The Paper Mirror (10 page)

On a whim, I took another look at the last twenty or so letters in the first box, dated from May 12th to August 11th of 1953—a few days before he died. The last letter to his wife was dated the 10th. She and their son were apparently on an extended visit to his wife’s parents, and gave absolutely no clue that he was about to kill himself. The only possible sign was in the last line of the letter, in which he said, “Tell Collin I love him very much.” Other than that, it, like every letter to his wife, was pretty bland; almost impersonal. Aside from that note to Collin, I didn’t get much of a sense of…well, warmth. There were hints of something beneath the surface, and I wondered if perhaps they were having marital problems. (Well, if Morgan was indeed gay, that there might have been marital problems wouldn’t have been surprising.)

But it was the letters to Scot that I read more closely, and while they appeared to be nothing more than just friendly letters to an old buddy, I could definitely sense something a little less casual between the lines. There were some sidelong references to Morgan’s military days and frequent, obviously fond, reminiscences on things the two had done together—a trip to Rome, for example, was written of with much warmth. And, in the last few letters particularly, there was somehow an almost tangible feeling of…again, what? Tension, of desperation and sadness. Probably just my own Scorpio-romantic nature, seeing these things which were not specifically stated, but I could sense the words were some sort of carefully constructed dam behind which huge volumes of confined feelings were pressing. The last letter to Scot was dated August 11, 1953. It was also apparently the last letter he ever wrote.

I really wanted to know more about Morgan Butler.

You’ve
got
a lover,
one of my mind-voices reminded me gently.
You don’t need another one; and especially a long-dead one. You’re supposed to be working on a case here, not running off on some sort of romantic tangent.

It was right, of course; my mind-voices usually are. But I somehow felt that in this case, the two were not mutually exclusive…that in some way, Morgan Butler was linked to Taylor Cates’ death across all those years.

*

I spent far more time at the Burrows than I had intended to. I found it interesting that there were no references in any of his letters to any novels, including the ones in front of me. And while I couldn’t find exact dates for either book manuscript, I had the strong feeling that it was his death that interrupted completion of the second one.

I came away from the library with a determination to find out whatever I could about Morgan Butler.

*

I arrived home before Jonathan and Joshua, who were stopping for a haircut, and had fixed myself a Manhattan and just sat down to turn on the TV when I happened to glance at the bookcase by the door. I noticed several books were missing and, puzzled, I got up and went to see if I could figure out which ones they were. Well, actually, I pretty much knew before I got there. The four missing books were those by Evan Knight. Jonathan must have taken them with him to work and brought them to Knight’s house for signing.

So?
a mind-voice asked.

So why hadn’t he mentioned it?
I wondered.

What?
the mind-voice asked, much more sharply.
Since when does he have to report to you on everything? Jeezus, Hardesty, what’s going on with you?

I was afraid I knew, and I wasn’t the least bit happy about it. This whole thing with Evan Knight and Jonathan had been poking at the worst part of my Scorpio nature. That I knew Knight was a predator was one thing, but combining that with my sense that Jonathan had been acting a little strange lately…no, I didn’t like it at all.

Luckily, the phone interrupted my little toe-dip into the Depression Pool.

“Hello?” I said, picking it up. I’d at long last broken myself of answering with my name.

“Is this Dick Hardesty?” the male voice asked.

“Yes…” I said, not quite sure who was on the other end of the line.

“This is Dave Witherspoon. Sorry I didn’t reply sooner, but we just got back into town.”

“I’m glad you called, Mr. Witherspoon. I’d very much like to talk with you about Taylor Cates. I am trying to find out whatever I can about him, and since you two worked together…”

“Yes,” he said. “Taylor. I assumed that’s what you wanted when I heard the ‘Dick Hardesty Investigations’ part of your message. Unfortunately, I don’t really know what I can tell you. I’m sorry he’s dead, of course…as I’m sorry for anyone’s death, but we weren’t exactly close.”

