Simon Said

by Sarah Shaber

  The oddness of this behavior added to Julia's concern about her interest in Simon. He was not her type. He was shorter than she was, and he looked Jewish. He didn't own a suit, or he surely would have worn it to the funeral instead of the khaki pants and blue blazer he was wearing. His shirt and tie looked as if he'd ordered them from a catalog years ago. Every other time she had seen him, he was wearing blue jeans. To her, he seemed intelligent and personable, but she had heard he had emotional problems. He probably didn't make any more money than she did. And if he was so brilliant, why was he working at a small college when there were three major universities just a stone's throw away?

  She walked out of the mausoleum and sat down next to Simon at the foot of the angel. "Sorry," Simon said. "I just felt a little claustrophobic."

  "It's okay," Julia said.

  "Listen, do you like baseball?"

  "I guess so. When I was a kid, my dad used to take me to see the old WashingtonSenators. I haven't been to a game in years, though."

  "Would you like to go see the Durham Bulls play tomorrow night? It's one of the last games before they move to the new stadium. The college has a box."

  "Yes, sure. That would be fun." A minor-league baseball game would not be Julia's choice for a first date, but she had to admit she was tired of movies. "I'll pick you up at six-thirty. We can eat there."

  Great, Julia thought. Hot dogs. Maybe she should rethink this.

  Simon was intensely relieved. He hadn't asked anyone on a date since graduate school, and it was easier than he had expected. The baseball game was a good idea, too. They could talk, yet they'd still have something to do if they ran out of conversation. He hoped she really did like baseball.

  "I've got to go," said Julia. "It's getting late. I can just imagine what my desk looks like. It's probably too much to hope no one notices I took a three-hour lunch." "Just tell them you were scoping out suspects at the victim's funeral."

  Julia watched as Simon's expression changed suddenly. He grabbed her hand so hard that her rings hurt her fingers. "My God!" he said. "I am an idiot!"

  Julia began to wonder if she should think of a way out of their baseball date. "The people who came to the funeral!" he said.

  "What on earth are you talking about? And you're hurting my hand."

  Simon released her. "Sorry" he said. "But remember, Julia, what Sergeant Gates said when we were talking in his office? That in a modern-day homicide investigation, the next step would be to see who came to the victim's funeral? He said it again at the reception."

  "Sure," Julia said. "That's because the people closest to the victim, who might know something, are likely to be there. Sometimes the perpetrator is, too. But he was just joking."

  "How old would Anne Bloodworth be if she had lived? She was nineteen when she died in 1926. She would be eighty-nine years old now. There are surely some people alive in Raleigh who knew her."

  "Well, maybe."

  "You know that old black woman whom we saw at the internment? She could be eighty-nine." "Come on, Simon!"

  "Why not? The story about the funeral was in all the papers. Anyone who wanted to could just come on out to the gravesite. That woman was all dressed up, and she deliberately sat right there on that bench for the whole service. Then she left with everybody else."

  "You know, you could be right."

  "And then there are the flowers."

  "The flowers?"

  "The flower arrangements at the grave site—the ones from individuals. I wondered who would send them. People who knew her, her friends, of course; who else?" "It's possible," Julia said.

  "I am an idiot,” Simon said. "Come on." "Where are we going?"

  "Back to the grave site to get the names of who sent flowers and the florists. I'm going to try to find these people and see what they remember about what happened on April ninth, 1926."

  Chapter Twelve

  ALL THE WAY HOME, SIMON TRIED TO FIGURE A WAY TO GET IN touch with the old black woman whom he had seen at Anne Bloodworth's funeral. The only thing he could think of was to advertise in the paper. "Will the two black women who watched Anne Bloodworth's funeral at Oakwood Cemetery on Tuesday please get in touch with Dr. Simon Shaw of Kenan College. You may hear something to your advantage." Who could resist such a Holmesian offer?

