Simon Said

by Sarah Shaber

  "I don't think so," Simon said. "I think all the evidence points right at Adam Bloodworth."

  "How do you figure that?" Gates said.

  "It's clear that it was common knowledge that Anne Bloodworth was not going to marry Adam Bloodworth, and that she had another beau."

  "Agreed," Gates said. "Adam stood to lose everything if he and Anne didn't get married. He had been brought into the family and the business for that express purpose. If Anne jilted him, what would happen to him? If she died or disappeared, he would be the obvious person for Charles Bloodworth to turn to. And that in the end is what happened. Seven years after Anne Bloodworth vanished, three years after her father died, Adam had her declared dead. He inherited everything."

  "I think we've discussed motive before," Julia said. "Motive is meaningless without opportunity. You can't single out an individual for suspicion just because he may have benefited from someone's death. You've got to prove it through physical evidence, and we haven't got any."

  "And declaring her dead seven years after she vanished would be a very reasonable thing to do," Gates said. "I guess what really makes me think he's guilty is that his alibi is so lousy," Simon said. "Adam was supposedly out of the house, having gone fishing, but apparently he wasn't the fishing type. Did he go alone? If he didn't have any fishing buddies along with him, what kind of alibi is that?"

  "And," Julia said, "the servants were not in the house, so they wouldn't have known where he was." "What about the elder Bloodworth?" asked Gates. "He was home."

  "He would cover up for Adam," Simon said.

  "His daughter's murderer?" Gates said.

  "No, of course not. He wouldn't have known that she had been murdered. He thought she'd run away. And he'd want to protect Adam, who was the only relative he had left."

  "So if Adam killed Anne, he did it right there on the property, while Charles Bloodworth was in the house? And the old man didn't hear or see anything suspicious? That doesn't make any sense," Gates said. "And there's Peebles. He seems like a pretty

  good cop to me. His report is very matter-of-fact. He says Adam had an alibi. He repeats the fishing story. I don't think a cop would accept something like that without corroboration, even in 1926."

  "Even if it came from two very rich and very influential men? I mean, if Charles Bloodworth said Adam was out of the house fishing, wouldn't Peebles automatically accept that?"

  "Maybe," Gates said. "But I'm still inclined to think Adam's story was somehow verified, and we just don't know how yet. I don't think social status alone would save Bloodworth from suspicion in her disappearance, even at that time."

  "And besides," Julia said, "the whole community knew about Mr. X. Even if the police ignored the love affair, the detective agency wouldn't."

  "We'll never know what the agency uncovered," Simon said. "Those records are all lost. But speaking of Mr. X, any thoughts on him?"

  "He must have been really unacceptable," Julia said, "if even Anne's girlfriends didn't know who he was. That implies that they wouldn't approve of him themselves." "Yes, but in 1926 more men would be considered unacceptable for someone like Anne Bloodworth than would be today," Simon said. "The guy could have been completely respectable by our standards—like a doctor whose parents were farmers or immigrants, for instance."

  "Mrs. Blythe said she met him through her college," Julia said, "but wasn't Kenan a school for women then?" "They could have met at a lecture or a tea or who knows what all," Gates said. "Don't forget State College was right down the road. Unacceptable men were everywhere, I would think."

  "So," Julia said, "Anne Bloodworth was running away with Mr. X; she was caught in the act by Adam Bloodworth, who shot her and buried her in the backyard. Then he fabricated an alibi, which was corroborated by Charles Bloodworth, who wanted to avoid a scandal. Then what did Mr. X do? Wander off and pine and write despondent poetry for the rest of his life? Why wouldn't he go to the police the next day and say Anne never made it to their rendezvous? Instead, he didn't say a word to anyone, just let the world think she was safe with him somewhere."

  "Maybe Adam killed Mr. X, too," Simon said.

  "Then where's his body? Or a missing person's report? Whoever he was, he wouldn't vanish without someone noticing," Julia said.

  "Maybe she wasn't going to meet him; maybe she was just running away in general," Gates said.

