by Dorien Grey
“Hi, Dick,” he said, pushing the screen door open to let me in. “I hope you don’t mind my calling you Dick—I don’t think we were ever formally introduced the night of the opening.”
I took his extended hand and shook it. Nice, firm grasp. “Dick’s fine,” I said. “In fact, I prefer it.”
He led me through the small entry foyer into the living room.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asked. “I just made a fresh urn for the gang.”
“Sure,” I said. “That would be nice.”
He smiled. “Come on into the kitchen.”
From an open door apparently leading to the basement I heard several voices.
“I’ve converted my basement rec room into an office,” he said, with a heads-up nod toward the open door. “We’re doing phone follow-ups to our most recent mass mailing.”
He took a cup from an open cupboard above the coffee urn and poured me a cup.
“Cream? Sugar?”
“Black, thanks.”
He handed me the cup, then picked up a half-full cup beside the urn and topped it off.
“Shall we go into the living room, or do you mind sitting at the table?”
I grinned. “I spent most of my childhood at the kitchen table,” I said, moving to it and pulling out a chair. “The living room’s for ‘company.’”
When we were seated, he rested both his forearms on the table, both hands around his cup.
“So what can I tell you?”
I took a quick sip of my coffee before answering. I’d come directly from home and hadn’t had my usual office “fix.”
“Anything you know about Taylor Cates, for starters.”
“Not all that much,” he said. “I talked with him several times during the transfer of Uncle Chester’s collection from the estate to the library, and then several more times while the Collection was being set up for cataloging. Nice enough guy, though not exactly a life-of-the-party type. Very serious, very concentrated on what he was doing.”
“Any idea why anyone might want him dead?”
He shook his head. “Sorry. I know he didn’t get along with Dave…Witherspoon…, one of the other catalogers, but I’d hardly think that would be any reason he should end up dead over it.”
“But you think his death wasn’t an accident,” I said, again not making it a question.
He shook his head. “I really don’t know, but considering the circumstances, it seems like it may well not have been.”
“Did you know anything about his personal life?”
Again a headshake. “Nothing.”
“I understand he dated Evan Knight a couple times,” I said.
He took a sip of coffee before replying. “I’m not surprised. Evan tends to date just about every good-looking young man he comes in contact with, and I did get the impression that Taylor might not have been averse to taking an opportunity to advance himself.”
I had my coffee cup about halfway to my lips, but stopped it in midair. “Meaning?”
He shrugged. “Meaning nothing, really, I guess. But as I say, Taylor appears to have been a very ambitious young man with a strong drive to succeed. I understand from Evan that Taylor showed up at his door shortly after the job listing was posted at Mountjoy, and knowing Evan…well…” He let the sentence trail off, but I had no doubt where it would have gone had he completed it.
“What’s your relationship with Evan Knight?” I asked.
He took another sip of coffee before answering. “I’ve known him for a number of years,” he said. “Ever since he started working for Uncle Chester.”
“And do you get along okay?”
“Oh, yes. I really like Evan, I guess. Our personalities and lifestyles are too different for us ever to have become real friends. His moral compass wobbles a bit when it comes to his crotch, and he’s pretty much an opportunist. But he really was devoted to Uncle Chester, and he watched out for him as best he could. I’ll always be grateful to him for that.”
I was curious: “Had he been a writer before he started working for your uncle?”
He looked at me. “Interesting question. I really don’t know. I’d never heard him speak of it that I can recall. But I guess a lot of writers play it pretty close to the vest. The first I knew of it was when his first book came out, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“But he kept working for your uncle?”
“Yes. As I say, Evan was really devoted to Uncle Chester. He cut back on his hours pretty dramatically to devote more of his time to writing, but he was with Uncle Chester to the end. That’s one reason I was a little surprised when I learned he’d tried to talk Uncle Chester out of bequeathing the collection to what is now the Burrows Library.”
