by Dorien Grey
O’Banyon’s reference to Zach indicated that the other tuxedo—the one standing with us—was Marv Westeen, Chester Burrows’ gay nephew. Not a bad-looking guy, somewhere around forty. There was something about his face that I found puzzling until I realized it was devoid of lines or wrinkles…or character. The effect was rather like a nice-looking window-display mannequin come to life.
Evan Knight apparently took the announcement of a body being found in the basement as not particularly noteworthy—a form of writer’s stoicism, perhaps—and appeared to have other things on his mind…in this case, Jonathan. He’d hardly taken his eyes off Jonathan since we’d been introduced, and under normal circumstances my “Me Tarzan! Boy mine!” reaction would have fully kicked in by this point. But for some reason, I always find myself distracted by having someone turn up dead in my immediate vicinity.
Glen and Marv Westeen excused themselves to get things ready and moved off, but Evan made no attempt to go with them.
“So tell me, Jonathan,” he said, with a small smile, “are you a writer?”
Jonathan was obviously pleased that he’d think so, but said, “Oh, no. I’m just a reader.”
Knight reached out and touched Jonathan’s arm. “‘Just a reader’? Please, don’t sell yourself short. Where would writers be without readers? We’re symbionts, you and I.”
Gee, Hardesty, one of my mind-voices observed sweetly, don’t you wish you’d learned to read? Maybe you could be a symbiont then, too.
“What do you do, if I might ask?” Knight said, again speaking directly to Jonathan.
“I work at Evergreen Nursery,” Jonathan said. “I’m going to school for an associate’s degree in horticulture.”
“Really?” Knight said. “Good for you! Do you do landscaping?”
Jonathan looked a little perplexed. “Evergreen does,” he said. “I’m not in business for myself…yet. I’d like to be someday.”
Knight gave him a smile warm enough to toast bread. “I’m sure you will be,” he said. “I’ve just bought a new house in Briarwood, and I’m going to need some landscaping. Do you have a card?”
I had no idea whether his little web-spinning operation was as transparent to Jonathan as it was to me, but probably not. The fly seldom knows what’s going on. But the spider does. And so did I.
“No,” Jonathan said, apologetically, “I’m afraid I don’t.”
Knight gave him a little-too-warm smile. “No matter. Evergreen, eh? I’ll keep that in mind.”
I’m sure you will, I thought. I figured it was about time to break up this little courtship dance.
“If you’ll excuse us, Evan,” I said, “we should go find our friends before the ceremony starts.”
Evan gave me a knowing smile—I thought it had just the slightest hint of a smirk, actually—into which I read volumes. “Of course,” he said. “It was nice meeting you…both…and I trust I’ll see you later.”
We shook hands, and Jonathan, totally oblivious to the fact that he had obviously just been writ large on Knight’s menu board as “Special of the Day,” said, “I’d love to talk to you about your books sometime.”
“I’d like that,” Evan said. “Very much.” He shot me a very quick glance that, like his smile, spoke volumes.
“Gee, what a nice guy,” Jonathan said as we walked away.
Since my gut was telling me I couldn’t trust the “guy” any further than I could throw him—and I was tempted to try—I reserved comment.
We spotted Tim and Phil just as Bob and Mario came up behind us.
“What’s up with the police?” Mario asked. “I went to the bathroom, and they’ve got the stairway to the basement sealed off. There are cops everywhere. There are even a couple blocking the main doors. Talk about paranoia. My first thought was ‘Great, they’ve got us where they want us.’”
While I was pretty sure the show of strength wasn’t specifically to harass us, it was evidence of the fact that the police were still rather uncomfortable about dealing with situations involving large numbers of homosexuals—as if they never knew what we might do next.
“There was some sort of accident in the basement,” I said. “Somebody’s dead.”
“Any details?” Bob asked as the four of us approached Tim and Phil.
“None so far,” I said. “I’ll try to find out more later.”
