The Paper Mirror (20 page)

Powers reached down to pick up the box and hand it to me. “Take your time,” he said. “It’s not as though I read them every day. Just call when you’re finished. I’m home most evenings.”

He and Andy walked me to the door, where I exchanged a handshake with Powers and gave Andy one last ear-tussle, and left.

*

I spent the afternoon at the office reading the letters Morgan Butler had written Scot McVickers those many years ago, and it was as if I were looking over Morgan’s shoulder as he wrote them. Though I was intensely curious about that last letter in particular, Scot had kept them in chronological order, and I forced myself to read them in the order they were written. I could sense Morgan’s intensity, and under it, his love for Scot. The whole relationship was there—at least Morgan’s version of it. It just took careful reading—including Morgan’s desperate attempts to explain, without actually saying what he obviously meant, why he had gotten married. Under the bluster was the regret, and the stern hand of Jeremy Butler.

These weren’t the treacly love letters of some moonstruck teenager. The words “I love you” never appeared. Powers was right…Morgan tried very hard not to let his feelings show, but they were clearly there, just beneath the surface. When he wrote of Scot, or reminisced about some shared experience, there was an almost palpable sense of longing, and I got the impression of someone terribly lost for whom Scot was his only contact with a world he wanted so badly but felt he could never have. Maybe it was just me reading what I wanted to read into them. But I doubted it.

I must admit I’d been a little puzzled by how two guys apparently so much in love could have tolerated being apart for so many years. But in the letters there were references to several meetings during Scot’s annual leaves—including one meeting in New York. The letters leading up to each reunion were filled with barely muted anticipation, and those after with fond re-tellings of incidents during their time together and an almost tangible sadness. How Morgan managed to hide the true nature of these meetings from his father—and later his wife—I had no idea, but he apparently did, and I took an odd comfort in the knowledge that their affair was not totally without the opportunity to physically hold one another.

One thing was for sure: there were many more letters to Scot than were now at the Burrows, and the gay undertones were far stronger than any of the letters left in the Collection. Obviously the letters still in the Burrows Collection had been carefully culled to remove anything that might give anyone the idea that Morgan Butler was gay. But by whom? Had Morgan done it himself before he gave them to Burrows? Not likely; I firmly believed he specifically left them to set himself free, albeit after death.

I’m sure you’re right
, a mind-voice said gently,
but you’re not here to solve the mystery of a romance, or of some poor lost soul. You’re here trying to solve a maybe-murder. Taylor Cates. Remember him?

Okay. So I needed the reality check. I forced myself to focus on
Morgan’s references to his writing…and while there were a lot of them, they were maddeningly nonspecific. He referred to “writing,” and while the implication was that they weren’t just short stories, he never directly referred to
what
he was writing. It was impossible to even guess exactly how many books he actually wrote. Since he didn’t have any hope of seeing them published, at least in his lifetime, perhaps he just…wrote. When one ended and another was begun didn’t really matter, he just kept writing. I got the definite impression that it wasn’t how many books he wrote that was important to him so much as the act of writing.

But the fact that he left his papers to Chester Burrows was a pretty good indication to me that he had hopes that at some point after his death, his work might be discovered and published. And if my suspicions about Evan Knight were correct, they had been. That they had been stolen—that Morgan Butler had been denied even in death the freedom to be himself—was not only sad, it really, really pissed me off. And that Knight had probably taken the letters, too, was an almost incomprehensible violation, as though Knight were destroying every bit of proof that a gay Morgan Butler ever existed.

I still needed a link—definite proof that Evan Knight had indeed stolen Morgan’s work. If I could find that, it would provide pretty solid evidence of a possible motive for murder.

And then I came to the last letter. It wasn’t a letter, really, but more of a note, written on a piece of lined paper torn out of a spiral notebook. It was dated August 12, 1953, and it consisted of exactly sixteen words:

August 12, 1953

Scot:

Never forget that I love you, now and forever. Forgive me.

