by Dorien Grey
It wasn’t until Joshua was in bed and asleep that I had a chance to fill Jonathan in on everything that had happened during the day.
“You mean Evan didn’t write all those books?” he asked, incredulous. “I knew he wasn’t the nice guy I thought he was at first, but that he’d steal another writer’s books? And then kill somebody?” He shook his head. “Wow.”
He was quiet for a minute, then looked at me, his face serious. “I guess it’s true what they say.”
“What’s that?”
“You can’t tell a book by its cover,” he said, and grinned.
I groaned and reached over to grab him by the back of the neck. “Time for bed, Jonathan,” I said.
“Make me!” he said, defiantly.
“My thought exactly.”
*
Ever since I first discovered sex, I have noticed that it is an excellent way to relieve tensions, and I awoke the next morning feeling much more positive about the world in general. A case was, after all, just a case, and they aren’t always pleasant. I was truly sorry Dave Witherspoon was dead, but I couldn’t let myself take the blame for it.
Joshua, in the few minutes before his before-bedtime bath, had apparently picked up a new word from a medical show we’d been watching on TV: hyperventilating. He must have used it six times during breakfast. He wasn’t, he assured me when I told him not to play with his cereal, playing with it, he was hyperventilating it. The fact that he had no idea what a word meant didn’t slow him down. If he liked it, he used it.
“As soon as you’re old enough to read,” Jonathan told him, “we’ll get you a dictionary so you can look up words to see what they mean.”
“I can read now!” the boy responded, and in fact he could make out quite a few of the more common words in his story books. “I’m hyperventilating,” he said firmly, as though that settled the debate once and for all.
*
I arrived at Wayne Powers’ house right on time (I was getting much better at not arriving fifteen minutes early every time I went somewhere), and was greeted at the door by an eager Andy, butt and tail both waggling. Wayne invited me into the kitchen for a cup of coffee, and had the box of letters open on the kitchen table.
Having read all the letters at least twice—and, in the case of those that hadn’t been removed from the Burrows Collection, four times—I was able to move through them rather quickly as we sat and drank our coffee. I set aside those few which had direct reference to incidents in the books, and those in which he talked about writing constantly. There were maybe fifteen letters when I finished. And when I reached that final letter—which of course I did not take, since it had no bearing on the plagiarism—I wondered again what had happened to the copy torn from the spiral notebook.
Wayne and I had another cup of coffee and talked for a few minutes after the letters I wasn’t taking were returned safely to the box. The more time I spent around Wayne, the better I liked him. He was, as Morgan had been, a high school English teacher, and retired about the time that Scot died. He’d traveled extensively, read vociferously, and had many interests. I told him about Jonathan and Joshua and something of my life, and he had the tact and diplomacy to at least appear to be interested. Andy, with his head on my lap, was obviously enraptured hearing me talk…as long as I kept stroking his head.
I invited Wayne to have dinner with us as a small token of my appreciation for his help, and I knew Jonathan would enjoy meeting him. He accepted with thanks, and I told him we’d call to set up a date.
While he went to get me a manila folder to put the letters in, I asked if I could use his phone to call the City Annex to see if Marty might be in. I thought I might be able to go directly there from Wayne’s house rather than going to the office first. But no luck on that one; neither Marty nor Detective Carpenter…Dan Carpenter, I learned…was in, but I left my office number and asked them to call.
*
There were two calls waiting when I got to the office, Glen O’Banyon and Marty. I tried Glen first, in case he might have something for me I could pass on to Marty. I was both surprised and relieved when I was put right through.
“Hi, Dick,” he said. “Just wanted to let you know that I sent one of my junior associates down to probate to check Morgan Butler’s will. It took a while for them to find it, since they put records in storage after ten years, but he found it. There is no specific reference to any books, though the bequest to the Burrows Collection does state ‘all personal papers,’ which would cover them.”