By looking back toward the entrance, I could see Zach Clanton moving through the crowd toward the central service desk, where Glen O’Banyon, Marv Westeen, and several other members of the Burrows Foundation board had assembled by the jerry-rigged speaker’s platform.
Evan Knight joined the group and he, Westeen, Clanton, and O’Banyon mounted the platform. The crowd closed in around the service desk, and Glen moved to the podium.
“I’d like to welcome you all,” he began, “to the new Burrows Library….”
*
It took forever to get out of the place. The police were taking the names of everyone in attendance—which, again despite the vastly improved relations between the gay community and the police, was not received well by those who too clearly remembered the bad old days of bigotry and open harassment on the part of the department, when the taking of names could result in those names appearing in the newspaper, and the notification to employers and landlords that the person in question was involved in an investigation of homosexual activity.
While we were working our way slowly toward the main entrance, I managed to spot Glen O’Banyon still by the service desk, talking with a policeman, and I excused myself from the group to go talk with him. “I’ll meet you out front,” I told Jonathan, and inched my way upstream through the crowd. O’Banyon didn’t seem surprised to see me. He said something to the officer he was talking with and came over to meet me.
“I know it’s none of my business,” I said, “but I was wondering if you had any idea what’s going on?”
“Not much, I’m afraid,” he said. “The police aren’t saying much. All I could find out is that one of our catalogers, Taylor Cates, somehow fell down the back stairs leading to the rear exit and apparently broke his neck.”
“I thought the basement was closed,” I said. “What was he doing there?”
O’Banyon shrugged. “The cataloging areas are off-limits to just about everybody,” he said. “They usually keep it locked, so Taylor was there in case some board member might want to give someone a guided tour. It was Irving McGill who found him.” He motioned with a head nod toward a tall, almost skeletal redhead deep in conversation with two of the Foundation’s board members. McGill, I’d read, was the library’s new Director and head librarian, who had been brought in from Chicago’s Newberry Library.
“Then why would Cates be using the back exit stairs, I wonder?” I said.
“Good question,” O’Banyon said. “I have no idea. That stairway leads to an emergency fire exit—no one can use it from the outside, and an alarm would have sounded if someone had tried to open it from the inside. I can’t imagine why he’d be back there.”
“Maybe somebody was at the back door trying to get in?”
“Unlikely. There’s a big sign on the outside of the door telling people to use the front entrance. As I said, they couldn’t get in, and Taylor couldn’t have let anyone in without sounding the alarm. Apparently the police checked, and the door was locked.”
“Can the alarm be turned off?”
“I imagine so,” he said, “though I don’t know that Taylor even knew where the switch was, or why he might want to turn it off even if he knew how.”
“Well, I gather there are some pretty valuable manuscripts and documents down there,” I said. “Maybe Cates found something valuable and was trying to sell it.”
O’Banyon looked skeptical. “I really doubt it. From what little I know, Taylor’s character was above reproach. He was totally dedicated to his work, and just didn’t strike me as the kind of guy who might do anything illegal.” He thought a minute, then said, �
�Of course there’s no doubt there’s a lot of valuable material down there, and that’s why the cataloging area is treated like it’s Fort Knox. But it’ll be months before anyone has even an idea of the value of what’s there. The fewer people who have access to that area, the less the chance of someone walking off with something.”
The room had fairly well emptied out, and I saw Jonathan, who had apparently hung back waiting for me, talking with a policeman with a pad and pencil.
“I guess I’d better get going,” I said. “Thanks again for inviting us, and I’m sorry about the accident.”
We shook hands, and I moved toward the front entrance as Glen turned to walk over to join Irving McGill and the other board members.
Jonathan stepped away from the cop as I came up.
“Can I have your name, address, and phone number, please?” the cop asked politely. Since there’d been a death at a large gathering, I knew it was just routine, and I gave him the information, which he duly wrote down. Odds were overwhelmingly that Taylor Cates’ death had been an accident, but just in case, it was wise to know who had been in attendance if they had to do further checking.