“He did?” I asked, surprised. “Any idea why?”
He sighed. “Well, Evan agreed with Zach that it would be better to have the collection go to a more established institution rather than to a private foundation.”
“Well, perhaps,” I said, “but if it had gone to a university somewhere, it might have tended to get lost in the maze of other collections.”
“Exactly! Uncle Chester was always very much a loner, driven by his passion for his collection. It was his life. The Burrows is a tribute to that life, which would have been diluted in a larger environment.”
I had another thought about Evan’s possible motivations. “It’s none of my business, but I was wondering if your uncle included Evan Knight in his will?”
“Oh, of course,” he said casually. “Somewhere in the neighborhood of $100,000 as I recall.”
Nice neighborhood, I thought. But it was a set sum, unlikely to be affected by the $1,000,000 bequest to the Foundation for the library. I could see Zach Clanton’s objections to the Burrows Library based on its possible direct effect on how much Zach would walk away with, but with Evan, it was less clear. Maybe it was just his personal feeling, and if so he was entitled to it. But as a gay man, I’d have thought Evan would have been all for the collection staying within the gay community.
“And how do you and Zach Clanton get along?” I asked.
He shrugged. “We’re cousins. We get along, but we’ve never been what you would call ‘close.’”
“I understand he’s something of a homophobe,” I said, and noted his look of surprise.
“Oh, I wouldn’t say that, really. He just lives in a different world. Always has. He’s really had very little exposure to gays, other than through Uncle Chester…who never talked about his homosexuality in front of Zach…and me. And now, being on the Foundation’s board…well, the members are all respectable businessmen, so Zach is hardly being thrown naked into a pit of screaming queens. He has no reason to be a homophobe.” He paused a moment and gave a small smile. “But then I guess a lot of straights don’t need a reason.”
He took another sip of his coffee and looked at me. “May I ask what all this has to do with Taylor Cates’ death?”
Good question. I heaved a sigh. “Well, I’m trying to get as complete a picture as I can of all the circumstances surrounding Taylor’s death. I try to consider everything objectively, but there are just too many subtle hints and indications that it was more than an accident. The cause of death was the fall, but the reason he fell is what I’m trying to find.”
“And have you?” he asked.
I was quiet for a moment, then said, “I feel I’m getting close. It’s fairly obvious that there is somehow a direct link to the Burrows other than it’s being where he died. Figuring out exactly what that link might be is the hard part. But the more I learn about the dynamics of the place, both on and beneath the surface, the closer I come to having an answer.”
“And I hope you find it,” he said. He finished his coffee and indicated my cup with a nod of his head. “Would you like more coffee?”
I recognized it as an exit cue. “Thanks, but no,” I said. “I really should let you get back to work. How is the Hospice Project going, by the way?”
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br /> “Very well,” he said, getting up from his chair and reaching across to take my now-empty cup, which he carried with his to the sink. “The Steamroller Junction benefit should put us over the top for our projected goal.”
I got up, too, and pushed my chair back into place against the table. “That’s great,” I said, and meant it. “I admire you for your efforts, and I’m sure the benefit will be a huge success.”
He turned and walked with me to the hallway leading to the front door. “It’s a job that needed to be done,” he said. “I assume you’ll be there?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
We reached the door and shook hands. “Thanks for your time,” I said.
“My pleasure,” he said, and I left.
*
I’d just finished lunch—a tuna salad sandwich with coleslaw and a carton of milk from the diner downstairs—when the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investigations.”
“Hi, Dick. Glen here. I talked to Collin Butler this morning and told him you might want to talk to him. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but he says it will be okay for you to contact him if you really need to.”
“Great! Thanks.”
“Any new developments at all since last we talked?”
“Well, one, sort of. I’m convinced that some of Morgan Butler’s papers are missing, and I found out that the last name of the guy I suspect he was involved with was McVickers. But where he might be and how I might contact him, I have no idea. I took a chance and checked the phone book here, and he’s not listed.”