Morgan

I sat staring at those sixteen words while the romantic in me ran roughshod over my emotions. I felt an overwhelming sense of sadness…for Morgan, for Scot, and for some strange reason, for myself.

But when I finally pulled myself back to reality and started reading them again, it struck me how few of them I could recall having seen in the Burrows files. I was looking carefully for something, and I hadn’t a clue of what that something might be. But somewhere in the back of my mind, I knew.

It was nearly three thirty. Getting time to go home. Still…I’d know what it was when I saw it and cursed myself for having been distracted the first time through. And then I found it:

“I had a dream last night about the night we got lost in the fog on our way back to the ship. We were so drunk we couldn’t see straight. And then that little old lady suddenly appeared by that ornate fountain—remember?—and she didn’t say a word but just pointed? How could she know we were lost, or where we were going? But she was right, and we got back to the pier just in time for the last liberty boat
.
You swore she was a ghost, and I just laughed at you. I should have known better. And I never forgot it, obviously.”

I left the office early and headed home. I’d arranged to meet Jonathan and Joshua at the barber shop so we could go clothes shopping directly from there, but I had to go home first. I couldn’t wait to see if I was right.

The minute I walked into the apartment, I went directly to the bookcase and took out
Chesspiece
, thumbing quickly through the pages, looking for…

Aha!
Page 97:

“The fog was so thick I couldn’t see ten feet in front of me, and apparently having taken a wrong turn coming out of the bar, I had no idea where my hotel might be. Nothing like being drunk in a strange town and not knowing where you are. I continued walking, looking for something familiar, and I suddenly made out an ornate fountain on a sort of island in the middle of the street. As I got closer, a little old lady appeared out of the fog, and pointed to my left. She didn’t say a word, and I hadn’t asked her anything. I don’t know how she could know what I wanted, but I staggered off in the direction she indicated, and within two blocks found my hotel. I swear to this day she must have been a ghost.”

Got’cha, Knight!

CHAPTER 9

Okay, I had him. Now what was I going to do with him? Being able to prove he had stolen another man’s work was one thing, proving he had anything to do with Taylor Cates’ death was another. It was pretty obvious, to me at least, that Cates had somehow made a connection between the manuscripts that
should
have been in with Morgan Butler’s papers and the books Evan Knight had published as his own. But how could Taylor have known? From the letters still in the box it would be very difficult to figure out. And what about the missing letters? Had Taylor taken them? Not likely. My first guess was that Evan had removed them when he stole the manuscripts. There were just too many gay undertones and references in them to writing and the time Morgan spent on it. Neither of the manuscripts left in the collection had a gay theme, as the books Knight stole did—though the unfinished work was, I felt, heading there. Knight had to leave
some
letters in the file, so he left only the ones he thought wouldn’t tip anyone off, and probably destroyed the rest. But then how had Taylor figured it all out?

The phone’s ringing pulled me back to reality, and I glanced at my watch—nearly five o’clock!! Damn! I was supposed to have been at the barbershop fifteen minutes ago!

I hastily picked up the phone.

“Hardesty Investigations,” I said, though I was pretty sure who was on the other end of the line.

“Hi,” Jonathan said. “My name’s Jonathan. Remember me?”

“I’m sorry, Babe. I was just on my way out the door. I got tied up.”

“Yeah,” he said, “I figured that. Joshua’s done with his haircut, so why don’t you just meet us at the mall? There’s a Grandma’s Kitchen a couple doors down from Marston’s, and we can go eat first. I’d say we could hold off until after we shop, but Joshua’s already doing his ‘starving child’ number. He’s a natural for Broadway.”

“Takes after his Uncle Jonathan, obviously,” I said. “See you there in about fifteen minutes. Wait for me in front of the restaurant, okay?”

We hung up and I left the office.