“I told the others to go ahead and we’d meet them at Ramón’s,” Jonathan announced as we went down the steps and started toward the car.
*
Sunday was kind of fun, actually. Thanks to Craig, who was sleeping on the couch, Joshua went running to him the minute he woke up, and Jonathan and I were able to sleep about half an hour later than normal. When we got up, Craig, Joshua, and Bunny were at the kitchen table having a bowl of cereal and a glass of milk.
“Hi, Uncle Jonathan! Hi, Uncle Dick!” Joshua said happily in a stage whisper that made him sound as though he was coming down with some rare children’s ailment. But Craig looked up at us and grinned, then said to Joshua, “It’s okay, Joshua. We can stop playing now.”
“Playing?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes!” Joshua said brightly. “We’re playing ‘Whisper.’ I won, didn’t I, Craig?”
“Yep,” Craig replied, his face solemn. “Fair and square.” Then he reached out, and grinning, tousled Joshua’s hair.
“You want to come live with us?” Jonathan asked Craig, jokingly.
I could hear Craig’s mental “Yes!” clear across the room; I don’t think Jonathan caught it.
After Jonathan and I had our coffee and toast, Jonathan asked Craig if he’d like to go to the M.C.C. with him and Joshua, if his folks wouldn’t mind.
“Sure!” Craig said. “That’s the gay church, isn’t it? I’ve always wanted to go, but didn’t have anybody to go with. My folks always go to St. Mark’s. Can I go call them and ask?”
Without waiting for an answer, he got up and headed for the phone. I gave Jonathan a knowing smile and he looked totally puzzled. “What’s that for?” he asked, and I merely rolled my eyes to the ceiling. “Oh,” he said, finally making the connection. “Well, it’s okay if he comes with us, isn’t it?”
“Of course it is!” I said. “I’m sure he’ll enjoy it.”
“Yeah,” Jonathan said, glancing from Joshua to me “I just hope he doesn’t enjoy it too much, if you know what I mean.”
I knew. “Puppy love never killed anyone,” I said.
“I love puppies too,” Joshua said. “Can I have a puppy?”
*
While the three of them were at church, I read the paper. There wasn’t anything in there about the death of Taylor Cates, though there was a small piece in the Arts and Leisure section on the opening of the Burrows—obviously written well in advance of the event in order to get it in Sunday’s paper. The “G” word wasn’t mentioned, but I was nonetheless pleased to see we’d reached the point where large gay events were even mentioned in other than the gay press. It was a very small article but it was a start.
When the Three Musketeers returned from church, we took Craig with us for brunch at the Cove, a nice little family restaurant on the edge of The Central. Naturally, there was a large contingent of gays including one group of four obviously gay teenagers. Craig was immediately smitten by one of the group, and they spent most of brunch cruising one another despite Joshua’s persistent attempts to keep Craig’s attention focused on him.
Ah, youth!
*
I checked Monday morning’s paper for any mention of Taylor Cates’ death at the opening of the Burrows, and found nothing at all except for an obituary:
Taylor James Cates, 29, 2424 Beckham Place, died Saturday as a result of a fall. He was preceded in death by his parents, Peter and Yolanda Cates. Services will be at the McGraw Funeral Chapel on Tuesday at 2 p.m.
I really hate obituaries. In Cates’ case, twenty-nine years of a human life were reduced to two short sentences. Well, life ain’t fair sometimes.
May we quote you on that? a mind-voice asked.
I got wrapped up in some paperwork on a just-completed case when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch and was surprised, yet again, to see it was 1:15 already. Why hadn’t my stomach let me know?
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, picking up on the…yeah, you know by now… second ring.
“Dick,” Glen O’Banyon’s familiar voice said. “What’s your schedule tomorrow morning?”
“Clear at the moment,” I said without having to check. “Something I can help you with?”
