The Paper Mirror (24 page)

But Collin Butler was largely a cipher. I was curious as to how Collin’s mother had reacted to Morgan’s death. Did she feel betrayed as well as abandoned? What had she told Collin about his father, and the circumstances of his death? Was
she
still living?

I know, I know…Taylor Cates. I had to stay focused on him, though the pull to learn more about Morgan was nearly overwhelming, and I had no idea why.

I was more than a little frustrated by not having had the chance to ask Collin Butler what, if anything, he might know about his father’s writings, and I determined to let things rest for a day or so and then try to contact him again. The most he could do would be to hang up on me…which, gathering from the tone of our just-completed conversation, was a very real possibility. But faint heart ne’er solved fair murder mystery.

I guess it all boiled down to this: if Morgan Butler had made copies of his manuscripts and if I could somehow get my hands on them, it would be not only conclusive proof that Evan Knight had committed plagiarism and fraud, but that the police might be convinced to open a complete investigation into the likelihood that he was responsible for Taylor Cates’ death.

But
… my mind said…and damn I hate “buts”…
if Taylor had indeed come across Morgan’s books somewhere in the Butler house…again, the attic would be the most likely place…and had read them, don’t you suppose he would have made the connection the minute he read Evan’s books?

Good question. But that’s assuming that 1) copies of Morgan’s original manuscripts existed; 2) Taylor had read them at the Butlers’; 3) he had also read them when they were published under Evan’s name; and 4) that he somehow had figured out what was going on. It’s possible that Taylor never read Evan’s books, though I can’t imagine dating a writer without being curious about what he’d written.

If all those assumptions were valid, why hadn’t Taylor then said something to someone? Perhaps he did…to Evan Knight, either in the form of a blackmail attempt (despite what T/T had said about his honesty) or in an incredible display of naiveté, which then got him killed.

But ifs and assumptions don’t hold up very well in a court of law. And a house of cards built on and of assumptions is a pretty flimsy house indeed.

*

I left the office around three, but what should have been a fifteen-minute drive to Wayne Powers’ home took nearly forty minutes, thanks to a burst water main, which had turned a major intersection into a lake and backed up traffic in all directions. We were finally diverted through a residential area, but even there the narrow streets held everyone down to a crawl.

Andy, standing just inside the closed screen door, greeted me with a frenzy of tail-wagging and butt-wiggling. I knocked and heard Wayne’s voice call, “Come on in, it’s open. I’m in the kitchen.” Making sure I had the box of letters securely under one arm, I knelt to give Andy a proper head-and-body rub “hello,” which was received with great enthusiasm and a demand for even more attention. Dogs and people are a lot alike sometimes. We then proceeded through the living room to the short hallway to the kitchen, Andy leading the way.

Wayne was standing at the sink, dishtowel in hand, just drying the last of a small stack of plates, which he then put into the cupboard to his left.

“Coffee?” he asked with a smile.

“If you’re having some,” I said. “I could go for a cup.”

He opened a door under the sink and draped the dishtowel over the rack. Then, reaching into the cupboard, he took out two large mugs, which he set on the counter.

“Black, right?” he asked as he poured the coffee.

“Right,” I said, and he just nodded.

“Have a seat,” he said, indicating the kitchen table with a nod of his head. I carefully put the box of letters in the center of the table, then pulled out a chair and sat down.

He handed me one of the cups, then sat down himself.

“So,” he said. “Did you learn anything?”

I took a sip of my coffee before answering. “Mainly just a verification that most of Morgan’s letters to Scot are missing from the Burrows’ papers.”

He shook his head. “How very strange. I wonder why that might be?”

“I think I have a pretty good idea.”

“Do you think it has anything to do with Morgan’s being gay?” he asked. “Who would care after all these years?”

“Trust me,” I said. “There was a good reason.”

He merely shrugged.

“Do you do much reading?” I asked. It was an out-of-the-blue question, but Wayne took it in stride.

“Oh, yes. Especially since Scot died.”

“Have you ever read Evan Knight?”

Wayne smiled broadly. “Of course! He’s one of my favorite authors; I’ve read everything he’s written. He has a character named Scot. Did you know that?”

As a matter of fact, I did. “Yes,” I said. “I was reading
Fate’s Hand
just the other day.”

“Wonderful characterization and sense of time,” he said. “Amazing how I identify with his writing so strongly.”

Amazing, indeed
, I thought.

“Did Scot ever read any of Knight’s books?” I asked.

Wayne’s enthusiasm dimmed slightly, and I was afraid the question might have brought him down, somehow. “No,” he said. “He died before Knight’s first book came out. Scot was an avid reader, and I’m sure he would have enjoyed them.”

Oh, I’m sure he would
, a mind-voice said.

Time for another subject change. “Do you know if Scot ever had any contact with Morgan’s son?” I asked.

Powers took a sip of coffee and set his mug on the table before responding.

“No, he never did.”

“You’re sure?” I asked, and he nodded.

“I’m sure. I asked him myself, once, but Scot said that Morgan was rather like the moon, with two distinct sides—the one he let Scot see and the one he didn’t. Collin…was a part of the side of Morgan that Scot never knew, and he sensed that Morgan didn’t want him to know. So he respected what he felt would have been Morgan’s wishes.”

“And you’ve never seen him, either?”

He shook his head. “Not that I’m aware of. I’ve only seen a picture of him, with Morgan, taken shortly before Morgan died.”

A picture?
my mind asked.

“A picture?” I asked aloud. I realized that I had never seen a picture of Morgan Butler, let alone his son. I was instantly curious on several levels. “Do you still have it, by any chance?”

Powers gave me a small smile. “Of course I do,” he said. “Again, it was Scot’s, and I would never throw anything of his away.”

