In the Monday morning Times was just the kind of article Markham and Steinmetz hoped would keep coming, continuing the interest in Catlett and Bigelow. Over the weekend, Gina and Drew had gone to Aspen and met with several of Catlett’s oldest friends. The article was a report on their visit.
A FOND FAREWELL
The tables at the Cloud Café in Aspen, Colorado, are covered with blue-and-green checked tablecloths, blue for the sky and green for the verdant foliage on the mountains nearby. Suspended six inches below the pressed tin ceiling is an assortment of old wooden skis and ski poles. The walls feature oversized photographs of the mountains, some snow-covered, others in full summer splendor. Running the length of the bar along the floor is a brass foot rail, and across the room, opposite the bar, is an alcove with an oblong table that can seat eight people..
At the table every Thursday, a group of men gather for lunch and conversation, which sometimes goes until midafternoon. Calling themselves the Cloud Club, they have been doing this for years. Sometimes, if the Denver Broncos have played an important game the day before, they meet on Mondays as well. Thomas Sterling Catlett, known as Tomcat, has been a faithful member for many years, as have been Stan Worthington, Will Cranbrook, Norton Jamison, and Addison Sturdivant. These last four agreed to meet at the Cloud Café on a recent morning after the breakfast crowd thinned out to talk about their colleague Catlett. First off, all four said they were stunned and taken completely by surprise when they learned their friend had disappeared.
“It was our regular Thursday,” said Sturdivant. “We were here, six of us, and when he didn’t come we called the house but got no answer. After lunch two of us went out and saw that it was deserted, so we called Rolly, the police chief, and that’s when we found out about the missing airplanes and the rest.”
Patti McDonald, the waitress who regularly serves the Cloud Club, brought coffee and muffins and disappeared. We asked about Catlett. Two men answered immediately.
“Smartest man I’ve ever known.”
“And the most unusual.”
“In what way?”
“How much time do you have?”
“All day.”
Worthington began, “You know, of course, that, except for Warren Buffett and a few others, he’s the most successful businessman in the Midwest and the mountain states.”
“What he was best known for, though, was his fairness, his business ethics.”
“He lived and breathed those.”
“Do you know why he left?”
The four men looked at each other. Cranbrook spoke: “We’ve talked about that a great deal, and we have a theory.”
“Oh?”
“More about that later,” said Sturdivant.
Cranbrook picked up the story. “At these lunches we talked about everything: Broncos football, Nuggets basketball, skiing, the weather, the Aspen Institute, concerts at the opera house.”
“A part of all this were the trips.”
“Trips?”
“He had this plane.”
“We’ve heard.”
“Several times a year during the football season, he flies a group of us to Denver to see the Broncos play.”
“Before Alicia died, in the fall and the spring, they would fly twenty or so couples to Denver to hear the Colorado Symphony.”
“Also art tours and theatre tours—you name it.”
“Speaking of those tours, we should say a word about Alicia.”
“His late wife? She died last year, we understand.”
“An amazing person, just as amazing as Tomcat.”
The other three nodded in agreement. Jamison continued. “Deeply involved in the Aspen Institute, the heart and soul of the Aspen Arts Festival.”
“Smart as a whip, energetic, a terrific organizer.”
“The outpouring at the funeral you wouldn’t believe.”
“Her loss affected Catlett, I’m sure.”
“The whole town, but obviously him most of all. He put on a brave face, but you could tell.”
“Never the same after that; we used to talk about it.”
“Back to your theory of why he might have left.”
After a pause, Sturdivant continued: “You have to understand that this ethics business was not something Tomcat carried on about, no soapbox oratory or harping on the subject.”
“But he did come back to it again and again; it was a thread running through his thinking.”
“Which was?”
“You’ve probably heard how he would come out at times with one word or phrase?”
“Yes.”
“He had several of them: responsibility, caring and sharing, Gibbon.”
“The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire?”
“That’s the one.”
“He was talking about America?”
“Absolutely.”
“The way he put it, we were in our own decline and fall. The country had lost its moral compass and was in danger of losing its soul.”
“His words?”
“No question.”
“He said it was something insidious, invisible, that people couldn’t see.”
“The high point for the country, he kept saying, the great period, was the middle of the last century: the Second World War, the Marshall Plan, the GI Bill, which educated an entire generation. A perfect example of what he called ‘caring and sharing.’”
“After that, without realizing it, the country began to lose its way. In his eyes, by the beginning of this century the decline was in full swing. The Iraq War with its inequities and indecencies: a war with no draft, no increase in taxes, everything off the books in the national budget. Pretending torture wasn’t torture. Who was fooling whom?”
“Then the Great Recession. As he used to say, ‘Millions of homes lost and lives ruined and not a single banker, mortgage broker, or stock manipulator apologizes, let alone goes to jail.”
“More and more, the blatant denial of obvious facts: evolution, climate change, one scientific discovery after another.”
“Everything’s related to education, which we’ve downgraded to the point where we’re falling behind the entire civilized world.”