There was only a slight pause, then, “There just might be,” he said. “Can you come by my office at, say, nine thirty?”
“Sure,” I said. I didn’t ask for details, since I’d worked with him long enough and on such a variety of matters to know that it could be any one of a number of things. He’d tell me in good time. “Oh, and thanks again for inviting us to the opening,” I said. “We had a nice time—that poor guy’s accident aside, of course. Have you found out anything else about it?”
“Actually, that’s what I want to talk to you about. I’m waiting for more information and hope to have it by this afternoon.”
You’re slipping, Hardesty, a mind-voice said, disapprovingly, and maybe it was right. My immediate reaction to his asking to see me had not been that it might be related to the accident.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you at nine thirty tomorrow, then.”
Well, if I hadn’t been curious before, I certainly was now. Being of a somewhat suspicious nature—and given the fact that I am a private investigator, after all—I had to wonder if Glen had reason to suspect Taylor Cates’ death just might not have been an accident—and what led Glen to think so. Well, there was little point in speculating until I knew more of what was going on.
*
Joshua greeted me at the door holding a Munchkin-sized loaf of bread in a Munchkin-sized wrapper.
“Look what I got, Uncle Dick,” he said happily, holding the bread out toward me at arm’s length.
“That’s great, Joshua,” I said as Jonathan came out of the kitchen for our now-traditional group hug. “Where did you find a loaf of bread like that?”
I should have learned by then that when you ask a four-year-old boy a question, you should, depending on the kid’s degree of enthusiasm for the subject, be prepared for a deluge of information, some of which may actually be related to the question. It seemed that the Bronson sisters, who ran the day-care center Joshua attended, had arranged with some other day-care centers to have the older kids tour a local commercial bakery. I learned this by patching together Joshua’s account of his adventure and Jonathan’s interspersed interpretations given between living room and kitchen and preparation of my Manhattan. At the end of the tour, all the kids had been given perfectly proportioned miniature loaves of bread.
It was only through Jonathan’s diplomacy and art of persuasion that the loaf had lasted this long, Joshua, of course, having wanted to eat it immediately. But Jonathan had promised that we’d make a very special dessert (toasted, buttered, and sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon) of it after dinner, and that seemed to hold Joshua at bay.
A
fter dinner I watched some TV while Joshua played on the floor. Jonathan, I was a little surprised to see, did not haul out his school books as usual, but instead sat reading (or rather “re-reading”) A Game of Quoits, a mystery novel by…guess who?… Evan Knight. I’d read it at Jonathan’s insistence right after he first got it, and had to admit it was pretty darned good. The guy had an uncanny ability to evoke the sense of time of the book, which was set in the late 1930s through the late 1940s, as were all his books. Considering he’d probably just been born around that time, I had to hand it to him.
*
I got off the elevator on O’Banyon’s floor at 9:20. Only 10 minutes early! I was proud of myself. The receptionist sent me back to the small waiting room just off O’Banyon’s private office, where his secretary, Donna, offered me a cup of coffee. Since I’d come directly from home without yet stopping at my office, I accepted the offer with thanks. My high opinion of her was reinforced when she remembered I took it black.
I was standing at the window, looking out over the city, when O’Banyon hurried in, briefcase in hand, surrounded by an almost palpable aura of business and efficiency.
“Hi, Dick,” he said, without stopping. “I’ll be right with you.”
He went into his office, followed by Donna with a note pad.
You know that old expression, “How the other half lives”? Well, Glen O’Banyon was pretty much “the other half.” He had more power, prestige, and money than I could ever imagine having, but somehow he still kept one foot firmly on the ground, and I admired him for it.
A moment later, Donna came out of Glen’s office and said, “You can go in now, Mr. Hardesty,” holding the door open for me. She indicated the now-almost-empty coffee cup in my hand. “I can take that for you, if you’d like.”
I smiled my thanks as I handed it to her, and she closed the door behind me. O’Banyon gestured me to a chair, and I sat.