*

Saturday morning Joshua helped Jonathan make scrambled eggs—I don’t think they started out that way—for breakfast, then we took our time getting ready for our appointment at the photo studio. Jonathan had insisted we buy Joshua a sport coat and a white shirt and bow tie, and I must say he looked great in it. I was struck by how much he looked like his dad, Samuel, who, with his mother Sheryl, kept guard over him from a photo near the boy’s bed. Jonathan frequently commented on the resemblance, and I knew it brought him a lot of both comfort and pain.

At Jonathan’s insistence, we took along two sets of clothes—one set for a formal “portrait” type shot with coats and ties, and one for a more casual, “family” group shot. “This is something we’ll want to have forever,” Jonathan said. “We might as well do it right.” I guess he was right. We wore the casual set to the studio lest Joshua find some way to get his new sport coat wrinkled or dirty. And, of course, Joshua insisted that Bunny be included in the festivities.

The shoot went surprisingly well, and Joshua confirmed Jonathan’s assessment of a possible future on the stage or silver screen by playing to the camera like a pro. His only moment of rebellion came when the photographer suggested that perhaps Bunny might like to be absent from one or two of the variety of shots she took.

We were in and out in less than an hour.

Even so, we just had time for lunch before I had to leave for the airport to pick up T/T. I hated to stick Jonathan with the other Saturday chores, and I knew he would have liked to come to the airport with me—as of course would Joshua, had we mentioned the word “airport” in his presence—but Jonathan understood that this was more business than a pleasure trip, and Joshua’s being there would be a distraction. So he arranged to go to the laundry and do a few more Saturday-type errands while I was gone. He also said he’d call the gang to coordinate what time we were to meet at Steamroller Junction for the benefit.

*

I got to the airport at a little after one thirty and was relieved to note on the schedule board that Delta flight 444 was due to arrive on time, Gate 5. I bought a cup of coffee and wandered toward Gate 5 to wait. No matter how often I go to airports, the almost palpable air of anticipation always impresses me. I suppose that’s true in any place devoted to comings and goings of large numbers of people: bus stations, train stations, boat docks. Even if you weren’t going anywhere, you could pretend.

Sure enough, at 1:55 there was a flurry of activity outside the window, and the large, graceful form of a 727 glided majestically up to the ramp, which moved out to greet it. I wondered, as I always did, how planes managed to look like they were either brand new or just freshly washed. Maybe the clouds do that to them.

I allowed my mind to idle away in neutral until the ramp doors opened, and like an uncorked bottle of champagne, the passengers began flowing into the terminal. Hugs and handshakes and hurrying, clothes bags flung over shoulders, kids in tow. All teetering on the brink of confusion, but not quite crossing over. And then through the swirl of people I saw T/T approaching, like a yacht through a fleet of fishing boats.

He was in his full Teddy Wilson mode—a large, pleasant-looking overweight black man who was just another face in an airport-terminal crowd. Few if any hints of the flamboyant Tondelaya O’Tool, his larger-than-life drag-queen persona. I moved forward toward him, and as he spotted me his face broke into a huge grin and he flung his arms wide in a “come to mama” motion, nearly hitting a cute college-type who expertly ducked out of the way and kept going.

“Well, honey-chile, I do declare,” he said as we exchanged a hug. “You just keep gettin’ sexier and more handsome every time I see you!” He looked around at the surrounding crowd. “Why, where’s that delightful boy of yours? Jonathan, right? You got him tied up to the bedpost at home?”

“Long story,” I said, and as we began moving toward the baggage area, I filled him in.

For someone who was only going to be in town for two days, it looked like he’d brought more luggage than Jonathan and I, combined, had taken on our two-week visit to New York. There were two huge garment bags, a large suitcase, a smaller suitcase, and two large hatboxes. “A lady’s got to look her best,” he explained.

It wasn’t until we were in the car and heading into town that I had a chance to broach the subject of Taylor Cates and his death, though not being able to think of a clever or subtle way to segue into it, I just enjoyed T/T’s endless string of stories and experiences on the road and waited for a chance to jump in when I could. Luckily, I didn’t have to.