The Paper Mirror (23 page)

I’ve always suspected that for many writers, books are a more sure form of posterity than children. Books live longer than sons or grandsons, or great-grandsons, by which time all personal memories of the line’s founder are largely lost. But words can last forever and are a direct and personal link to the writer.

Then why did I think Morgan
hadn’t
made copies of his books? Well, for one thing, writing in a spiral notebook would have made making copies pretty cumbersome, unless he tore out every other page, and there was no evidence of that…only the last notebook of the second manuscript appeared to have had any pages missing. And since Morgan’s last note to Scot had been on spiral notebook paper, I’d bet it was torn from the unfinished book.

So fucking sad!
my mind said, but I forced myself not to pursue the thought any further.

Maybe, again, I was projecting way too much of myself into him, but it struck me that Morgan also may well not have made copies because he really didn’t need to; he had no intention of their leaving his possession while he was alive. Letters are by their very nature intended for someone else to read. I didn’t think Morgan ever intended for anyone else to see his books…at least not in his lifetime. He probably felt they revealed far too much of a side of his life he had to keep hidden. And I felt sure that if he would have shared his books with anyone on earth, it would have been with Scot. But from what Wayne Powers had indicated, apparently he had not.

I thought again how sad it was that people have to hide part of themselves even from the people they truly love. Even Morgan’s letters to Scot were largely guarded.

No, if I was right, his books were his way—the only way he felt he had—to set his soul free…and he wouldn’t even allow that to happen until after he was dead. I’m sure he took comfort in knowing they would be there long after his death. And perhaps he harbored a hope that they might eventually be published.

So, again, there were probably no copies of his books. The originals were enough. But now they were gone.

Then why would Evan Knight go to the trouble of killing Taylor Cates or anyone if he had the only copy of the book(s) in his possession? And if I were him, I’d have destroyed the original immediately after copying it. Evan may have been a bottom feeder, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Morgan made copies of his handwritten letters. If the other manuscripts—and there was no doubt in my mind that there were other manuscripts—were also written in spiral notebooks he may very well have assumed, as I did, that making a copy would be next to impossible. But he couldn’t know for sure. And neither, I knew, could I.

Even if Morgan had made copies, that Taylor Cates may somehow have found them struck me as nearly impossible: Evan had access to the entire collection long before Taylor came along. And Taylor was only working with the materials brought over from the Burrows estate. Evan had undoubtedly taken the time to remove the bulk of Morgan’s letters to Scot—and with them any overt clue of Morgan’s being gay. Surely he would also have taken the time to check for copies of the manuscripts.

But if there were, despite all my neat conjectures, by any possibility, copies of Morgan’s books, there was only one person who might know where they were: Collin Butler, Morgan’s son. And if Collin had read them, it probably wouldn’t take him long to have figured out his dads’s secrets.

I was increasingly tempted to try to contact Collin Butler to resolve the question, but I was more than a little hesitant to do so. I understood Collin was, like his grandfather before him, a rabid homophobe, and I do not suffer homophobes gladly. I wondered again just how much Collin Butler knew about his father. And I wondered, too, just what Collin thought of the father who had in effect abandoned him when he was no older than Joshua is now. Did he have any idea what drove Morgan to it? How could he?

Still, if I was to figure out what Taylor Cates could have known or found out to have Evan Knight kill him, I couldn’t overlook the possibility, however remote, of there being copies of the manuscripts, and that Taylor somehow found out about them.

*

As so often happens, my dilemma about whether or not to contact Collin Butler was resolved by the ringing of the telephone, which, since I’d been so immersed in my thoughts, startled the hell out of me.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick, Darlin’, it’s Teddy.”

I was totally surprised, but pleasantly so, to hear from him. “Teddy! You made it back safe and sound, obviously.”

“That I did, sugar. Like I told you, I do my best rememberin’ when I’m asleep, and sure enough, I dozed off on the plane, and when I woke up I remembered the name of that nice white lady who helped Taylor get his scholarship. Her name was Gretchen Butler, an’ she lived in a big ol’ house on Crescent Drive. I still can’t think of her grandson’s name, though, but as soon as I do I’ll call and tell you.”

