by Dorien Grey
I only had a chance to read about five or six letters, spaced over a period of several months, before I glanced at my watch and saw it was time to go. Carefully replacing the letters I’d removed, I laid the notepad on the top and closed the lid. I carried the box back to Janice, thanked her, and left.
But instead of walking out the front door, I found myself climbing the steps to the main floor and going to the general fiction section of the stacks, where books were listed alphabetically by author. Sure enough, they had all of Evan Knight’s books. I picked up Fate’s Hand and opened it, turning quickly through the pages until I found what I was looking for. It didn’t take long. The character’s name wasn’t, as I remembered it, “Scott.” It was “Scot.” One t.
*
I arrived at the Carnival at about ten till four, early as usual despite having made a quick swing by Steamroller Junction to pick up our tickets for the Hospice benefit. Though I’d not been to the Carnival for a long time—since way before I met Jonathan, I now recalled—it hadn’t changed all that much. Happy hour started at four, and since it got a lot of after-work businessmen who weren’t off work yet, there were very few people in the place. No sign of Evan Knight, so I took a stool at the far end of the bar where I could keep my eye on the door. I ordered a Manhattan and had just paid for it and taken my first sip when I saw Evan walk in. He saw me and came over, not smiling. He took the stool next to me, and neither one of us offered to shake hands.
He all but ignored me until he’d placed his drink order, then turned to me. “So what do you want to know about Taylor Cates?” he asked.
Right to the point. Good, I thought. Apparently he wasn’t going to mention the night of the party, and I certainly wasn’t.
“How did you meet?” I asked.
The bartender brought his drink and he took a swig before setting the glass down. He was sitting facing straight ahead, his forearms on the bar, and only turned his head far enough toward me to answer. “Well, this whole thing with a separate library for the Collection sort of caught me off guard. I was on a long vacation in Europe, and when I got back it was all a done deal. The final plans were being made to transfer Chester’s collection from the estate to the new library. Apparently, some members of the board felt a little guilty about not having included me in the planning, so they asked me, since I’d done some cataloging for Mr. Burrows, if I would take over the preliminary recruiting and screening of applicants for the library staff. Irving McGill had already hired one, but it was clear he just couldn’t do everything. I was glad to help.
“I contacted Mountjoy’s library sciences department—that’s where McGill had found the first cataloger he hired—and they referred me to the Placement Bureau. I gave them my address for the submission of résumés, and one day less than a week later there was a knock at my front door, and I opened it to find Taylor standing there. He was so eager to get the job, he brought his résumé over in person. You have to give a guy like that credit.”
I nodded. “So you started dating him, then?” I asked, hoping I sounded nonaccusatory.
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye and gave me a suppressed smile. “I’d hardly consider it ‘dating,’” he said, “but we did get together a couple of times. As I said, he was really eager to get the job.”
Gee, I thought, if you can move that semitrailer out of the way, I think I’ll be able to read between the lines here.
“So what else did you know about him?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Not much. He had a pretty rough childhood, I gathered, and while he had a scholarship, he still had to work hard to make it through school. He had a lot of ambition and he was willing to do whatever it took to get ahead.”
I took another sip of my drink. “Meaning?”
“Meaning nothing,” he said. “He was a pretty serious guy, but he gave me the impression that once he set his mind to something, he kept at it until he got it. That’s one of the reasons I put in a good word for him with Irving McGill, and I was right. Taylor was a damned good cataloger and worked his tail off.”
Well, it sounded like a convincing story.
“So that was it as far as your relationship was concerned?” I asked.
He looked at me and cocked his head slightly. “That was it. And I hardly think our contacts could qualify as a relationship. We both got what we wanted, and that was all there was to it.” Apparently realizing how that last sentence might be interpreted, he hastened to add, “He wanted a job, I wanted to help the Burrows get a qualified staff.”
“Did you have many contacts with him after he got the job?”
“Other than running into him a couple of times at the library, not that I can remember.”
“At the time of Taylor’s death, he was working on the papers of Morgan Butler,” I said. “I understand you’d done some preliminary work on them, too, when they were still at the Burrows’ estate.” I actually didn’t know that as a fact, but I was following a hunch.
“Butler? Yes, I seem to recall I did some work on them. Several others, too.”
“Do you remember finding out anything particularly interesting about Morgan Butler?”
He had both hands around the base of his glass on the bar, and began turning it around, slowly. “Nothing particular that I recall. Like what?”
“Like Morgan Butler possibly being gay?”
The glass continued to turn. “No. Nothing like that. Of course I didn’t have time to read every single letter. Where did you get that idea?”
“I didn’t get it…Taylor did. He approached McGill about it. I looked through some of the letters, but I couldn’t find anything other than vibes that he might have been.”
Knight shook his head, hands still twirling his glass. “I really wouldn’t know about that…and what difference would it make if he were?”
“Point,” I said.
He noticed me looking at his hands and immediately picked up his glass for another long swallow, putting the glass back on the bar and folding his hands.
“What did you think of Morgan’s manuscripts?” I asked.
“I didn’t read them.”
