by Dorien Grey
I knew next to nothing about Morgan Butler, but I sensed from his letters—and I was positive, now, that a lot of them were missing, too—that he was the kind of guy who, especially given the times in which he lived, was locked in the closet by circumstances. Writing would have been the only way he had to set himself free.
And no wonder the books bearing Evan Knight’s name portrayed the sense of time so clearly. It was Morgan’s time, not Knight’s!
I’d realized from the start that Morgan put his own papers in with his father’s as part of his bequest to the Burrows as a way to preserve as much of his inner self as he could—he made carbon copies of handwritten letters, for God’s sake! And knowing Chester Burrows’ collection centered on the subject of homosexuality, it was also Morgan’s way of finally coming out to the world. The fact that none of his papers currently in the Collection even mentioned the “G” word was another strong indication that they weren’t all there.
And following that nebulous string of conjectures, Taylor Cates’ death became more clearly the center of the whirlpool. Since Taylor had been working on the Butler papers at the time of his death, perhaps he somehow figured it out. Irving McGill had said Taylor was particularly animated just before his death.
Would/could Evan Knight possibly have found out or suspected that Taylor knew something and resorted to murder to keep his secret?
Talk about building air castles! Speculation isn’t fact.
But if there were a key to converting speculation to fact, the one living person who might have it would be Wayne Powers. A long shot, but….
*
Patience, I’ve often said, is not one of my greater virtues, and I was more than a little frustrated by the fact that it was, at the moment, my only option. There was nothing more I could do until I talked to Wayne Powers, and the coming Saturday, to T/T when I picked him up at the airport. If I got nothing from those two contacts, I was really going to be up a creek.
I left the office a little early and was sitting in the living room reading Chesspiece when Jonathan and Joshua got home. I could tell from the fumbling at the lock that Joshua had insisted on opening the door, and I had to admit he was getting better at it, though it still took several seconds. As usual, I’d been so caught up in reading that I’d lost all sense of time. Plus the fact that I had been reading with the perspective provided by my new certainty that Chesspiece had been written by Morgan Butler and not by Evan Knight. As I read, I couldn’t understand how I didn’t pick up on it sooner. It fit what little I knew of Morgan Butler. I felt, admittedly perhaps in hindsight, that I could recognize a definite similarity in writing style between the books Evan Knight had published as his own and the unfinished manuscript and more casual of Morgan’s letters at the Burrows.
I could be wrong, I suppose. But I knew I wasn’t.
The door opened and Joshua raced into the room, of course leaving the key in the lock for Jonathan to remove. I put the book on the coffee table and got up for our group hug.
“We’re going shopping!” Joshua announced happily as I was in the process of picking him up for the hug.
“We are?” I asked, having no idea what that was all about.
We completed our hug and I set Joshua back on the floor before Jonathan said, “I called June Schramm…she’s the mother from Happy Day I told you about who has the photo studio…and got us an appointment for eleven o’clock Saturday. I figured we could get Joshua something nice, and maybe I could pick up something to wear for the benefit Saturday night. And you and Joshua really should get a haircut, and…”
“…and I’ve got to pick T/T up at the airport Saturday at two,” I interrupted, following him into the kitchen. “When are we supposed to get all this done? It’s already Thursday.”
“Easy,” he said, reaching into the cupboard for my Manhattan glass and a jelly glass for Joshua’s newly favorite predinner libation, cherry Kool-Aid. “I’ll take Joshua to the barber on the way home tomorrow—he may not like it, but he’s going. You can meet us there or maybe go sometime during the day…that’d save us a little time—then I’ll treat us to dinner at Cap’n Rooney’s, and we can go to Marston’s to look for clothes…they’re having a sale.”
He’d kept talking as he took ice cubes, the pitcher of Kool-Aid, and a Coke for himself out of the refrigerator, and I listened while I got out the bourbon and sweet vermouth for my Manhattan.
“Got it all figured out, eh?” I said.
He looked back over his shoulder with a very serious expression and said, “Hey, I’m more than just a pretty face, you know.”
I reached out with my free hand and grabbed him by the back of the neck, giving him a quick squeeze. “Modesty being your only flaw,” I said, and we both grinned.
“Where’s my Kool-Aid?” Joshua demanded from the kitchen door.
*
Immediately after we finished dishes, I went to the phone and dialed Wayne Powers’ number, which I hoped I’d memorized since I left the piece of paper I’d written it on at the office.
“Hello?” a male voice said after the second ring.
“Wayne Powers?”
“Yes…?”
“Mr. Powers, my name is Dick Hardesty, and I understand you knew a Scot McVickers.”
There was only a slight pause before, “Yes, I knew Scot. He’s been dead several years, now.”
“I know,” I said, “and I’m really sorry for your loss. I’m a private investigator, and Glen O’Banyon told me you might possibly have some information on one of Mr. McVickers’ friends from a long time back…Morgan Butler.”
A definitely longer pause. “I’m afraid I can’t help you,” he said, but the tone of suspicion in his voice told me differently. “What, exactly, are you trying to find out?”