“It all came down to a favorite phrase of his.”
“Which was?”
Two people answered at once: “Noblesse oblige.”
“Those who are fortunate should share with those who are not.”
“Did he think no one believed in that or practiced it?”
“Except for a few, like Buffet and Bill Gates, he would say, the entire financial and corporate elite of the country, and most of those with inherited wealth, either don’t know what it is or, if they do, choose not to do anything about it. Leading the bandwagon for all of them are self-righteous, extremist politicians.”
“Does this have something to do with why he left?”
The four looked at each other. Worthington spoke: “You know these people with strong feelings, the ones who say, ‘If so-and-so happens, I’m leaving the country’?”
“They never do. But you think Catlett may have?”
“He wanted to make a statement, the strongest possible statement,” said Jamison.
“As far as he was concerned, the ‘if so-and-so happens’ had already happened,” added Sturdivant.
“You have to admit, this is a pretty extreme ‘statement.’”
“He believed in deeds, not words. If anyone was going to take action, it was Tomcat,” agreed Cranbrook.
“Obviously, he had given it a lot of thought,” said Worthington.
“Been planning it for months,” Cranbrook said.
“Carefully, deliberately, as he did everything,” said Jamison.
“You actually think he would go this far, give up everything he has here in the United States, in Aspen, and actually do this, to let the rest of us know how he felt?”
They looked at each other, nodded, and almost as one, replied, “We do.”
For several days I had been thinking about Danny’s return. Once I learned that he would come to the show Monday night, I got in touch with Marshall and Leah Andrews. They were one of the couples, great friends of Dorothy’s, who hadn’t been able to come on opening night. I told them about Danny’s return and asked if they could come the same night. If they could, I said, the four of us could have dinner at Carafini beforehand, and I would have Danny sit with them at the show. Afterwards, they could come backstage, and I would take over from there.
In the meantime, ever since Dorothy’s death I had been talking to Pierre St. Claire, the costume designer of our production. Pierre was gay, but not flamboyantly so, and he was a topflight designer whose work I had observed firsthand on the dozen or so shows we had done together through the years. In his late forties, he had a longtime partner, a very successful accountant. Pierre and I had for some time lamented Danny’s involvement with Mikey, and I hoped that, when Danny returned, Pierre and his partner might be able to steer him in the right direction in the gay community.
My plan for that night was that, when the show ended and Danny had been welcomed backstage by the cast and crew, the four of us—Pierre and his partner, Danny, and I—would go out for a drink. After a short time, pleading fatigue, I would withdraw, leaving the three of them together. Happily, the plans worked out, both with the Andrewses during the show and later with Pierre and his partner. Backstage, though looking drawn and initially acting a bit tentative, Danny gradually began to warm to the welcome he received, and later, I’m pleased to say, returned to the theatre almost every night that week.
At 10:30 sharp on Tuesday morning, I appeared at the door of Binky Butterfield’s apartment. I had called him on Friday only to find out he had already left for the weekend. On Monday, I called again, and when I reached him he indicated he could see me today.
His apartment was located in a building on Fifth Avenue just south of the Frick Museum, where the apartment’s living room, dining room, library, and master bedroom all overlooked Central Park. I was admitted by a properly dressed manservant and shown into the living room, where I found heavy, brocaded drapes at every window, a baby grand piano with thirty or more family photographs in silver frames on top, and paintings by Childe Hassam and Winslow Homer on the walls, as well as a three-quarter length portrait by John Singer Sargent. I felt as if Edith Wharton might enter the room at any moment. I was staring at the portrait when a man entered. “My grandmother,” he said.
“Stunning.” I said, “Sargent at his very best, and what a lovely lady.”
“She had a lot of style, especially for her day,” he said. He stuck out his hand. “Binky Butterfield.”
I shook hands: “Matt Johanssen.”
“Peter said we should meet.”
“I greatly appreciate your seeing me.” Looking around, I added, “Beautiful apartment.”
“Every so often a feeling sweeps over me that I should modernize, but ultimately, I resist the urge and keep it as it has always been.”
“Apartments like this are becoming rarer and rarer. It’s a treat to see it.”
“I promised you elevenses, and I’m keeping my promise. Let’s go into the breakfast room; it’s a good place to talk.” He indicated a door to one side. We passed through the dining room, with silver pitchers and trays everywhere, into a small, sunny room that was much more modern. With yellow-and-white striped wallpaper and sheer, light drapes at the windows, it was indeed a contrast to the rest of the house.
“Tea or coffee?” he asked.
“Tea would be wonderful. Nothing with it.”
“And you must try the small croissants. No one makes them like Eloise.”
There they were, with marmalade and jams alongside. Eloise, I assumed, must be the full-time cook. I took one, buttered it, added a bit of marmalade, and tasted it. “Ah. As good as any I can remember. Even in Paris.”
“She will be pleased to hear it.”