“But you looked through them?”
“Just cursorily,” he replied.
“I was curious as to what you thought of them,” I said, “one writer to another.”
“As I said, I didn’t look at them too closely. I had a lot to do. The writing seemed…competent, as I recall. It’s been a long time…several years.”
“Not too long before your first book came out, if I remember right.”
“I don’t remember,” he said. “But you’re probably right. As soon as I found a publisher for A Game of Quoits, my first book, I stopped doing cataloging for Mr. Burrows.”
“Interesting coincidence,” I said, “but a lot of Morgan’s letters—the ones with the gay vibes—were to a guy named Scot. One of the main characters in Fate’s Hand is named Scot.”
He looked at me with no expression. “Wow, imagine that,” he said. “I wonder how many books have characters named Scott?”
I looked at him closely. “Spelled with only one t? Not many, I’d think.”
I couldn’t really tell in the artificial and dim light of the bar, but I swore I saw him flush for just an instant as he stared into his drink. Finally, he turned to me, the flush replaced by a look of what I can only describe as defiance.
“How about that?” he said, his voice tinged with contempt. “I guess it is a pretty small world after all.”
“So where did you come up with it?” I asked.
“Well,” he said, reaching for his drink, “obviously I must have picked it up subconsciously from the letters,” he said. “I was working on A Game of Quoits at the same time as I was cataloging the Butler papers. I guess I liked the name and used it in Fate’s Hand.”
He picked up his drink and drained it, then looked at his watch.
“Look,” he said. “I’ve got an appointment, and I’ve really got to go
. Are we about through here?”
I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “I appreciate your time. Thanks.”
He got up from his stool, took a bill out of his pocket and laid it on the bar, sliding it forward with his empty glass.
“Okay,” he said. “And I think you’re wasting your time on this Taylor Cates thing. He fell down the steps; he died. Too bad, but life isn’t always a mystery novel. Accidents happen.”
And with that, he turned and left the bar.
I sat there for a few more minutes, nursing the last of my drink and going over the just-finished conversation. He had a perfectly logical explanation as to why one of his book’s characters was named Scot with only one t. But why, then, had he flushed when I brought it up…if he indeed had flushed at all? Maybe I had just expected him to flush, so assumed I saw a flush when there was none.
I was aware that my mind…like one of those guys making balloon animals at a kid’s party…was busily doing something that I couldn’t quite recognize yet.
Well, I knew it would show me whenever it was ready. In the meantime, I finished my drink and headed home.
*
First thing Tuesday morning I called Marv Westeen. I didn’t expect that he’d be home, and I was right. There was a machine, though, so I left a message, including my home number in case he didn’t get home until later. I could have called McGill to ask if Westeen had a work number, but decided I could also ask Glen O’Banyon when I spoke to him.
I next tried the number for Zach Clanton, and the phone was answered by a woman, “Clanton residence.”
“Is Mr. Clanton in?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
I told her, adding I believed he might be expecting my call.
“Ah, Mr. Hardesty,” whoever it was I was talking to said. “Zachary did mention that you might call, and asked that you leave your number and he’ll get back to you.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Clanton,” I said, taking a chance that it was indeed Mrs. Clanton I was talking to. Since she had referred to “Zachary” instead of “Mr. Clanton,” I felt fairly confident it probably wasn’t the nanny or housekeeper. “Do you have any idea when that might be? I have a rather full schedule today.” I lied, but she didn’t have to know that, and I didn’t want to feel obligated to sit around the office all day just waiting for a call.
“He’s golfing at Birchwood this morning,” she said, “and should be home around eleven. I’ll have him call you when he gets in.”
“Thank you,” I said again. “I’ll expect his call.”
We exchanged good-byes and hung up. Golfing at Birchwood, eh, I thought. So much for him worrying about where his next meal was coming from—the Birchwood Country Club, being cheek-to-jowl with the Briarwood subdivision, was the most exclusive in the city.
I’d just finished my second cup of coffee and filled in the last blank on the crossword puzzle when the phone rang. I glanced at my watch: 10:15…too early for it to be Zach Clanton.
“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, dropping the pen into my open top middle desk drawer and closing it.
“Dick. Glen.” From the sounds in the background I guessed he was at court. “Want to join me for lunch? I gather you have some questions for me.”
“Yeah, I do,” I said. “I’ve got a call in to Zach Clanton, who his wife says is playing golf until about eleven—he’s supposed to call me then. And I left a message on Marv Westeen’s machine…I didn’t have a work number for him.”
“Ah, sorry,” O’Banyon said. “Marv’s been devoting all his time to the Hospice Project. The whole thing is more or less his and Bill Peterson’s baby. Marv’s set up an office in his home, but there is a separate phone line for it. I’ve got it in my book, and I’ll get it to you at lunch, okay? Twelve fifteen at Etheridge’s?”
“Sure,” I said. “See you there.”
William Pearson had mentioned the Hospice Project as the reason T/T was coming into town, but I was impressed to learn that Marv Westeen was a driving force behind it. AIDS was still taking a horrific toll in the gay community, and too many of the seriously ill really had no place to go. A hospice was a relatively new concept, but a terrific idea whose time had definitely come.