  Simon parked his car at his house and walked to campus. He had fifteen minutes until class started and he wanted to work off the nervous energy he had built up since realizing that he had some new leads in his research into Anne Bloodworth's death. He and Julia had scrambled over the grave, looking at the cards on the flowers. He had five names, all women, from two different florists. He would contact the florists tomorrow and try to pry the addresses and phone numbers of their clients out of them.

  About a block from campus, Simon forced his conscious mind to put Anne Bloodworth aside and think instead about North Carolina Colonial history. If he wasn't careful, his students were not going to get their money's worth, and he didn't need to give Alex Andrus any more ammunition just now.

  Simon got home after class around six o'clock. Despite his hearty lunch, he was starving. Close inspection of his refrigerator and pantry revealed that his cupboard was bare except for cat food and raisin bran. Neither appealed to him just then, so he decided to venture out to the local Yuppie grocery store for gourmet takeout from the deli.

  As Simon backed his Thunderbird out of his driveway, he closed all the windows. There had been a carjacking at the shopping center recently, and he didn't want to tempt any potential car thieves while he was in the grocery store.

  Driving the narrow streets of Cameron Park was always a challenge. Residents insisted on parking their cars in the street instead of conveniently in driveways or alleys, so there was often room for just one car to pass. Everyone very politely took turns letting one another by at the narrow spots. Children on their way to and from the local elementary school had a way of darting out of side streets without warning. Naturally, the college kids taking shortcuts through the neighborhood drove much too fast and didn't pay attention to children or to the width of the streets.

  The repair trucks that visited frequently to patch up the neighborhood's ancient utility lines always created traffic havoc. Simon came upon a big city truck parked on the diagonal as he went around the corner. There was no warning flag or sign, and Simon had to brake quickly to avoid hitting the traffic cones that blocked off the street. Two uniformed men with a serious jackhammer were breaking up the roadway while the street flooded with water. Simon swore under his breath, turned into a driveway, and headed in the opposite direction. A two-block trip had just turned into a ten-block detour around the neighborhood.

  As he pulled to the side of the street to let a minivan loaded with children pass, Simon felt curiously light-headed, and his head began to ache. This was ridiculous. How could he be that hungry after having two helpings of the buffet at the funeral?

  Simon pulled out into the street again, just in time to miss a dog darting across the street and fetching up on a curb two inches from a newly planted red maple. Now his heart was pounding as well as his head. What the hell was going on here? He was just going to the grocery store, and he had narrowly missed having two accidents. Well, he had read that most accidents happen less than a mile from home. Make that two blocks, in his case. This just reinforced his determination to walk or to ride his bike more.

  There were no other vehicles in sight, so Simon left his car on the curb for a minute to collect himself. His heartbeat slowed down, but his head still hurt. He backed carefully off the curb, avoiding the bright red tricycle behind him. He set off again, driving less than fifteen miles an hour now.

  Simon was very sleepy, but he didn't question it. He watched with detachment as he passed a blur of houses, trees, and alley entrances. His breathing became difficult, and his chest hurt. At the same time, his instincts and his judgment stalled. He went through a stop sign. The street curved to the right up ahead, but he continued on
straight, dead into a stone retaining wall. He heard an awful crunching noise, his windshield grew a thousand spidery cracks, and the soft white folds of the air bag exploded out of the steering column as his body lurched forward. The engine was still running.

  He wasn't aware of anything until he heard two voices.

  "Maybe we should wait for the paramedics," said the first voice.

  "I don't think so," said the second voice. "We should get him out in case the car blows up."

  "It's not going to blow up, you dweeb. There's no fire, and no gas leaking. But maybe we should pull him out anyway." Someone opened the car door on the driver's side, and Simon saw two young teenage girls, one dark and one blonde. Teen angels, Simon thought absurdly. The dark one tried to undo his seat belt, but it was jammed. The blonde pulled out a Swiss army knife and cut through the belt. Then she grabbed Simon under the armpits and pulled him free of the remains of the air bag. The dark one disentangled his legs and the two carried him about ten feet from the car, then lowered him onto the grass near the two bikes they had dropped. They were strong girls, Simon thought. But then, they were both bigger than he was.