“Well, it’s all a bit complicated,” I said, realizing just how true that statement was. “But let’s say it’s something of a ‘family’ matter. I wonder if it might be possible for us to meet and talk for a few minutes person to person.”
“By ‘family’ you mean…” he began.
“Yes,” I assured him. “I’m gay; I know Scot was gay, and I’m pretty sure Morgan Butler was gay, too. As I say, it’s all too complicated to go into over the phone, and I really would like to meet with you at your convenience. I gather you work during the day?”
“I’m retired, but I do volunteer work for the AIDS Hospice Project. I’m not going in tomorrow, though—I’m having some electrical work done here on the house. I suppose if you’d care to come by around eleven or so, we could talk for a bit.”
“That would be great,” I said. “I really appreciate it.”
“You have my address?”
“Yes…328 Blackhawk Ave., right? I’ll see you there at eleven. And thank you.”
“So,” Jonathan said when I’d hung up, “you can get a haircut during the day, then?”
“I really need one?” I asked.
He gave me a raised-eyebrow look. “You need one,” he said. “Really. Trust me.”
*
I went in to the office Friday morning just long enough to check the mail and the answering machine, read the paper, do the crossword puzzle, and drink a couple cups of coffee before heading out for a haircut before my meeting with Wayne Powers. A close look in the mirror while shaving had convinced me that Jonathan was right.
Powers’ house was in an older part of town of basic, solid, American middle-class homes built between the World Wars. 328 Blackhawk Ave. was a comfortable, story-and-a-half bungalow with a well-kept lawn and a tradesman’s van—this one belonging to Jorgensen’s Electric—in the drive. I parked on the street and walked to the small, pilastered porch. I rang the bell and waited. When there was no response, I rang it again. I was about to try a third time when the door opened by a pleasant-looking guy in his late fifties or early sixties, balding, with a short mostly grey beard.
“Mr. Hardesty,” he said, pushing the screen door open. “I’m sorry, I was in the basem
ent with the electrician and didn’t hear the doorbell. Please, come in.”
He stood partly aside, still holding the screen door open, as I entered, to be greeted enthusiastically by a large brown retriever.
“Andy,” he said by way of introduction as I bent over to pet him…Andy, not Powers…and rub his ears. “Ferocious beast, as you can tell,” Powers said. “Would you like some coffee?” he asked as he closed the door. “I just made a fresh pot for the electrician and was going to have some more myself.”
“That would be nice,” I said. “Thanks.”
He and Andy led the way to the kitchen, where Powers pretty much reenacted the same coffee-offering ritual I’d gone through at Marv Westeen’s.
“Cream and sugar?”
“Black is fine.”
He opened a cabinet drawer and took out a couple of coasters, then gestured back down the hall in the direction we’d just come. “We’ll probably be more comfortable in the living room,” he said, again leading the way.
When we were seated, me on the couch, Andy directly in front of me demanding attention, and Powers on a chair facing me across a large, round coffee table, he smiled and said, “Now, what’s this all about?”
Without going into too much detail I told him I’d been hired by the Burrows Library board of directors to investigate the possibility of some documents—specifically those of Morgan Butler—having been removed from the Collection without authorization. I explained that I’d read those of Morgan’s letters that were still there, and that I’d immediately sensed a special bond between Morgan and Scot McVickers.
I asked if he knew anything at all about their relationship.
He cupped his coffee in both hands, holding it just about at chin level, and looked into it as if it were some sort of crystal ball, then looked up at me and nodded.
“Yes,” he said with a small smile. “Morgan was the love of Scot’s life,” he said softly. “Please don’t get me wrong. Morgan had died two years before Scot and I met, and we were together more than twenty years, so I had no reason at all to be jealous. We were devoted to one another, but Scot never stopped loving Morgan, and I understood.”
Not knowing exactly what sort of response to make to that, I plunged ahead. “Scot was in the service at the time Morgan died, am I right?” I asked. “I recall one of Morgan’s later letters to Scot—he kept copies of all his letters—referring to Scot getting out of the military?”
He nodded. “He was leaving so that he and Morgan could be together. But Morgan was married, as I’m sure you know. From what I understand, Morgan was totally dominated by his father…I’m sure he married—and I suspect had a child—only at his father’s insistence. I can imagine how thoroughly miserable he had to have been, having to pretend to be something and someone he was not. One of the reasons Scot had reenlisted in the navy was because Morgan got married. It nearly ended their relationship. Scot obviously didn’t approve, and he was angered by Morgan’s refusal to stand up to his father. But he could never break it off entirely, and he hoped Morgan would eventually gather the courage to defy his father and end a marriage that was causing both him and his wife endless pain. And the fact that they had a son together made it even harder on both of them.”
He took a long sip of his coffee. “Morgan seemed to be moving in that direction, so much so that Scot decided to leave the service and come back home to be with him. And then Morgan’s father died suddenly, and Morgan began talking about leaving his wife so that he and Scot could be together. Scot hoped his presence would give Morgan that final measure of courage he needed. But…” he paused, looking again into his coffee.
“But Morgan killed himself,” I said, completing his sentence for him. Andy nuzzled my knee with his head, and I reached out to pet him.