“Hmm,” O’Banyon said. “What did you say his first name was?”
“Scot. With one t.”
“Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “The Scot I knew spelled his with only one t, too. Do you suppose…?”
Bingo!
“You knew him?” I said. “Do you know where he is now? How can I get in touch with him?”
O’Banyon sighed. “Well, if it is the same Scot McVickers I knew, unfortunately you can’t,” he said. “He died several years ago.”
Damn! It was as if he had slammed the oven door on my soufflé. I went from elation to depression in a heartbeat.
“But his lover is still alive,” O’Banyon continued. “Wayne Powers. We still see each other every now and then. He might be able to tell you if it’s the same Scot.”
My soufflé was back on the rise. “He’s here in town? Is he in the book?”
“Yes on both counts. He lives on Blackhawk Ave. I don’t know the number off-hand.”
“That’s okay. I’ll find it. Thanks again, Glen. You’re a lifesaver.”
“I do what I can,” he said, then, “Ah, I’ve got another call coming in. Good luck with Wayne.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we hung up.
I immediately pulled the phone book out of the drawer and looked up Powers, Wayne…328 Blackhawk Ave. Reaching for a pen and a blank sheet of paper, I wrote down the address and number, then dialed it.
No answer, no machine. I copied the number on the bottom of the sheet, tore it off, and put it in my billfold…I’d try him when I got home.
So—another major step forward: Wayne Powers and Scot McVickers had been lovers, which pretty much confirmed, in my mind anyway, that Morgan Butler had been gay, too.
And now that I had a possible link between Morgan Butler and Scot McVickers, I might be able to fit a few more pieces into the puzzle.
*
Wednesday being Jonathan’s class night, I stopped on the way home to pick up some fried chicken—one of Joshua’s favorite meals since he could eat it with his fingers. Well, most of it; we drew the line at the mashed potatoes and gravy.
After Jonathan had gone off to school and while Joshua alternately played on the floor and watched TV, I pulled one of Evan Knight’s novels—Chesspiece—from the bookcase and began reading. Like Fate’s Hand and A Game of Quoits, I’d read it before, and enjoyed it. But that was before I knew Evan Knight, and now I was going over it from a slightly different perspective. Knowing what an asshole he was, I was fully prepared to hate the book on second reading. But I didn’t. It drew me in as it had the first time. Set in an unnamed city, as I realized were all of his books, in the early postwar years, it evoked a very real feeling of the time—or what I understood of the time. The protagonist, Stan Ledder, was discreetly but obviously gay, as befit the period in which the book was set. As in the other books, the relatively few sex scenes were so well set up that they could leave most of the details up to the reader’s fertile imagination without detracting from the impact.
I suddenly was aware that Joshua was being very—and very uncharacteristically— quiet, and I looked up sharply from the book to see him lying on his side on the floor, one arm around Bunny, sound asleep. Glancing at the clock, I saw it was 9:10! Jonathan would be home any minute, and would be less than happy to know I hadn’t put Joshua to bed yet. I hurriedly got up from the couch and went over to pick Joshua off the floor.
“Come on, tiger, it’s time for bed,” I said as I scooped him up.
“No it isn’t,” he said sleepily.
There was no way I could give him his bath, put him in his pajamas, and get him into bed before Jonathan walked in, so I decided to forego the bath and took him directly into his bedroom. Helping a groggy four-year-old undress and get into his pajamas was something of an adventure, but we managed. Lucky for me he was too sleepy to demand a bedtime story, and I’d just closed his door—as always leaving it open a crack—when Jonathan came in.
“Sorry I’m late,” he said. “I was talking to the instructor after class.”
We hugged, and I said, “Building brownie points for a better grade?”
He grinned. “Hey, it can’t hurt! Joshua behave himself while I was gone?”
We walked to the sofa and sat down. “I’m thinking of nominating him for sainthood,” I said. “I doubt he’ll make it, but it’s worth a shot.”