  The open air and cool grass began to clear Simon's head. What in God's name had happened to him?

  "Don't worry, mister, the paramedics will be here soon. The lady across the street called nine-one-one," the brunette said. Simon tried to speak, but he couldn't come up with the words to match his thoughts. "Do you think he's drunk?" asked the blonde.

  "I'm not drunk," Simon said. "I think I'm sick." It was the only explanation for his behavior he could think of that matched how he felt. His chest still hurt. The authorities arrived in the form of two fire engines, an ambulance, and a police car. A small crowd began to gather. Sergeant Gates climbed out of the police car with a uniformed officer.

  Simon was sitting up and coughing repeatedly while the medics examined him. "How do you feel?" asked one of the paramedics.

  "My chest hurts," Simon said. "I can't breathe very well."

  "Do you have heart problems, diabetes? Any in your family?"

  "No," said Simon.

  "Do you take any medications? Do any recreational drugs?"

  Simon hated to answer this question in front of Gates, who was standing just a couple of feet away with his arms crossed. The policeman who had come in the patrol car with him was taking photographs of Simon's car.

  "I take an antidepressant," Simon said. "I've got some other prescriptions, but I haven't taken anything else today. That's all." "How did you feel before the accident, while you were driving?" Gates asked. "What are you doing here?" Simon said.

  "Just happened to be in the area. Now how did you feel before the wreck?" Gates asked again. "I was sleepy, and I couldn't think."

  Gates, the policeman, and the medic looked at each other knowingly.

  "Have you had any trouble with your car's exhaust system recently?" the policeman asked. Simon answered that the car was fine, as far as he knew. At that point, the medic strapped an oxygen mask over his nose and mouth, making talking difficult. The medic looked in Simon's eyes with a small flashlight and checked him for broken bones. Simon noticed that Gates had gotten down on his hands and knees and was looking under his car. The policeman was interviewing the two girls. Gates stood up, then looked back toward Simon. He had a very serious expression on his face.

  "Well," the medic said. "I don't think that there's anything wrong with you that a hundred percent oxygen for a while won't cure." "What is it?" Simon mumbled through the mask.

  "Carbon monoxide poisoning," the medic said.

  Simon tried to process this startling information as he was loaded into the ambulance. He could have been killed, or killed someone else. Gates looked in the back of the ambulance just before it drove off.

  "I'll check in on you at the hospital later," he said. "Whom should I call?" Simon gave him Walker Jones's home number. Somehow, he didn't think he'd be working tomorrow.

  "What about my car?" asked Simon.

  "I'll take care of the car," Gates said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "IT'S LIKE THIS," THE EMERGENCY ROOM DOC SAID. "WHEN YOU breathe, oxygen molecules hook up to your red blood cells and get transported all over your body. When they get to their destination, the molecules are released, and the red blood cells head back to the lungs for more oxygen. However, the carbon monoxide molecule hooks up to a red blood corpuscle and never lets go. When enough red blood cells can't carry oxygen to your body because they've been hijacked by carbon monoxide, you suffocate."

  Wonderful, thought Simon. He was lying in a cubicle in the local emergency room, where the paramedics had deposited him.

  "Get that car fixed," the medic had said to him earlier while his partner briefed the doctor. "You could have hurt someone, not to mention yourself."

  "I didn't know anything was wrong with it," Simon said. "It was not my intent to drive around a residential neighborhood in a semiconscious state and hit a stone wall." "It's a good thing those girls pulled you out," said the medic. "Or you would have gotten an even bigger snifter of the stuff." Simon had spent a long hour lying on a narrow bed in the emergency room before any doctor saw him. His was obviously a pretty boring case. The nurse had taken his pulse, blood pressure, and temperature. The oxygen mask had been replaced with a thing that hooked under his nose and into the wall. At least he could talk. The doctor had come in, read the medics' report and the nurse's notes, grinned at him, and left. Finally, he had returned to lecture him on the life cycle of red blood cells.