I wondered why, if Morgan wanted to keep his…other side…private even from Scot, he would have given Scot a photo of himself with his son. But before I had a chance to ask, Powers answered.

“It was included with one of the last letters Morgan ever wrote Scot. The only way I know which letter is because Scot had paper-clipped it to the letter and envelope. The letter itself doesn’t mention it, which I felt was very odd. But I realize now, especially in light of his last letter, that he knew what he was going to do and wanted Scot to have something to remember him by…as if Scot would ever need anything to remind him. I suppose it was probably the last photo Morgan had taken, and perhaps Collin just happened to be in it. I don’t know.”

“Could I see it,” I asked, “if it’s not too much trouble?” I was hoping that it would not be.

“Of course,” he said. “It was just a small snapshot, but Scot had it blown up to an 8x10, though he put it away when he met me. As I’ve said, Scot was very considerate of my feelings. He knew I knew how much he loved Morgan, but he never wanted to rub my nose in it, as it were.”

He started to get up from the table, but I hastened to say, “No, you don’t need to get it right this minute. Later will be fine.”

“That’s all right. It will only take me a moment.”

Andy was obviously ambivalent about Powers’ leaving the room; he wasn’t sure whether he should follow his master or stay in the kitchen to keep a close eye on me lest I try to make off with the silver—or perhaps just in the hopes of getting a bit more attention from me. He apparently opted for the latter and as soon as Powers had gone, got up and came over to nudge my leg with his head.

Wayne returned a few minutes later carrying a framed 8x10 photo and a smaller snapshot, unframed, which he set on the table in front of me.

“This is what Morgan sent,” he said, indicating the smaller photo. “Scot had it blown up and framed after Morgan died.”

The photo was of an expressionless but rather handsome man with intense eyes—it was impossible to determine their color since the photo was in black and white. A young boy, around Joshua’s age, apparently standing on the chair in which the man was seated, rested his head on the man’s right shoulder and stared into the camera with the same impassivity as his father.

I realized that while I’d had absolutely no preconceptions as to what Morgan Butler looked like, my mind instantly recognized it as unquestionably him.

“I’d thought several times,” Wayne said as he returned to his chair and sat down, “about perhaps sending it—the original, that is—to Collin Butler. It must have been very hard for him growing up without his father. But I didn’t know how it would be received, and I certainly didn’t want to intrude into his life.”

“Well,” I said, “I can’t speak for him, of course, but if I were in his position, I’d be delighted to have it. It’s a snapshot, which means Scot’s blow-up is quite probably the only other copy in existence.”

I was silent a moment, trying to phrase my next question. Talking about an intrusion into someone else’s life…but finally I just let it out.

“I’ve been meaning to have a face-to-face talk with Collin,” I said, “but I didn’t know exactly how to go about approaching him. I was wondering if you might allow me to give this to him…if you don’t need it yourself?”

Wayne smiled. “Certainly. Scot would want for him to have it.”

We took our time finishing our coffee. I knew I was going to be late getting home, but I was absorbed by Wayne’s stories of Scot. At one point he got up from the table and went to bring me a photograph of Scot taken about the time the two of them had met. It was clear Wayne still worshiped him, and from listening to his stories and looking at Scot’s photo, I could see why.

“He was a very handsome guy,” I said, and Wayne smiled wistfully.

“Yes, he was, wasn’t he? I was very lucky to have found him, and to have had him as long as I did.”

I of course had no idea how it must feel to lose a lover like that, and I didn’t allow myself to go anywhere near thinking about what I’d do if something were to happen to Jonathan.

To forestall the possibility of doing so, I glanced at my watch. “Well,” I said, “I really should get going. Thank you for the photo, and I’m sure Collin Butler will appreciate it.”

“I hope so,” he said, as we both got up from the table, Andy immediately rising to his feet in anticipation of doing escort duty.

Both Wayne and Andy walked me to the door. I thanked Wayne again for all his help, and especially for the photograph. We shook hands and I bent to give Andy another vigorous body rub, and left.

*

Jonathan and Joshua had planned to stop by the photographer’s on the way home to drop off the proofs we had selected, so I had a few minutes when I got home to fix my Manhattan and settle down again with
A Game of Quoits
. We had four of Evan Knight’s…
No, damn it!
my mind corrected sternly,
Morgan’s!…
books:
Fate’s Hand
, which Craig had borrowed,
A Game of Quoits
,
Chesspiece
, and
Eye of Newt
. Knight had indicated there was another one forthcoming, and I wondered just how many more there might be. He was smart enough to space them out. I also wondered what he’d do when they were all published? Well, that sure as hell wasn’t my problem. With luck he’d be in jail by then.

*

Wednesday morning I called Butler’s home again, and the same—I assumed—woman answered the phone, and told me once again that Mr. Butler was not in.

“This is Dick Hardesty,” I said. “I spoke with Mr. Butler recently, but would you ask him if he could call me again? I have something I think he would like to have.”

I gave her my office number again and, just in case, my home phone. She said she would relay the message, and I thanked her and hung up. I hoped his curiosity would prompt him to call, despite his obvious reluctance to talk with me.

*

No word from him by four o’clock, so I just locked up the office and went home. It was Jonathan’s class night, which meant that Joshua and I would be left to our own devices again. Being alone with Joshua was becoming easier as time went on. I didn’t feel the need to constantly find things to fill up the time—four-year-olds generally find enough to keep themselves busy without having a schedule laid out for them.

Because we’d had to renege on our last plans to go to Joshua’s favorite restaurant, Cap’n Rooney’s Fish Shack, we made a point of going as soon as they got home, again taking both cars so that Jonathan could go directly to class after dinner.