“Well, would it be possible for us to get together for an hour or so? I do have some questions I think you could help me answer.”

He sighed. “I suppose. But it can’t be until next Monday, I’m afraid. My lover and I are leaving town again for a few days.”

“Monday will be fine. What time would be convenient for you?”

There was a slight pause, then, “Well, we’re flying back Sunday evening. Let me call you at your office Monday morning and we’ll see what my schedule is.”

“Thanks. I’ll look forward to seeing you then.”

“Thank you,” he said. “Monday, then.” And we hung up.

*

I’d returned to the couch and was staring at the TV when Jonathan and Joshua came in. Getting up for our group hug, noting how hot Jonathan looked with his new haircut—he’d gotten it cut really short, which was sexy as all hell. Joshua seemed a bit subdued, and I noticed his hair looked the same as it had when he’d left for day care. I asked Jonathan about it, and he gave Joshua a rather stern stare.

“Joshua decided he didn’t want his hair cut. He decided it loudly and at great length, and since there were a lot of other people in the shop waiting, I figured ‘the heck with it.’ But we had a long talk about it in the car, and I don’t think we’ll be going through that same little number again. Right, Joshua?”

Joshua looked mildly crestfallen, stared at the floor, and nodded.

I noticed, too, that Jonathan had been carrying his book bag, which he set on the floor next to the bookcase.

After the hug, Jonathan and Joshua headed to the kitchen and I returned to the couch and my Manhattan.

“I was going to put dinner on,” I called into the kitchen, “but I wasn’t sure what you’re planning on having. I don’t think the meatloaf is thoroughly thawed yet.”

“That’s okay,” Jonathan called back. “I figured we’d have macaroni and cheese.”

“And
hot dogs
!” Joshua added enthusiastically, pulling himself out of his sulk and contemplating his favorite meal.

When they came back into the living room, Jonathan went over to his book bag and opened it, replacing four books on the shelf.

“Evan Knight’s?” I asked, knowing fully well they were. God, I can be an asshole!

“Yeah,” Jonathan said. “He told me yesterday that if I wanted him to autograph them for me, he would. That was really nice of him.”

Wasn’t it, though?
a mind-voice asked sweetly.

Knock it off!
a chorus of others demanded.

“Did he say anything else about the party?” I asked.

Jonathan finished putting the books away and got up to carry his book bag into the bedroom. He paused in front of the bedroom door and turned toward me. “Just that he’s really glad we’re coming. He said he’d been telling a couple of his writer friends about us, and that they’re looking forward to meeting us.”

Us? Uh, Jonathan.
a mind-voice said
…excuse me, but…?

When he returned to the living room, stopping to pick G.I. Joe up from where Joshua had dropped him, he said, “It really sounds like it’s going to be a nice party. He said he’d hired some really popular bartender
.
”

A little bell went off in my head.
Oh-oh!

“Did he mention the guy’s name?”

“Yeah, but I’d never heard of him before. A Kirk-something. You know him?”

Oh, yes! Just about every gay guy in town knew Kirk Sims. Kirk was indeed a great bartender, and specialized in private parties. Kirk was also known to have one of the largest schlongs in captivity, and for a sizeable gratuity, he’d be happy to take it out and stir your drink for you.

So it was going to be one of those parties, eh? I used to love them when I was single, but with a partner….

“So are you just about through with the landscaping?” I asked.

“We finish up tomorrow,” he said, scooping Joshua up from the floor and sitting down beside me. “I guess he wanted it done for the party, so we had a lot of guys working on it.”

Joshua, who had been helping Cowboy defend an empty-cereal-box fort, immediately tried to scramble down from Jonathan’s lap, but Jonathan held him tight.

“I’ve got to go back over there tomorrow afternoon to deliver some plants for the party,” he said offhandedly, staring intently at Joshua with a mock scowl and rocking him back and forth.