He didn’t have to. I knew the name already. “His name’s Collin,” I said.

CHAPTER 10

I managed to get through the rest of the conversation with Teddy, who seemed duly impressed with my detecting skills, and confirmed that the grandson’s name was indeed Collin, though my mind was of course off at a full gallop in several directions at once. We hung up after a mutual exchange of affection and good wishes and shared pleasure at having had the chance to get together.

The minute I hung up the phone, I reached for the phone book. And there it was: Butler, Collin, 7273 Crescent Drive. He apparently still lived in his grandmother’s house, and I briefly wondered if she were by any chance still alive.

I dialed the number and waited, not having a clue as to what I was going to say if he were actually there. But I was pretty good at winging it, and I was too impatient to sit down and write out a list of questions first.

“Butler residence,” a woman’s voice—too young-sounding to be the grandmother—the wife?…the maid?…answered.

“Is Collin Butler in?”

“No, I’m sorry, he’s not. May I take a message?”

I had no idea who I was talking to, but I guess it didn’t matter at the moment. “Yes, if you would,” I said. “My name is Dick Hardesty, and I’m with Hardesty Investigations.” I gave her my number and asked if she would ask him to return the call.

“I’ll do that, Mr. Hardesty,” she said, and we exchanged good-byes and hung up.

There’s nothing so intriguing as a newly opened can of worms, and to have learned that Taylor Cates knew the Butler family merely reconfirmed my suspicion that Taylor had somehow made a link between Morgan Butler and Evan Knight. I still had no idea exactly what the link might be, but perhaps Collin Butler just might be able to provide a significant piece of the puzzle.

*

I hung around the office a little later than normal in case he might return my call, but he didn’t, so I headed home. Jonathan was planning to stop by the photographer’s to pick up the proofs on his way home, and I’d volunteered to stop at the store to pick up a few things, including a jumbo box of Crunchy-Os, Joshua’s current cereal of choice. Either it was a very big box with very little cereal in it, or the kid was packing it away like a truck driver…the last box we’d gotten had lasted less than a week.

I beat them home by only five minutes or so, just long enough to put most of the stuff away and fix my Manhattan. When I heard the door open, I pulled out Jonathan’s Coke and I poured a small glass of Kool-Aid for Joshua.

Jonathan’s enthusiasm over the pictures had rubbed off on Joshua, who insisted we sit down and look at them immediately after our group hug. There were about twenty-four shots in all—about eight each of the three of us in casual and less-casual clothes, and another eight of Joshua alone. I always hate seeing pictures of myself, but I had to admit these were pretty good. We’d decided we’d get an 11x14 of the three of us, another 11x14 of Joshua dressed up, two 8x10s (one for Jonathan’s dad—Joshua’s grandfather—and one for us) and a dozen wallet-size of one of Joshua in his regular clothes, half of them for sending to relatives in Wisconsin. Of course I made the mistake of asking which one of himself Joshua liked best. “All of them!” he said. Let’s face it, the kid’s a ham.

*

I brought the box with Morgan’s letters to work Tuesday, intending to swing by Wayne Powers’ place after work. I’d called him the night before to verify that he’d be home, and after my morning coffee/paper/crossword ritual, I couldn’t resist the temptation to pull them out and read them one more time, to see if there might have been anything I’d missed. Each time I read them, Morgan became more real to me, and the more strongly I felt his situation. He clearly knew, I think, that he was doomed: a life sentence of self-imprisonment in his closet with no chance for parole. Yet the door was locked from the
inside
and I could tell he knew it. God, I felt for the guy. And my empathy was mixed with not a little anger.
Just open the damned door, fer chrissakes!
my mind all but yelled at him across the years. But he couldn’t, and we both knew it.

Sigh.