  "That's possible, I guess," Simon said. "But I think she was too smart to take off without a plan." "The truth is," Gates said, "we don't have enough apples to make a pie. There are just too many missing pieces to this puzzle. The damn case is seventy years old. The principals are all dead, and the eyewitnesses who are still around think Elvis is alive."

  "Seventy years is no time in historical terms, Otis," Simon said. "Your greatgrandparents were slaves. My mother's family experienced the Holocaust. Those two facts alone affect the two of us profoundly every single day. Who knows what impact Anne Bloodworth's death had. Or what the impact of her existence would have been if she'd lived."

  "I think I'm getting a headache," Gates said. "All I know is, I've got a forty-seven-page psychologist's report on an arson suspect in my briefcase, grass in my yard a foot tall, and tonight my two boys are playing ball at the same time seven fields apart. That's about all I can handle in one evening." Gates got up from the table to leave. "I don't want the two of you to think I'm not interested," he said. "I am. Murder is murder. But I need facts to proceed officially. Keep in touch."

  Gates left, without allowing Simon to pick up his check.

  "Am I imagining things, or did I irritate him just a little bit?" "Your speech about the significance of history was just a tad preachy," Julia said. "But don't worry about it. You've just bonded with the victim. Gates knows that. He's done it himself."

  "What?" "Homicide investigators get cases that they just can't let go of," Julia said. "The victim is unidentified, or there is no evidence, or it leads nowhere. Long past when a normal person would give up, the cop carries that file around with him—for years and years. He's bonded with the victim. The search for justice has become personal. You have an interest in the past that attracts you to Anne Bloodworth's case. Sergeant Gates has enough in the present to keep him busy. But don't worry—if we can still turn up facts, he'll be interested."

  Sergeant Gates had taken up a lot of the physical and psychological space in the booth, and after he left, Simon was conscious that he and Julia were alone and sitting very close together. He wondered if he should get up and move over to the other side. She didn't seem uncomfortable—with her spoon, she was carefully steering some spilled beer through the trough of a name cut deep into the wood of the booth. Simon was acutely aware that he had nothing at all to do. He envied Otis Gates.

  "Would you like to stay and eat dinner?" Simon asked. Instantly, he could have kicked himself. His question probably insulted her by assuming she had no plans, either. He should have asked her out for the weekend instead.

  "I would love to," she said. "But could we eat someplace else? I've had my quota of hamburgers this week."

  Simon and Julia wound up two blocks away at the new Indian restaurant in town. The place was in an old gas station, but the food was wonderful. Julia ordered aloo tikki and lamb kofta with naan and chutney. Simon had samosas and chicken curry. He ordered extra basmati rice, which he loved. He and Tessa used to go to the Indian supermarket and buy a five-pound bag every month. What was left of the last bag was still sitting in his pantry He hadn't cooked any since she had gone.

  Fortunately, Julia was a sharer rather than a hoarder, so they happily ate off each other's plates as well as their own, washing everything down with Indian beer. "Time travel," Julia said while spearing a bite of samosa off his plate. "What?" Simon said. He had to wait until she finished chewing for his answer.

  "Science fiction," Julia said. "We were talking earlier about going back in time, and I was just thinking that there's a lot of literature based on time travel." "H. G. Well
s," Simon said.

  "And Jules Verne. Not to mention Star Trek and the space-time continuum." "The what?"

  "You know, some space event happens and the Enterprise is catapulted back in time and the crew accidentally affects some little thing that would change the course of history so that they'd be slaves of the Romulans when they go back, so they have to fix it. And they don't have access to their technology and Spock or Data has to use a toaster and a curling iron to make the transporter work, and so on."

  "That does sound familiar. Except I think the space-time continuum is from Back to the Future."

  "Same thing. But I thought science fiction was supposed to be based on elements of truth," she said. "Time travel is impossible." "Oh, I don't know," Simon said. "You just have to think of time in a non-Western way. We think time is linear, a straight line that continues on forever. Instead, picture it as a river with eddies and whirlpools and curves and bends. Then you can imagine that the river doubles back on itself in places, and you can cross over a little spit of land and wind up in the past."