  "Fortunately for you," the doc said, "red blood cells don't live very long before they die and get replaced. You'll need to stay overnight on oxygen. You should feel better by morning."

  Simon didn't want to stay in the hospital, but he knew the doctor was right. He still felt awful.

  "What was wrong with your car?" the doctor asked. How should I know? Simon thought. I'm here in the emergency room waiting for my red corpuscles to die. I haven't had a chance to have any lengthy conversations with my mechanic.

  "I don't know yet."

  "Better get it fixed."

  No. I just thought I'd drive it again first and see what happens.

  "We'll get you admitted right away," the doctor said.

  "Thank you," Simon said.

  Right away in hospital parlance clearly meant something completely different from the dictionary definition. First, he had to wait for the admissions person to come and take down volumes of insurance information. She also wanted to note down the number of his AmEx card, which Simon found worrisome. Then he had to wait for them to find a bed on the appropriate ward, which appeared to be the pulmonary unit. There were a number of beds available on other wards, but apparently one of these just wouldn't do. Then he had to wait for a wheelchair. Finally, he had to wait for an aide to come and push him up to his room. It was not acceptable for him to walk there himself. The admitting officer implied that the possible scenarios that could result from his selfambulation were horrific. He could fall down, get hurt, or even die, and his family might sue the hospital. She didn't accept the possibility that he might make it.

  Eventually Simon was escorted up to his room by a very nice-looking young woman. He was then forced to undress and put on one of those hospital gowns that don't cover anything. A nurse put another oxygen thing under his nose. Simon had to admit that he could breathe better now.

  "I thought I read somewhere that these things were going to be redesigned," Simon said about the gown. "What fun would that be?" the nurse said.

  Simon asked her about food. He was starving.

  "Dinner was over hours ago. I'll bring you some ginger ale and crackers. Breakfast in the morning usually gets up to this floor about quarter to six." The nurse deserted him, with an air that indicated that he didn't need much attention and wasn't going to get any. Simon lay in his bed and began to worry What was wrong with his car? What was Gates going to do with it? Would he be able to work tomorrow? Should he
call his own doctor and tell him he was in the hospital with carbon monoxide poisoning? What if his red blood cells were unusually long-lived? Would he be able to go on his date with Julia tomorrow night? Just how much damage could Maybelline do if she didn't get let out or fed this evening?

  Simon was contemplating trying to work the hospital phone system when his delivering angel walked in. His friend David Morgan had never looked better to him. He was his usual potbellied, underdressed self, and he carried a huge McDonald's bag in one hand and Simon's only pair of pajamas in the other.

  "If you die," David said, "can I have your Otis Redding boxed set?"

  "No. I'm taking it with me."

  "You don't look all that bad. What happened to your car?"

  "If another person asks me that, I'm going to scream. I don't know what's wrong with the car. Something, obviously. What's in the bag?"

  "Sodium, caffeine, fat. Smells good, doesn't it? Gosh, if I'd known you were hungry, I'd have brought you some. This is mine."

  Before Simon could protest, David grinned and tossed him the bag.

  "These, however, will cost you," he said, holding Simon's pajamas aloft. "Pay up or go bare-assed all night."

  "This is not funny," Simon said. "Give those to me right now." David gave him the pajamas, and Simon quickly put them on. Then he dug into his Quarter Pounder with cheese, fries, and large Coke. David sat in the chair next to Simon's bed and watched him eat.

  "Honestly, how do you feel?" David asked.

  "Better," Simon said with his mouth full. "I just have to stay for the night. Until my poisoned red blood cells die."

  "Please, spare me the gory details."

  "When you got my pajamas, did you let my cat out, by any chance? And how did you get in the house?"

  "I remembered your strange habit of leaving the back door unlocked," David said. "And yes, I let the cat out, and back in, and fed her, too. Nasty creature." "How did you know what happened?"

  "Sergeant Gates called Walker Jones, and he called me. Walker said to tell you, by the way, that he'll cover your class for you tomorrow."