by Dorien Grey
Everything? a mind-voice asked. Don’t promise what you can’t deliver.
“For whom are you working?” he demanded.
I didn’t want to go there, but it was a logical question.
“I’ve been hired by the Burrows Foundation to look into some missing papers…your father’s among them.”
“My father had no papers,” he said flatly. “You mean my grandfather’s papers, which the Burrows Library has illegally confiscated.”
Oh, God, I was afraid this was going to happen. Try to head it off while you can, Hardesty.
“I can assure you, Mr. Butler, that this has nothing whatever to do with your grandfather or your dispute with the Burrows. And if you’d just give me the chance to…”
He cut me off again. “Oh, very well,” he said, his tone making his displeasure clear. “Tomorrow, one o’clock at my home. I’ll give you fifteen minutes.”
I felt rather like Oliver Twist, standing in front of Mr. Bumble with an empty bowl in his hand, asking for more gruel.
“That’s very kind of you,” I said, taking great care not to let my sarcasm show. “I’ll see you at one tomorrow, then.”
I had Joshua safely bathed, pajama’d, in bed, read to (The Popsicle Tree, his favorite), prayers said (“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take. God bless mommy and daddy and Uncle Jonathan and Uncle Dick and everybody. Amen.”) and he was asleep before Jonathan got home.
*
I took some time Thursday morning, after my coffee/paper/crossword ritual, to sit back and think about exactly where I was…or wasn’t…with the case, starting with the Burrows’ opening night and Taylor Cates’ death. Taylor was found at the foot of a metal staircase at the back of the cataloging room, with no apparent reason for being in that part of the building. Was it possible that he had somehow turned off the alarm to let his killer—and I was certain at this point that there had been a killer—in for some reason? Too far-fetched. I was grasping at straws, and I knew it.
The theft of Morgan Butler’s book manuscripts, and by whom, wasn’t in question. They had been taken by Evan Knight long before Taylor Cates died.
And while I was leaning pretty heavily toward Evan Knight as the killer, I realized that I have been known to be wrong once or twice before when it came to being sure who’d done what to whom. There were still a lot of the puzzle pieces that just didn’t fall into place yet.
The missing letters, for example. Evan may well have gone through them and taken any that might have hinted at the existence of the manuscripts or of Morgan’s being gay. Possible. He had no way of knowing that Scot had kept all the originals. But I’d seen the originals, and nowhere in them were there references to Morgan’s writing books…only to writing. There were a few anecdotes and memories of things Morgan and Scot had shared together, which were somewhat similar to incidents I remember from the books, but only that one specific, nearly word-for-word link between Chesspiece and Morgan Butler’s letters. I could see Knight’s taking that one. But why all the others? I suppose it’s possible Knight took most of the letters referring to writing so that people wouldn’t get too curious about what Morgan wrote. But hell, lots of people write. I couldn’t imagine why Knight would have particularly cared about whether anybody found out about Morgan’s being gay or not—those clues were nebulous enough as it was.
But if Evan Knight didn’t take out all the missing letters, who did? And why?
Okay. Let’s say Taylor did it. I’m sure he’d read all of “Knight’s” books—and if Morgan had made a copy and somehow left it/them in his father’s attic, chances would have been good that Taylor’d read them as a kid and made the connection the minute he saw them published under Knight’s name. Or if there were no copies of the manuscripts, he may well have come across the little-old-lady-in-the-fog letter—if Knight hadn’t taken it first—and tied it definitely to Chesspiece. He may have confronted Knight over it, and it got him killed.
I realized, too, that my meeting with Collin Butler was really less about solving the crime than about satisfying my curiosity about Collin’s knowledge of and feelings toward his father. Being nosy just comes naturally to me, and I’d developed this inexplicable sense of connection to Morgan Butler. It was as if I somehow wanted to…what?…make things right for him? Maybe to give him in death the completion he never achieved in life.
*
I went downstairs to the diner in the lobby for an early lunch—they had a good corned beef hash special on Thursdays—and then walked across the street to the parking lot to pick up my car for the drive to Collin Butler’s. As I was pulling out of the lot between two parked vans flanking the drive so closely I couldn’t clearly see the oncoming traffic, I was nearly clipped by a shiny new Datsun 280zx. That alone was enough to get my adrenaline pumping, but what really got my attention was the glimpse I got of the driver—the guy looked exactly like Dave Witherspoon.
I pulled into the wide driveway at 7273 Crescent Drive—no street parking allowed—at exactly 12:55, having spent ten minutes driving idly up and down the neighboring streets to avoid being early. One of the city’s original wealthy neighborhoods, the streets were lined with large, elegant homes built in the early years of the century by the city’s more prosperous businessmen.
The Butler residence was surrounded by a tall wrought-iron fence around a spacious manicured front lawn flanked by ornate flowerbeds that all but shouted “professional gardener.”
Climbing the wide front steps, I crossed the broad front porch to the imposing beveled-glass double front doors and rang the bell. After a moment, the right-hand door was opened by a tall woman in a dark grey dress. No makeup, her greying hair pulled back.
