take-off. So I concentrated on the second book and found myself pulled into the story almost immediately. The writing was sparse but powerful, and the story gripping. Unlike the characters in the first book, the characters here were real and honest. The story followed an unnamed young sailor from the time of his induction through a bomb attack on his ship off the coast of Italy, where the book suddenly ended. And it included, most interestingly, a strong subplot of his developing friendship with another sailor. I could clearly see where it was more than likely heading.
Something was taking shape in the periphery of my mind’s eye. I couldn’t see it clearly…yet…and straining to see something that can’t be seen is an exercise in frustration, so I forced myself to just let it drop. I knew I’d see it when I was ready.
I looked at my watch and saw it was 3:25. Jeezus! I had just barely enough time to get back to the office to check to see if Marv Westeen had returned my call and make it home at my regular time.
Unfortunately, I didn’t get a chance to see the redhead again. I merely told Janice I was finished and had to leave, and she gave me a blank 3x5 card for me to mark and initial my time out, then told me to just leave the boxes there and she’d see to it that they were returned to the stacks.
*
Sure enough, there was a message from Marv Westeen on my office machine, saying he could see me at his home at nine thirty the next morning, if I’d care to come by (I would) and leaving his address. I dialed his number, thinking he might be there, but got his machine and left a message saying I would see him at nine thirty.
That done, I picked up the phone book and looked under “McVickers.” I knew it was a one in a million chance that there’d actually be a Scot McVickers listed, and I had absolutely no reason to think he might even have been from this area…he was someone Morgan knew in the service. He could be anywhere in the country. Anywhere in the world. And he might not even be alive now.
Five “McVickers” listed. No “Scot.” None even with an “S.” Oh, well. I put the phone book back in the drawer, tied up a few loose ends around the office, and left for home.
Joshua met me at the front door with an 8x10 black-and-white photograph. “Look what I got, Uncle Dick!” he said.
I took it from him, and while Jonathan was coming in from the kitchen with a watering can for his plants, I took a look at it. Joshua stood about six inches in front of me, the tips of our shoes nearly touching, staring up at me as though I were a redwood. It was a photo taken apparently in the back yard of his Happy Day day care, and was of the staff and the kids…the Bronson sisters—the owners—and their helper (holding the youngest of the kids) standing, the rest of the kid
s sitting on the grass in various stages of inattention. All but Joshua, of course, who was looking directly into the lens and grinning. What a ham.
“Can you see me?” Joshua asked anxiously.
I knelt down just as Jonathan came over, and stared intently at the photo, my brows furrowed, looking back and forth between Joshua and the picture. “Why, no, I can’t,” I said. “But who is that handsome big boy right there?”
“That’s me!” Joshua said, laughing delightedly.
“Well, so it is!” I said, scooping him up and getting to my feet for our traditional group hug. “You’re getting so big I hardly recognized you!”
“One of the mothers is a professional photographer,” Jonathan said as I set Joshua back on the floor. “She’s got a studio—the name and address is stamped there on the back. I think we should have her take a photo of the three of us, don’t you?”
A “family portrait”? one of my curmudgeon-y mind-voices scoffed. Jeez, Hardesty!
“I mean,” Jonathan continued, talking rapidly as he always did when he anticipated some sort of negative reaction from me, “you said yourself Joshua really is growing fast, and we have hardly any photos of the three of us together, and…”
“Okay, okay,” I said, I think catching him a little by surprise. “Call her and make an appointment. Try for a Saturday, though.”
He grinned, gave me a quick hug, and went to water his plants while I went into the kitchen for my evening Manhattan.
*
Marv Westeen’s house was a classic two-story, early 1900s affair with a full open front porch across the entire front, complete with a porch swing and hanging baskets of flowers. Very pleasant, though not at all pretentious for an heir to a sizeable fortune. There were three cars parked in the driveway, and I assumed they belonged to volunteers with his Hospice Project office.
I rang the bell, and a moment or so later, the door was opened by a forty-something guy I recognized from the Burrows’ opening as Marv Westeen.