Powers nodded. “I don’t think Scot ever fully understood just how conflicted Morgan was. His father had ruled his life in ways I’m sure few people could understand. Morgan loved Scot. He wanted desperately for them to be together. But to defy his father, even after his death…to go against everything his father stood for…well, he apparently, at that last terrible moment, took the only way he could see to relieve all the pressures.”
There was no hint of any of this in the letters in Morgan Butler’s file except for that single letter referencing Morgan’s love for his son. I was frankly surprised that Powers knew so much about Morgan, and said so. “Did Scot discuss all this with you?” I asked, thinking that he would have been more than a little insensitive if he had.
He shook his head. “Oh, no,” he said. “Scot never said very much about his relationship with Morgan at all…I could tell it hurt him even to think of it, and he respected me far too much to let me know how strongly he felt about Morgan. But I knew, and after Scot’s death, I found Morgan’s letters….”
Yes! I thought, explosively.
“Everything’s in there,” he continued, “including that last, terrible note…”
“Note?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “His last words to Scot. It was in effect a suicide note. And by the time Scot got it, it was too late.”
I felt as if I’d just stuck my finger in a light socket.
“And you still have them?” I asked, even though he had just said he did.
He nodded.
I had to keep my eagerness under control, but it wasn’t easy. “Did the letters mention Morgan’s other writing?” I asked.
He leaned forward to put his coffee cup and the coaster on the coffee table.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “He said many times that writing was his way of hanging on to his sanity. He used writing to create a world that couldn’t exist for him in real life. He apparently wrote constantly… novels, I gather, but I’m not sure what type or how many. He said he could never dare to even try to have them published because, while he didn’t come right out and say so, I got the impression his protagonists were based upon his secret self, and quite probably gay. Actually, I find it very interesting that Morgan never once used the word ‘gay’ in a single one of his letters. He didn’t have to, of course, but I found it odd that even with Scot he was so uptight about it. Maybe he did in his writings, but I wouldn’t know.”
“He didn’t send any of his writings to Scot?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I’m sure Scot would have loved for Morgan to have shared them, but he understood. Morgan was undoubtedly afraid they might somehow fall into someone else’s hands and his true self would be exposed. Even in his letters, except for that last note, he tries so hard not to let his true feelings show, but they certainly wouldn’t fool anyone with even an ounce of perception.”
“And Morgan being so uptight didn’t bother Scot?” I asked.
Powers smiled. “Oh, I’m sure it did,” he said. “Scot was always totally comfortable with his own sexuality. But he understood Morgan, and he didn’t have to be told how Morgan felt about him. He was quite good at reading between the lines.”
“Why did you save them, if I may ask?” I said.
“Because Scot saved them,” he said. “They were important to him, and he kept them despite Morgan’s frequent instructions to destroy them immediately after reading them. He was so afraid someone might find out about who he really was. Terribly sad, really. But for me to dispose of them when Scot couldn’t would be…well, you know….”
I knew, and that knowledge made my next question a bit of a gamble. “Would you allow me to see them? They may hold a key to what I’m looking for.”
He was silent for a long moment, and then sighed. “No one else has ever seen them,” he said. “And of course I’d never show them to anyone who wasn’t…” He didn’t say gay, but he didn’t have to. I understood, and just nodded. “But if you think seeing them might somehow be helpful to you, of course.”
“Would you prefer I read them here, or may I take them with me?”
He smiled. “There are rather a lot of them,” he said. “You can take them with you, but…�
�
“I’ll take good care of them,” I interjected, “and will get them back to you as soon as I’ve read them.”
He smiled. “I’d appreciate that,” he said, then looked at me rather sadly. “I hope you understand…”
“I do,” I said. “Completely.”
“Would you like me to get them for you now?”
“If you don’t mind, please,” I said. “I don’t want to take up too much of your day.”
“Time is one thing I have plenty of,” he said, as he got up. “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I’ll be right back.”
The minute he left the room, my mind started racing so fast my thoughts were stumbling over each other in anticipation. Exactly what I expected the letters to tell me, I had no idea, other than perhaps to somehow provide incontrovertible proof that the books Evan Knight published under his own name and profited handsomely from had actually been written by Morgan Butler. How that confirmation would lead me closer to knowing whether Taylor Cates’ death was not an accident, I wasn’t sure. The obvious link/conclusion would be that Taylor Cates had somehow found out what Evan was up to, and Evan had killed him to keep his secret.
But why, then, hadn’t Evan simply disposed of all of Morgan’s papers? Why just leave a relative few?
Probably to hedge his bets. He couldn’t be sure that there weren’t other records somewhere that would show Morgan Butler donated his own papers with those of his father’s. And in case anyone did know that Morgan wrote, he left the two manuscripts—the completed one apparently wasn’t that good anyway, and the unfinished work, though showing a lot of potential, wasn’t that far along that Evan could have finished it himself.
My attention was snapped back to the present when Powers reentered the room with a small, hinged metal box, which he set on the coffee table in front of me. He took a seat beside me on the couch and pushed the small button which opened the box. There had to have been well over a hundred letters in there, all neatly opened and laid flat, each one paper-clipped to its envelope.