“Ah, good,” I said. “Now we have to find out if there are any more unpublished works out there. Will you be initiating a suit against Evan Knight for the books he already published?”
“I think we’ll hold off a bit on that until we see how this murder thing goes,” he said. “But I’ve called a meeting of the board for tonight at nine at the Burrows. Can you make it? I think the board would like to hear everything directly from you.”
“Sure. But isn’t nine a little late?”
“The library’s open until nine,” he said. “And this will give us more privacy, and give everyone time to have dinner first. Use the side entrance and come to the conference room next to McGill’s office.”
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll see you at nine.”
As soon as we hung up, I called the City Annex and asked for Marty’s extension. The phone was picked up immediately.
“Detective Gresham.”
“Marty, Dick. I got the letters. Do you want me to bring them over?”
“Actually,” he said, “we were just on our way out. Things are really moving in the Witherspoon case. Are you going to be at your office? We’ll stop by there as soon as we can. We can pick up the letters and fill you in on what’s happening.”
“Great! I’ll be here. You know where my office is, I assume?” Marty had never been here, but I had worked with the department long enough that I was pretty sure they knew where I could be found.
“Yeah, I know. We’ll see you when we get there, okay? Sorry I can’t be more specific on the time.”
“No problem,” I said. “Later, then.” And we hung up.
*
As soon as I got to the office, I made copies of all of the letters in the manila envelope and put them in another folder. The police didn’t need the originals, I was sure, and this way I could get them back to Wayne without delay. I was tempted to go over Morgan’s letters one more time, but as I was making a fresh pot of coffee my mind started wandering again to Dave Witherspoon’s death, and why he had been killed at the Burrows rather than at his own apartment, which had been ransacked. Knight apparently knew Ryan was out of town—how I didn’t know—and might have called Dave and lured him to the Burrows so he could be sure no one would be home when he ransacked the place.
But that didn’t make even an iota of sense if he was going to kill the guy anyway. He couldn’t be in two places at once, obviously. He either had to be ransacking the apartment or at the Burrows killing Dave. It was possible, of course, that he’d killed Dave first and then gone to the apartment. But then, again, why didn’t he just kill Dave at the apartment?
Well, maybe Marty could fill in some of the details. I wondered if they had arrested Knight, or if they’d gotten a search warrant for his house. I sure did hope they’d put the manuscripts on the warrant! Were there any more books? If so, how many?
And again I blamed myself for having confronted Knight and told him I knew about Dave blackmailing him. That may well have set him off. He killed Dave and ransacked his apartment looking for whatever Dave had on him. I wondered if he had found it.
Of course it was any direct link to the books that would be Knight’s primary concern, and especially the “lady-in-the-fog” letter. I couldn’t really see the letters’ very few and clouded hints of Morgan’s being gay being of that much concern to Knight, and I wondered again about the suicide note. Other than being close to solid proof that Morgan was gay, it didn’t even hint of his writing, and by itself
wouldn’t have all that much value as a blackmail tool.
Well, Witherspoon had undoubtedly just taken anything he thought he might be able to use.
I pulled myself away from ruminating long enough to call downstairs to the diner for a BLT, a side of cole slaw, and a large Coke. I waited about ten minutes, then, putting a note on the door for Marty in case he came while I was downstairs, I ran down to pick up my order.
I’d just finished the last of the cole slaw when I heard a knock at the door and looked up to see two figures behind the opaque glass. Hastily tossing the evidence of lunch into the wastebasket, I called, “It’s open,” and Marty and Dan Carpenter came in.
I’d moved another chair closer to the desk in anticipation of their arrival, and after standing for a handshake and offering them a cup of coffee, which they declined, motioned them to a seat. Sitting down myself, I pushed the manila envelope across the desk to Marty, who was seated closest.
“These are copies of the originals,” I said. “I assume they’ll do?”
“That’ll be fine,” Marty replied.
I sat back in my chair. “So…what’s going on?”