  "I don't think my brain can quite grasp that," Julia said.

  "Law school probably ruined you for real thought," Simon said.

  "Probably so."

  "Look at it this way. Suppose you had to clean up your grandmother's house after she died. You wind up in the attic, and you find a trunk full of letters and photographs and other stuff that you spend the whole afternoon reading. You become so engrossed that you lose yourself completely in her story, and you also lose complete track of time in the present. Haven't you spent time in the past, and lost some of your own present? Isn't that time travel?"

  "That's stretching it, don't you think?" "Let's suppose you find out something about your family you never knew before. Something astounding. Say you discover that your father wasn't really your father, but a stepfather. Your real father is in jail for murder or embezzlement or whatever. Wouldn't finding that out change your past and your future? You aren't who you thought you were, and what are you going to do about this father who's still alive? Visit him in prison at Christmas, or what?"

  "Could I find one hundred shares of original Standard Oil common stock in that trunk and be rich beyond my wildest dreams, too?" "Why not?"

  "Then I'm all for it."

  "Speaking of science fiction, have you seen Independence Day?"

  "No, but I'd like to." "Let's go," Simon said.

  WHILE STANDING IN line at the theater for popcorn and sodas, Simon and Julia ran into Bobby Hinton and his date. She had one of those southern double names that started with Mary. She was dressed in preppy clothes, from her tortoiseshell headband right down to her Pappagallo flats. Bobby Hinton coordinated well in khaki slacks, polo shirt, and Bass Weejuns without socks. They both had the kind of tan one couldn't get if one worked for a living.

  "Well, how's the investigation going?" Hinton asked.

  "It's interesting," Simon said. "We're accumulating some contemporary information. Some of Anne Bloodworth's friends are still alive."

  "You're kidding," Hinton said. "I wouldn't have thought of that. Is my illustrious ancestor still one of your suspects?" "Absolutely," Simon said.

  "He's got motive, but that's about it so far," Julia said. "Real facts are in short supply."

  "Let me know what you find out," Hinton said. "I'd be interested. It's not everyone whose relative is part of a mysterious murder case." "Did you learn anything new from your mother?" Simon asked.

  "What? Oh, no. Just what I told you at the funeral," Bobby said.

  Independence Day turned out to be a great date movie. Simon wasn't sure if thirtyyear-old men were supposed to get off on holding hands, but, apart from the sexual frisson, he liked the warmth of contact with another human being again.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  WHEN THEY GOT TO HIS PLACE, SIMON MADE ICED HAZELNUT coffee for them. Julia browsed his CD rack and put on Ray Charles. They went out to Simon's small porch and talked about music and books and movies while the ceiling fan turned slowly overhead and june bugs crashed into the porch screen.

  Ray Charles's cover of "Still Crazy After All These Years" faded into silence. Maybelline strolled proudly onto the porch and leapt into Julia's lap.

  "Why do you call her Maybelline?" Julia asked.

  "Because she can't be true. She'll go with anything with gonads."

  Julia eyed the cat critically. "It looks to me like she's not having safe sex, either. She's pregnant."

  "No kidding," Simon said. "That's great."

  "You must still be feeling the effects of all that carbon monoxide," she said. "No one wants his cat to have kittens." "I wouldn't mind."

  "You could still have her fixed."

  "I wouldn't dream of it." Maybelline had started to knead Julia's lap, so Simon picked her up and put her on the floor.

  "Pick out some more music and I'll get us some more coffee," Simon said. "It's decaf." Julia watched him walk into the kitchen. She could not even imagine her two exfiances, or any other man she had ever dated, taking care of kittens.

  Julia was trying to decide between Lyle Lovett and Rubenstein playing Chopin when Simon walked up behind her and slipped his arms around her. "Lyle Lovett," he said.

  "Okay," she said.