He noticed Chesspiece on the coffee table.
“Aha!” he said. “Another Evan Knight convert in the making?”
“Well, I have to admit, it is pretty absorbing.”
He leaned forward to pick up the book. “You know, I really admire writers,” he said. “They make up whole different worlds. And one of the things I find fascinating about Evan’s books is that he doesn’t talk at all like he writes.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, though it instantly struck me that, from what few words I’d exchanged with Evan Knight, Jonathan was right.
“Well,” he said, “I’ve talked to him quite a bit, and he doesn’t really talk at all like the characters in his books talk. The words he uses and the way he expresses things—they’re just so…different between what he writes and the way he is.”
“I’d imagine that’s the way it is with a lot of writers,” I said.
“Maybe.” He was thumbing through the pages and stopped at one point and grinned. “Did you get to this part, yet?” he asked.
I leaned toward him to see what part he was referring to.
“Where he gets seduced by the gardener in the greenhouse?” he asked. “I really liked that part. Subtle, but you can read between the lines pretty easily. I like sexy parts.”
I put my hand on his leg. “So do I,” I said with a grin. “I haven’t gotten there yet, but you’re a gardener, sort of, and with all these plants around here, this is almost a greenhouse. And I’m eminently seducible. Wanna show me what happens next?”
He put the book down, got up from the sofa, and held out his hand. I got up, turned out the lights, and followed him into the bedroom.
CHAPTER 8
I felt a little guilty, Thursday morning, that I hadn’t tried to reach Wayne Powers the night before, so I tried as soon as I got to the office, even before making coffee. No answer. The more I thought about the case, the more I wanted to talk with him, to see if he could shed any light on Scot McVickers’ relationship with Morgan Butler, and by extension, on the missing lette
rs and what might be in them. I assumed, admittedly without reason, that Powers and Scot had gotten together sometime after Morgan’s death, so I couldn’t be sure that Powers would know anything at all about it. Some guys don’t like to bring up past loves to current partners.
Okay, I know that it seems I was going in two different directions at once here. I was supposed to be concentrating on whether Taylor Cates’ death was an accident or not. But if it wasn’t an accident, I’d have to find out who did it and why, and the “why” kept snapping me back to Morgan Butler.
The thoughts that had been flitting around the periphery of my mental vision were becoming much more clear, and certain pieces of the puzzle were showing themselves to me, as if saying, “Go here, stupid!” I sat at my desk drinking coffee—I hadn’t even thought about reading the newspaper yet, which was very unlike me—and going over the pieces of what I knew, comparing them with the pieces of what I suspected.
Morgan Butler was a writer, and from the looks of at least his unfinished manuscript, a darned good one. But I’d bet the farm that what was in the Burrows Collection was not everything he’d written.
Well of course there were more manuscripts, one of my mind-voices observed casually. You’ve just been reading one.
Of course! How stupifyingly dense could I have been? How could I not have seen it the first time I came across the two manuscripts left in the Collection? Why didn’t I catch on the minute I checked the spelling of “Scot” in Fate’s Hand? Of course there were more manuscripts! And they were being published with Evan Knight’s name on them!
Evan Knight had worked for Chester Burrows; he had ready access to everything in the collection. He had to have come across Morgan Butler’s papers and found the manuscripts and simply stolen them! Who was to know? Who could prove it even if they suspected it? How could I prove it? Morgan Butler was long dead and it’s probable that the only person he ever told about his writing was Scot, who was also now dead. He certainly wouldn’t have told his homophobic father, or admitted his homosexuality to his wife.
With all the principals involved either definitely or most likely dead, Knight had gambled—at excellent odds—on Morgan having been so uptight about anyone finding out he was gay that he not only would never have tried to have his books published, but probably would not even let anyone else see them. Except, perhaps, Scot McVickers…if I were right about what I suspected between him and Scot.