As he had done in McGill’s office, Carpenter leaned forward in his chair, elbows on his knees.
“We served a search warrant on Evan Knight this morning,” he said. “We don’t have enough to arrest him, yet, but we’re going over Witherspoon’s apartment for fingerprints. We’re also doing a fingerprint check on what’s left of the whiskey bottle found by Witherspoon’s body. Knight denies everything, of course. He claims he had an all-nighter with a hustler, but of course didn’t get the guy’s name.”
“Did the warrant turn up any manuscripts?” I asked.
Carpenter nodded to Marty, who said, “They found a typewritten manuscript on his desk, and a box full of handwritten spiral notebooks that appear to be some sort of manuscripts, though I don’t know how many books they might represent. We confiscated them as possible evidence, though.”
“Great!” I said. That meant Morgan could have at least a couple of his books published under his own name—including, I hoped, the book Knight was proofing for his publisher. “Any evidence of blackmail? Anything from Witherspoon’s apartment?”
Marty shook his head. “He’d had a fire in his fireplace recently, though,” he said. “We collected the residue, but I don’t think there will be much they can find out from it.”
“So do you think you’ll be able to arrest him?”
Carpenter shrugged. “It depends on what our investigation comes up with. I’d say, off the record, that the odds were better than even. But we’ll just have to see.”
Well, that was something. I knew the plagiarism charge would stand up with or without the blackmail, and since I didn’t know for an absolute certainty that Knight had murdered Dave Witherspoon, at the very least he would be exposed as a plagiarist, totally discredited in the writing world, and, depending on what the Burrows Foundation decided to do about it, maybe sued for every nickel he had.
Carpenter put his hands on the edge of the arms of his chair and pushed himself up to a standing position. “Well, we’d better get busy. Thanks for the letters. Will you need them back?”
I didn’t, of course, but I felt a bit uncomfortable for Wayne, Scot, and Morgan to have Morgan’s very personal letters in a police file somewhere. “If you don’t mind,” I said.
“No problem,” Marty said. “Thanks again for your help, Dick. We’ll keep you posted.”
He stepped quickly forward to shake hands, then turned to join Carpenter, who was already at the door. Carpenter turned partly toward me, nodded a good-bye, and they left.
*
On my way home, it occurred to me just how dramatically my life had changed since I met Jonathan. I think I could count on one hand the number of times I’d gone out at night without him…well, maybe two. But it wasn’t many compared to my single days when sometimes I wouldn’t even make it home at all for two days at a stretch. I’d stop by a bar for happy hour, pick somebody up, spend the night at his place…all part of the game. Well, we all make our choices, and I made mine, and I was happy with it.
The evening at home went as usual, up to and just beyond Joshua’s bedtime ritual, when instead of going back to the living room and talking or watching TV, I got ready to leave for the Burrows. Jonathan, who had been studying his horticulture books earlier, got out some stationery and prepared to write notes to his relatives, enclosing a photo of Joshua with each.
“It shouldn’t take too long,” I said as I gave him a good-bye hug, “but if it drags out, don’t feel you have to wait up for me.”
“Okay. But I’ll probably still be up. I’ll want to hear how it went.”
*
I got to the Burrows at about ten till nine, and took a few minutes to check out the wide front steps. I couldn’t tell exactly where Witherspoon’s body had been found, but I noted the steps were flanked by two eight-to-ten-foot arborvitae, which, if Witherspoon were lying close to the edge of the steps, might have made it harder to see him, especially late at night.
Again, the questions formed. What the hell was he doing there at that time of night? Did he maybe have a key to the building? I rather doubted it, but I’d have to check. At the top of the steps on either side of the main doors were large clay planters; the two closest to the door, but about three feet from the building, held small trees; two others on each side, up against the building, held flowers. On closer look, I saw the flower planters weren’t quite touching the building, by about enough space to reach a hand behind them.