  She put the disc into its slot. As she pressed the play button, Simon pulled her closer to him and held her with crossed arms and rubbed her hips with his hands. She breathed deeply and covered his hands with hers. He had to tiptoe slightly to nuzzle her neck and kiss her hair. His hands moved up to cup her breasts. Julia pulled his hands away and turned to face him. She was steeled for anger and frustration, but she saw only disappointment in his face.

  "I'm sorry," Simon said. "Did I offend you?" "Not at all," she said. She tried to make her voice sound casual, as if she didn't know that Simon wanted to make love to her. "It's just time for me to go home. I have to work tomorrow."

  "Okay," he said. "Let me get my keys." It was just a few blocks to the parking lot of the bar where Julia had left her car. Simon opened her door and made sure she was in her own car with the doors locked. He didn't try to kiss her good night. Julia realized that she felt awful.

  "I didn't hurt your feelings, did I?" she asked.

  "Of course you did," Simon said. "But I take rejection extremely well. I'll even come back for more. Will you go out with me again?" "Of course. I'd like to."

  "Okay. I'll call you."

  Simon watched Julia drive her noisy old BMW out of the parking lot and into the empty street. Damn, he thought, damn and damn and damn. He wondered how long he should wait before calling her again, or if she really wanted him to. She could just have been being polite. He could have sworn that he had felt a response when he touched her, though.

  When Julia was out of Simon's sight, she put one hand on her face to see if it was as hot as she thought. She was still shocked. Her response to his touch was so profound that she had run away from him long before the situation had really called for flight. She hadn't even let him kiss her. Yes, Simon was cute, intelligent, funny, and gracious. And he hadn't acted like a thwarted child when she asked to go home. But sexy? No way. Too small, too bookish, too unambitious. But he had provoked a physical response in her that was beyond her understanding. She must have just been taken off guard. She really hadn't expected him to try to sleep with her so soon.

  After the fiasco with the banker, Julia had decided that her next serious relationship would be the one. She wanted to get married and have kids, and she wasn't getting any younger. She didn't have time to waste on a man who wasn't appropriate, as Simon obviously wasn't. He was nice, though, and she didn't want to hurt him. She wondered if he would call her, and if he didn't, how she would go about making friends with him again. Compulsively, she counted all the streetlights on the right-hand side of the road until she arrived at her duplex. There were thirty-three, if you included one in the parking lot.

  Simon walked back into his house. A few lights were on, the door t
o the porch was open, and the ceiling fan still turned the hot air slowly. Two iced coffees, both full, sat where Simon had left them on the table near the CD player. Lyle Lovett was singing All My Love Is Gone. The house seemed a lot emptier than the absence of one person could explain.

  Simon hummed along with Lyle while he cleaned up, turned off the lights, and locked the doors. He was disappointed but not unhappy. He knew that attraction is a more complicated issue for women than for men. Julia needed time to worry their relationship to death before she made any decisions about it. He was willing to wait and see what happened.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  WHEN HE GOT TO WORK THE NEXT DAY, SIMON FOUND A MESSAGE on his desk from Joe Bagwell at the Safety Taxi Company. Simon called him immediately. "I don't drive much myself anymore," Joe said. "I dispatch mostly. I just drive a few regulars, like Mrs. Holland. She and I talk about old times, mostly about how glad we are those old times are over. Anyway, my daughter and my sister's boys drive three cabs for me now."

  "Is this a bad time?" "There's not going to be a good time," Joe said. "Things are always wild around here. Listen, I found Bessie White, but I don't know if her people are going to let you talk to her."

  "Don't say that. I've got to talk to her." "She's real old, and she was very upset about the newspaper story. Finding the Bloodworth girl dead and everything. Her granddaughter is afraid she might have a heart attack. But the granddaughter said she'd talk to you herself. Her name is Cofield, Dr. Elizabeth Cofield. She's one of those doctors who read X rays. She works out at the medical center. Said she'd talk to you at her lunch break, but she was real frosty about the whole thing."

  "Thanks, Joe," Simon said. "I really owe you. I'd about given up hope of finding her." "Hey, you," Joe said. "Get your paws off that old tire. You'll get dirty and your mama'll fuss at me."