“May I help you?” she asked, pleasantly enough but with no smile.
“I’m here to see Mr. Butler,” I said. “My name is Hardesty.”
“Yes,” she said. “Please come in.”
I followed her across the highly polished oak floor, past the sweeping balustraded stairway which smelled slightly of lemon oil, noting a cavernous living room to our left and formal dining room to the right. I somehow got the impression that when Collin Butler was a child, he did not have to depend on a paper route for his spending money. She rapped lightly on a closed classic-paneled door just behind the stairway and opened it without waiting for a reply. She stood aside as she held it open for me, and closed it behind me when I’d entered.
The room—the study/library obviously—was lined with glass-fronted bookcases. Between two tall windows, the top quarter panels of which being beautiful floral-patterned stained glass, the lower three-quarters being clear beveled glass, was a large but comfortable looking desk, and behind the desk sat a man about my age whom I recognized immediately from the snapshot I was carrying in my shirt pocket. Collin Butler was the spitting image of his father, and it gave me a very odd feeling.
He did not get up as I entered. I walked over to the desk and extended my hand across it. He leaned forward to take it, then motioned me to a wingback chair to the right and in front of the desk. To one side of each window was a portrait; on the left, a dour-looking man with a bible cradled in his right arm. I recognized him from somewhere as being Jeremy Butler; on the left a regal-looking woman I assumed to be his grandmother, Gretchen Butler.
“I appreciate you seeing me,” I said as I sat down, and his response was a mere flicking of one hand, which reminded me of a king acknowledging the allegiance of a courtier.
“And what of this photograph?” he said, obviously intending to stick to the fifteen-minute time frame.
I reached into my pocket for the photo and half rose from my chair to hand it to him, then returned to my seat. He studied the picture for what seemed like an eternity without looking up.
“You look very much like your dad,” I said at last, which seemed to pull him back to the moment.
“Really?” he said casually. “I don’t see it.
” He set the photo on the desk in front of him, almost reluctantly, it seemed. “So exactly how did this come into your possession, again?”
“Indirectly from a friend of your father’s,” I said. “They served in the navy together and remained close”—I watched him for any reaction to the word—there was none—“until your dad’s death.”
While “close” had elicited no response, “death” produced a flicker of…something …across his face.
“I appreciate you bringing it to me,” he said. “I have very few photographs of my father. My mother found them too upsetting. She never recovered from his death, I’m afraid.”
“Is she still living?”
He nodded. “Yes, she remarried when I was seven and is living in Florida with my stepfather, who officially adopted me after they married.”
“But you kept your father’s name,” I observed.
He looked at me expressionless. “It was my grandfather’s name,” he said.
There was a rather awkward pause until he said, “So exactly what is it you expect me to give you in return?”
Normally, a remark like that would have pissed me off royally. But I let it pass. “I don’t expect anything in return,” I said, which of course wasn’t true and he knew it. “Except perhaps a little information,” I amended. “I was wondering if you might know anything of your father’s writing.”
He raised an eyebrow slightly. “Writing? What writing? And what ‘papers’ were you referring to when you said the Burrows has some of my father’s papers? And some of them are missing?”
“Your father, from what I’ve learned, was a talented writer who never allowed his books to be published. I have reason to believe someone stole his manuscripts and a number of his personal letters. I was wondering if you knew if there might be any copies of his manuscripts somewhere?”
“I know of no manuscripts. I had no idea he wrote at all,” he said. “But you see why I cannot trust my grandfather’s writings to a place like the Burrows Library, especially if their security is so lax that they cannot even keep what they have. His papers deserve far more respect than they can receive where they are. They will be much better off at my alma mater.”
“Bob Jones University?” I asked, though I knew.
“Yes. It is a much more fitting place for them than…the Burrows.” His tone left little doubt as to what he thought of the Burrows Library.
“And your father’s papers?” I asked, curious as to what his reaction might be.
“I expect them to be returned as well,” he said, “even though I was not aware they existed until you mentioned them.”
“You would give them to Bob Jones as well?”
A look of mild distaste crossed his face. “My grandfather was a prominent figure in the religious movement. He was an important man. A leader. A visionary. My father was…not. The University would have no interest in them, I’m sure.”
“Then you would leave them at the Burrows?” Again, I was watching his reaction.
“Of course not!” he said, making no attempt to hide his contempt. “I do not intend to have the Butler name in any way associated with such a place.”
“Were you aware that Taylor Cates was cataloging your father’s papers at the time of his death?”
“I had no idea,” he said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Coincidence, perhaps. But I believe his death was related to your father’s missing papers in some way, in spite of the fact that he was working on them for only a short time before he died.”
Butler looked taken aback. “So you’re telling me that just anyone wandering around that…place…has ready access to my family’s private papers? That’s outrageous!”
“Access to the private papers in the Burrows Collection is under strict supervision. There was as far as I know only one other cataloger working with them. Taylor took over from Dave Witherspoon, the original cataloger. To the best of my knowledge, no one else worked with them. They are really quite professional at the Burrows.”