In addition to the breakfast table and chairs, there were two easy chairs, not overlarge, and a coffee table. He sat in one of the chairs and indicated I should take the other. Binky had on light gray slacks, a blazer, and a blue-checked shirt with a dark blue ascot at the throat. His footwear, I noticed, was a pair of embroidered Stubbs & Wootten slippers. The man himself was around six feet tall, with silver-gray hair, a ruddy complexion, a somewhat hooked nose, and large ears.
“It’s about the museum murders, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“About the worst thing I can ever remember. Horrid.”
“I agree.”
“The only saving virtue would be if we clean things up a bit. Pay more attention to people like Sonny Beaumont. But you should ask me what you want to know.”
“I know I can take this for granted, but I must say up front that this has to be absolutely, totally confidential.”
“It goes without saying.”
“I don’t mind telling you that, from what I understand, matters are at a very delicate point just now, so any of us who discuss it cannot talk even to our closest friends and confidants.”
“Understood.”
“The person I have been asked to inquire about is Victor Arundel.”
“Don’t get me started.”
“Peter said you had strong feelings about him. But I need to know the story of his assault on culture here in New York. When it started, how it unfolded, who the players were.”
“First of all, you know he is one of these private equity guys.”
“Yes.”
“But the worst kind: cut every corner, slash and burn, annihilate, cheat right and left.”
“That seems to be the consensus.”
“As for the scene here, he had long had an apartment on the Upper East Side, but showed no interest in the cultural scene. Then, about three years ago, he met Anita Gomez, an American lady who had married a very wealthy Mexican. After the husband died, she moved to Santa Fe and became quite well known there. Arundel thought she was dynamite, and she is: lively, amusing, has a striking figure. He fell for her completely; in his eyes she had everything. In addition to the attributes I’ve mentioned, there was all that money. She, however, had her own agenda. She had been very active in the summer opera in Santa Fe, and from what I hear they do a very good job there. Anyway, she was on the opera board, very active, in the thick of things. He wanted desperately to marry her; more than just a trophy, for him she was a real treasure. But she had her own terms: she wanted to spread her wings, become part of the opera scene here.
“Her deal was that either he or she would join the board of the Metropolitan Opera, and only then would she marry him. Short of that, it was no go. So Arundel, in his own ‘bull in a china shop’ manner, set out to accomplish that. The only thing is, he had no feel for it, none whatsoever. She might well have achieved her goal with a different partner, but with him it was hopeless from the start. In any case, he launched his campaign, a full frontal assault: hired a publicist, a public relations expert, called in every financial chit he could. He remembered Mulholland and Weatherby from the old days and got in touch with them, asked them to help, get their wives to help. They were polite but distant. After all, they had their own flanks to protect. As for the wives of those other two, not surprisingly, that was a dead end. Roxanne was as cool as Anita was hot, and Sheryl Weatherby wouldn’t have been up to it even if she wanted to be. After six months or so, it was obvious to Anita that it was going nowhere. Desperate, Arundel read about the Met needing money.”
“The $35 million? Peter mentioned that.”
“It was more like $40 million, but never mind. He had it transferred to the Met’s account. Send in the money, willy-nilly: that was Arundel’s Hail Mary pass—the thing that would save the day. As far as the Met was concerned, he was not only out of his mind, he was completely out of his depth. Besides, he did this without ever telling Anita. The minute she heard, she knew it was a mistake, however well meant. You know the rest. His money was returned, and in effect he was told to get lost. Anita decamped, professing family problems with one of her daughters, and he left soon after. I thought maybe he’d gone with his tail between his legs, but I should have known better. To a man like him, this was a defeat, an indignity not to be taken lying down. If he has gone to extreme lengths to get revenge on the men he thought he could blame and on the entire arts establishment, I wouldn’t be a bit surprised.”
It had been quite a story. Binky obviously knew all the ins and outs, the kind of thing I felt he would make it his business to know in the smallest detail. I thanked him profusely, explained that he could see why confidentiality was so important, and expressed in the strongest terms I could, without seeming to fawn, how much I had enjoyed meeting him and being able to see his lovely home.
• • •
When I got back to the loft, I immediately called both Markham and Steinmetz. I didn’t reach either one, but their assistants told me they would get back to me soon. When someone did call, it was to arrange a conference call for 3:30 p.m. When I called that afternoon, they told me that the man heading the FBI investigation, Aaron Mansfield, was joining us in the conference call, if that was all right. I said of course, and, after Mansfield and I exchanged hellos, I told them the whole story. They obviously appreciated the details that Binky had provided.
“There it is,” said Mansfield when I had concluded.
“What?”
“The motive. We had an idea it might be something along these lines, but we couldn’t fill in the details, the missing pieces. Now this man has. The big trick from now on will be to tidy up a few loose ends.”
“More than a few,” Steinmetz added.
“Yes, along with everything else, the man has to return to the States. It’s supposed to be Friday, but, with him, there’s no knowing,” said Mansfield. “In any case, thanks, Johanssen—this information will make a real difference.”
“No one would be happier than I if it did,” I replied.