I couldn’t be quite certain if, with each reading, I was getting better at reading between the lines or if I was just subconsciously putting in things I wanted to be there, but I really didn’t think it would be too difficult for anyone with an ounce of savvy to see Morgan’s love for Scot.

I looked closely for other instances, similar to the lady-in-the-fog incident, that I could tie directly to one of his…excuse me, one of Evan Knight’s…books. But I couldn’t. I determined to go back and read all the books again, carefully, to see if anything rang a bell from the letters. I was sure Wayne Powers would give me access to the letters again if I needed to check anything specific.

Just as I was finishing the last of the letters, the phone rang.

“Hardesty Investigations.”

“Dick Hardesty?” the male voice asked.

“Yes,” I said, hoping this might be the call I was waiting for. “Can I help you?”

“This is Collin Butler.” Four words crammed with no-nonsense. “You called my home yesterday. My attorney had mentioned you.”

“Yes, I did, Mr. Butler,” I began. “I was…”

“What is it you want?” he asked.

Well let me finish a sentence and maybe you’ll find out
, I thought.
Oh, well…
I recognized a good-offense-is-the-best-defense ploy when I heard one.

“I understand you knew a Taylor Cates,” I said.

“Well, you understand wrong,” he said. “I’ve never heard of him. What has any of this to do with me?”

“Actually, this might go back a few years,” I said. “Taylor’s mother worked for your grandmother at your home on Crescent Drive. I understood that you knew him at that time.”

There was a slight pause then. “Taylor Cates. Negro. Yes, I remember him now. And it’s been more than ‘a few’ years. He was one of grandmother’s projects.”

“Projects?” I asked.

“Yes. Grandmother became an unregenerate liberal after the death of my grandfather, always taking on lost causes, helping the ‘downtrodden.’ Wasting both her time and her money on ingrates.”

“So, how was Taylor a ‘project’?” I asked.

“Taylor’s mother was Grandmother’s cleaning woman, and he was constantly here with his mother. While she worked, he read. We have an extensive library, thanks largely to my late grandfather, and Taylor read everything he could get his hands on. All with Grandmother’s approval and encouragement. She even let him wander around in our attic where there were even more books.”

And manuscripts?
my mind-voices asked.

“When was the last time you saw him?”

“He was at Grandmother’s funeral. There was quite a contingent of Negroes at the cemetery—the service itself was by invitation only—and I recognized him there.”

“Were you aware that he died?”

“No, I wasn’t. And I still don’t know why you’re calling.”

“Actually, I am looking into Taylor’s death, and I had some questions about your father.”

“My father is dead,” he said with no trace of emotion. “He has been dead for many years. I can see no possible connection with whatever it is you are looking for.”

“Well, it’s a long story, I’m afraid,” I said. “I was wondering if we might get together for a few minutes at your convenience and I can explain.”

“Mr. Hardesty…” his voice reflected a weary impatience “…I am a very busy man, and while I have no idea what your object is in contacting me, I simply have no time to indulge you.”

“But if you…,” I began.

“I really must go,” he said. “Good-bye.”

And there was the click of the receiver being hung up, followed by a dial tone.

Well, that was fun
, I thought as I put the phone back on its cradle.

Still, I felt I’d confirmed quite a bit even though I hadn’t learned anything new. Taylor having spent a lot of time at the Butler house, for example, and having had access to not only the library but to the attic where, I’d imagine, copies of Morgan’s books—assuming now that there
might be
copies—would most likely have been kept.

Collin’s complete lack of emotion when he mentioned his father rather puzzled me. I got no clue from it as to what Collin Butler either knew or felt about his father’s death. Perhaps he knew nothing, or did not choose to know. He was only four when Morgan died. It’s quite possible he didn’t even remember him. I’m sure that’s one of the reasons Jonathan was constantly telling Joshua stories of Sheryl and Samuel, and how much they loved him and of how they were always watching over him from heaven. It seemed to comfort both Joshua
and
Jonathan. At least Joshua would grow up knowing his father loved him and had not left him willingly.