My explanation did little to change his mood.
A grandfather clock somewhere chimed the quarter hour. Butler, still agitated, looked in its general direction and said, “Our time is up. I’m expecting a call from Bob Jones University any moment.”
I was in no hurry to leave. “I understand you are up for a seat on their Board of Trustees.”
“I have no idea how you might know that, but yes, I am. It’s a great honor and I’ve worked very hard for it.”
“Well, I wish you luck.”
He looked at me dismissively. “Thank you. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
I got up from my chair, and he remained seated.
“Thank you for your time,” I said, stepping over to extend my hand again. He took it and gave it a cursory shake.
“Mrs. Barlow will show you out,” he said.
He must have had some sort of buzzer on his desk, for the door opened and the same woman who had met me at the door appeared.
As I followed her into the foyer, I heard a phone ringing.
CHAPTER 11
Thinking back over our meeting as I drove back to the office, the one thing that struck me about Collin Butler was his seemingly total lack of a personality. I’m sure he had to have one, but he certainly hid it well. He reminded me, in a way, of Morgan’s letters to Collin’s mother and grandfather: efficient, but almost perfunctory. The only emotions I had witnessed in him seemed to be variations on displeasure. The Butler name—his grandfather’s name, that is—was obviously very important to him, as was his anticipated appointment to his alma mater’s Board of Trustees. But I wondered if, like his father, he might not have an awful lot going on beneath the surface that he would or could not allow himself to express. I still didn’t know if there might be a Mrs. Collin Butler, though I certainly didn’t get even the most remote hint that he might be, like his father was before him, locked in a closet.
On reflection it also occurred to me that, while Collin strongly resembled his father and was therefore a very nice-looking man, I didn’t find him the least bit sexually attractive. I hadn’t really thought much before about the relationship between sex appeal and personality, but I realized that for me, at least, there was a definite link. Odd how the mind works.
It was pretty obvious, too, that Collin Butler really didn’t know very much about his father, and from what he said about never having seen photos of himself with Morgan, that said quite a bit. He may have been lying about not knowing about Morgan’s writing, and that he didn’t know about any of Morgan’s manuscripts, but I tended to believe him, especially since I’d pretty much come to the conclusion, even before I went to see Collin, that Morgan hadn’t made copies. But I had to check. And I was fairly sure that, considering the gay nature of the books and Collin Butler’s reported homophobia, that if Collin did know about them, he’d have reacted to my question a little more defensively.
I wondered again just how much Collin might know about his father’s death, or the reason for it. I thought of that terribly sad last note Morgan had written Scot. What a waste! What a waste!
*
And suddenly I found myself heading not for my office but for the Burrows. My mind was doing it again…it knew something I didn’t, and it wasn’t telling me exactly what it was. But I knew it had something to do with Morgan’s last notebook….
I did not bother stopping to call ahead to let Irving McGill know I was coming, or when I got to the library, going up to his office. Instead, I went directly downstairs and rang the bell to the cataloging room. I saw, through the wire-meshed glass of the door, Janice glance toward me and turning to say something to someone else. A moment later, the cute redhead came to the door and opened it.
“Well hello, Dick Hardesty,” he said with a big grin.
Any other time, my crotch and I would have been delighted that he remembered my name, but I had no time for that at the moment.
“I need to see Morgan
Butler’s papers,” I said as he held the door open for me and closed it behind me. “Box 12-A,” I added.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll go get it. You can use that table over there.” He nodded toward a small empty table next to the one at which Janice was working on a stack of manila folders. She smiled, nodded a hello, and went back to her work.
While I waited, I looked around the room for Dave Witherspoon, but didn’t see him.
“Is Dave here today?” I asked Janice.
She stopped writing on her note pad and looked up. “No,” she said, “He was here this morning, but left a little after noon. He had a doctor’s appointment.”
And I suddenly remembered the shiny new Datsun 280zx that had almost hit me as I pulled out of my parking lot at work. I wondered if I had been right, and it was Dave Witherspoon who was driving. If so, I wondered how he could afford a new car and a trip to Cancun on a cataloger’s salary.
The redhead brought the box and set it on the table, handing me a sign-in sheet and a pencil. “Now that we’re getting organized,” he explained.
“I’ll just be a minute,” I said as I signed the paper and returned the pencil to him.
“Shall I wait?” he asked with a more-than-slightly sexy smile.
Please do! my crotch said, ignoring my resolve to get to what I’d come in for.
“If you’d like,” I said. “As I say, I’ll just be a minute.”
I opened the box, pulled out the notebooks, and went quickly to the last one. Opening it to the last page, I studied the small strip of paper left where the page had been torn out. Sure enough, there wasn’t one torn strip, but two!
Morgan had made a copy of his farewell note!
He’d sent the original to Scot…so where was the copy? Probably removed with the other letters, and probably by Evan Knight.
I put the notebooks back in the box, closed the lid, and took the pencil the redhead handed me with another smile. I signed the check-in/out sheet and gave the sheet and the pencil back to him.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” he asked.
