The Paper Mirror (15 page)

“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 father’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…”

“They’re his,” he said. “He wants them. He’s entitled to them. But if you’re somehow implying he’d push somebody down a flight of stairs to get them, you’re out of your mind.”

Actually, I hadn’t been implying that at all…at least not consciously. And even while it might be an interesting thought, it was also more than a little unlikely that pushing one employee down a flight of steps might convince the Burrows Foundation to give up the papers.

CHAPTER 7

By the time I’d hung up with Zach Clanton, I just barely made it to Etheridge’s by twelve fifteen. Being across the street from City Hall, the place was crowded, as always, with lawyers, clerks, and City Building office personnel on their lunch hour, but fortunately Glen O’Banyon apparently had a permanently reserved table and I was surprised to see he was already there.

“Well, this is a first,” I said as I slid into the booth, reaching across to shake hands.

“Just got here,” he said. “Court got out a few minutes early, which happens about once in every ten blue moons.”

The waiter appeared with coffee and a menu—O’Banyon already had his. “I’ll be back in a second,” the waiter said, and moved off to another table.

We small-talked for a minute or two until the waiter came back to take our orders. Though we’d talked a bit about it when we met at Hughie’s, O’Banyon was curious as to how Joshua was doing and how Jonathan and I were dealing with being de-facto parents.

When we’d ordered, O’Banyon sat back and said, “So how’s the investigation going? Anything at all to indicate it was anything but an accident?”

I shook my head. “Nothing definite, but there are an awful lot of tiny arrows pointing in that direction. Maybe it’s just an occupational hazard that I always lean toward the ‘foul play’ scenario, but this just doesn’t feel ‘accidental’ to me.”

“So what did you want to ask me?”

“I just talked to Zach Clanton…which is why I was almost late…and found out he knows Jeremy Butler’s grandson, Collin. I’d been wondering about him and was wondering if you had any idea just how badly he wanted to get back his grandfather’s papers.”

“He’s pretty adamant about it, obviously. Zach’s doing everything he can to keep Butler from going to court, but the interests of the library have little to do with it. I’m afraid Zach still sees the Burrows as an annoying financial drain from his own pocketbook. He’s been trying to convince the board to simply give in and return the papers.”

The waiter brought our food, and as we ate I filled O’Banyon in on my conversation with Clanton, and also on what I’d found out about the strong possibility that Morgan Burrows might himself have been gay.