“Let me
down
!” Joshua demanded.

“No!”
Jonathan replied, freeing one hand to tickle Joshua’s belly, which of course sent the kid into spasms of laughter and flailing legs.

I recognized this for what it was—a distraction from the announcement that Jonathan would be going back to Evan Knight’s house the next day. I really had to bite my tongue from asking, “Alone?”

*

After giving Joshua his bath, getting him into his pajamas and into bed, and reading him a story, Jonathan and I watched some TV before going to bed ourselves. As we got into bed, I was aware Jonathan was staring at me.

“What?” I asked.

He looked quickly away and climbed under the covers. “Nothing.”

“Oh, no you don’t,” I said, joining him and pulling him toward me. “What’s going on?”

He locked his eyes on mine for a moment, then said, “Are you jealous?”

That one caught me by surprise.
“Me?”
I asked, hoping I sounded incredulous.

“You.”

“Do I have reason to be?” I heard myself asking and immediately wished I hadn’t.

He gave me a small smile, and moved closer. “Of course not. It’s just…”

“Just what?”

He sighed. “It’s just that…well…Evan is a really nice-looking guy and he’s famous, and he really seems to like me…”

“And I don’t?”

He gave me a nudge. “Well, of course you do! That’s not the point!”

“What
is
the point?”

“The point is that I’m human, and so are you, and that just because we’re together doesn’t mean we’re never going to look at another man again.” He looked at me intently before continuing. “That also doesn’t mean we’re going to
do
anything about it, but a little fantasy every now and then never hurt anybody. And don’t tell me you’ve never had any! I’ve seen you look at other guys. A lot.”

He had me there, of course, and I was more than a little embarrassed to think I was that obvious about it.

“And if I thought you ever really meant to do anything about it,” he continued, “I’d be worried. But I know you wouldn’t. And I won’t either. If we can’t trust one another to know where the lines are, we’re in deep trouble.”

That was the first time since we’d been together that the subject had ever seriously come up, and he was completely right.

“Jeezus, I love you,” I said, grabbing him to me.

He pulled his head back far enough to give me a big grin.

“Show me,” he said.

And I did.

CHAPTER 5

Defenestration
:
the act of throwing something or someone out a window
. It was a word in my Friday morning crossword puzzle, and I found later that day by spending a couple of hours in the city’s main library, the cause of death for one Morgan Butler, age 31. The window in question was on the 17th floor of the Montero Hotel. What he was doing there was not explained. He was, the obituary dated August 14, 1953 noted, survived by his wife, Emily, his four-year-old son, Collin, and his mother, Gretchen. His father, the Reverend Jeremy Butler, preceded him in death. He had been an English teacher at Catherby Academy, a prestigious private school on the east side. Burial was at Rosevine Cemetery.

I was struck by the thought, immaterial though it may be, that Collin Butler had been Joshua’s age when his father died. It must have been tough on the kid, growing up without a father—if, indeed that’s what he did. I wondered if his mother might have remarried.

Well, at least I’d confirmed that Morgan Butler had been living here at the time of his death—that would make it easier to find out other things about him.

Out of curiosity, before I’d left the office I had opened the phone book to look under “Butler” just to see if Collin Butler might be listed. Sure enough, there he was (I didn’t think the chances were great that there would be more than one Collin Butler in town).

I was tempted to call him, but then remembered what Irving McGill had said—that Jeremy’s grandson had tried, or was trying, to have the Butler papers removed from the Collection. I wondered if it was because he might be a zealot like his grandfather and didn’t want Jeremy Butler’s name to be in any way associated with a bunch of fags. I also didn’t know if Collin was aware that some of his father’s papers were also included in the Collection. It was highly unlikely that Collin might know that his father was possibly gay. Collin was only four when his father died and it’s also very unlikely his mother would have brought the subject up even if she knew. And there was in fact no definite proof—at least not in the materials I’d seen at the Burrows—that he really was gay.