Convenient place for a blackmail drop off, I thought. Maybe that’s what Witherspoon was doing there? Picking up a payment?
The front doors opened as a few people were leaving the building, and as I saw the woman usually behind the main desk approach the door with a key, I hurriedly entered. Glen had said to come in the side, but as long as the front was still open…
“I’m sorry, sir,” the woman said, raising a hand as if to stop me,” but we’re closed.”
“I know,” I said. “I’m here for the board meeting.”
“Ah, yes,” she said, letting me pass. “You know where the conference room is, I assume.”
“Yes, thank you,” I said, and started up the steps to the second floor as she left the building, closing and locking the door behind her.
*
Glen O’Banyon was already there, as were Marv Westeen, Charles Peterson, and I asssumed the fourth man, whom I hadn’t met, was Tom McNabb. No sign of Zach Clanton. Glen reintroduced the board members, and I shook hands with each in turn.
Zach Clanton blustered in at around five after, making known without saying a word his general displeasure at having had to give up part of his evening. When everyone had been seated and settled in, Glen asked me to explain to the rest exactly what had been going on, and I did my best with what was a pretty complex story, involving two deaths, plagiarism, blackmail, and murder. I told them everything up to and including my visit with detectives Gresham and Carpenter, and the fact that more of Morgan’s manuscripts had been found.
“I may be stepping out of my territory here,” I said, “but I would sincerely hope that in addressing the many wrongs in this case, you would include those done to Morgan Butler as a human being. Here was a man forced to live his life in the closet, and to hide his true self from everything and everyone except Scot McVickers. I believe as strongly as I possibly can that Morgan hoped that one day, even though he himself wouldn’t be alive to see it, his books would be published, and by doing so, he could at last let the world know who and what he was. Evan Knight robbed him of that with the books he published under his own name, but there is still a chance to give Morgan what I really believe he always wanted, and publish the remaining books under his own name.”
“Hah!” Zach Clanton exclaimed. “You think for one minute Collin Butler would stand for that? Not on your life! And Jeremy Butler would turn over in his grave if it got
out that his son was gay!”
“But the books belong to the Burrows,” I said, looking to Glen O’Banyon. “You can do whatever you want with them.”
“The books, yes,” Glen said. “But the name…we probably could win on that, if it went to court, but it could be a long and expensive fight.”
Damn!
I turned to Zach Clanton. “You know Collin Butler,” I said. “Is there any way he could be convinced not to fight letting his father have what I believe he wanted so badly?”
Clanton shook his head. “You don’t know Collin Butler!” he said. “He’s a bulldog, just like his grandfather. He won’t let anything stand in the way of getting whatever he wants. He was in a car accident when he was twenty, and the doctors told him he’d never walk again. But he did, just by sheer will. He walked with a cane for years…still carries a walking stick, as a matter of fact, although now it’s more an affectation than a need. He says it’s a reminder to him that he can beat the world. He plays golf, for chrissakes.”
And my mind suddenly was playing Frank Sinatra singing “On the Road to Mandalay,” full volume: “And the dawn comes up like thunder out of China, ’cross the bay”!
CHAPTER 13
I had to talk to Evan Knight, and it couldn’t wait. I managed to sit there until Glen told me I could go while they moved on to some other business, and then I all but ran down to the main floor and the telephone behind the main desk. It was quarter till ten, but I was sure Knight would be up…if he was even home.
Most of the lights on the main floor were off, but I could see well enough to find the phone and dial.
“Hello?” I noticed that he dropped his standard “Evan Knight” greeting.
“Evan, this is Dick Hardesty…”
“What the fuck do you want?” he demanded, cutting me off. “Haven’t you done enough already?”
A dial tone told me he’d hung up on me.
I dialed again.
“Leave me the fuck alone,” he said angrily, and I knew he was about ready to hang up again.
“Wait!” I said. “I know you didn’t kill Dave Witherspoon, but I need you to help me prove it!”