I was really hoping to hear from Zach Clanton before I had to leave for lunch, and once again luck was with me. At 11:20 the phone rang.
“Hardesty Investi…”
“This is Zachary Clanton returning your call,” the definitely-all-business voice said, cutting me off.
“Thanks for calling, Mr. Clanton,” I said. “I was won…”
“I assume you’re calling about the accident at the Burrows,” he said, “and I can save us both some time by telling you I know nothing whatever about it.”
Gee, thanks for the heads up, I thought. I was afraid I was going to have to try to figure that out all by myself. I was more than a little irked at being cut off twice in midsentence.
“So you didn’t know Taylor Cates?” I asked.
“Never met him, wouldn’t know him if I saw him. And frankly, I think this whole thing is a waste of time and money. It was an accident. The police have accepted it as such. Period.”
“Uh, I’m afraid it’s not quite as simple as all that. Cates’ death may well have been an accident, but the majority of the board members want it looked into, just in case, and that’s what they’ve hired me to do.”
“Yes, I know,” he said. “So, do you have any specific questions for me?”
He had me there. “Nothing specific at the moment,” I admitted. “I’m just in the process of contacting all the members of the board to find out anything I can about Taylor Cates or the circumstances of his fall—what he may have been doing in that particular part of the cataloging area at that time of night, for example.”
“I have no idea,” he said. “But my opinion remains that it was an accident and that trying to make something out of nothing is an enormous waste of time and money. Just how long do you intend to drag this thing out?”
While I was tempted to try to reach through the phone lines and grab him by the throat, I kept calm. “I’ve been hired to determine if Taylor Cates’ death was an accident or not,” I repeated. “As soon as I make that determination, it is up to the board to decide what to do next, if anything.”
“Uh huh,” he said. “Well, there’s nothing I can tell you.”
“I understand you were opposed to the entire idea of the Burrows Library; is that correct?”
“That’s no secret, obviously. I couldn’t see going to all the time and expense of creating an entirely new library from scratch when there are already more than enough well-established and well-qualified research libraries out there to handle it.”
“What do you know of the Collection itself?”
“Very little. I’m not particularly a bibliophile, and the subject matter is, frankly, of little interest to me.”
“So you’re not aware if anything in the Collection might be sufficiently controversial to warrant someone possibly taking action to prevent its becoming public knowledge?”
He snorted. “Hardly! Who cares what’s in a bunch of old books? If they’ve been published, they’re public record already.”
“I understand there are a number of unpublished manuscripts as well,” I said.
“Yes,” he said, “and I’ll bet most of those were unpublished for good reason…like being a bunch of crap, for example. My uncle would take anything from anywhere as long as it had the word ‘homosexual’ in it. I’d wager they could take fully three quarters of the stuff in that Collection and pitch it into the trash and nobody would either notice or care.”
“So why are you on the board?” I asked.
“Well, somebody had to be there to exercise some fiscal restraint. If it were left up to my cousin and some of the other board members, they’d have spent every cent of the bequest and then some.”
“What do you know of Collin Butler’s attempts to have his grandfather’s and fa
ther’s papers removed from the Collection?”
“Not much. I…his father’s papers, you said? I didn’t even know his father had any papers—Collin’s never mentioned them.”
“You know Collin Butler?” I asked, somehow a little surprised that he might.
“Yes. Known him for years. We played golf together this morning, as a matter of fact.” He paused for just an instant. “All I know is that he just wants his grandfather’s papers turned over to Bob Jones University, and I can certainly understand his wishes. It’s a much more fitting place for them.”
“I understand he’s threatening a suit against the Burrows to have them removed.”
He sighed. “Yes, well, the Butler papers are only a very small percentage of the entire Collection and certainly not worth going to court over, in my opinion. But I can understand Collin wanting them back. It is a great source of embarrassment to him to have his grandfather’s—and from what you’ve now told me, his father’s—name associated in any way whatsoever with anything hinting of homosexuality. Jeremy Butler was of the old school, and while he made financial arrangements for his wife, he left everything else to Morgan. I wouldn’t be surprised if Morgan’s bequeathing his father’s papers to the Burrows Collection wasn’t some sort of payback.”
“Payback?”
“Yes. Jeremy Butler had little use for anything or anyone who did not see things the way he did, and sons and fathers often disagree. I’m sure Jeremy made Morgan’s life more than a little miserable.
“Anyway, Collin is a graduate of Bob Jones, and is hoping for a seat on their Board of Trustees. The only reason he hasn’t already filed suit is because he doesn’t want to stir up a lot of controversy at this point in time. I’ve asked him to let me see if I can convince the board to give the papers up voluntarily. I certainly can’t see being dragged into court and incurring huge expenses just to keep one man’s writings. But they’re being obstinate, and I’m afraid Collin’s patience is wearing thin. I can’t blame him.”
“Would it be so terrible just to leave them where they are?” I asked. “I mean, in this day and age…”