Shell game

cover image

Where to find it

North Carolina Collection (Wilson Library)

Call Number
C813 S523s2
Status
In-Library Use Only
Item Note
Dustjacket.
Call Number
C813 S523s2 c. 2
Status
Available
Item Note
Dustjacket.

Authors, etc.

Names:

Summary

Simon Shaw, Pulitzer Prize-winning author and forensic historian, encounters his oldest corpse yetUwharrie Man, who died fourteen thousand years ago on the banks of Badin Lake in North Carolina. A controversy stirs up over the body, one that Simon realizes is not merely academic when his friend, archeologist David Morgan, is murdered. Simon is convinced that Morgan died because he came between factions struggling for control of the bones, but police sergeant Otis Gates disagrees. Simon single-mindedly pursues his friends killer, whose identity is a shock to everyone, especially Simon himself.

Sample chapter

Chapter One I'm not afraid of dying. I just don't want to be there when it happens. --Woody Allen Simon knew instantly that someone he cared about was dead. Walker Jones, the chairman of his department, and Sophie Berelman, another colleague, hovered in the hall corridor outside the lecture hall, waiting for his class to end. Sophie leaned against the oak-wainscoted wall, gazing fixedly at the floor, repeatedly glancing at her watch, looking miserable, while Walker, inured by years of experience coping with the troubles of his colleagues, just waited stoically, arms crossed. Vultures perched on the staircase banister outside the room would have been less conspicuous. Seconds before the bell rang, Simon's students began to shuffle their papers and water bottles into their backpacks. They emptied the old-fashioned stadium seating in no time, leaving Simon alone in the echoing lecture room. For once no one lingered behind to talk to him. Simon turned and started erasing his scribbles from the whiteboard, the only modern fixture in the room, dreading the next few minutes. He mentally reviewed the various ages and infirmities of his aunts and uncles, and braced himself for the bad news. After the last student had left, Walker and Sophie came in. Sophie closed the door behind them. "Bad news," Simon said matter-of-factly. "'Fraid so," Walker said. Sophie laid a hand on Simon's shoulder. "David Morgan died this morning," Walker said. Walker pulled a chair out from behind a desk while Sophie guided Simon into it. Simon wasn't prepared for this, not that anyone is ever prepared to learn about an unexpected death. His friend David Morgan was forty-two years old. He didn't take any worse care of himself than most people Simon knew. He must have had an accident of some kind. "I just saw him a couple of days ago," Simon said, as if that meant anything. "I'm so sorry," Sophie said again. "Car wreck?" Simon asked. "No," Walker said. "What, then?" Simon asked. The two glanced at each other, hesitating. "He's got to know," Sophie said to Walker. She turned to Simon. "He was murdered." Simon found himself sitting on the worn leather sofa in Walker's office, his hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee. Walker poured a shot of Jack Daniel's into the mug. Simon drank half of it in one gulp. Walker sat down next to him. "We've canceled your classes for a couple of days, of course," he said. "Marcus will be here in a few minutes to drive you home." Simon finished his coffee without speaking, collecting his thoughts and emotions. "I want to know what happened," he said. He tried to remember Morgan's schedule. Had he gone to the office today? Was he out on a dig? "We don't know yet," Walker said. "A package deliveryman found the body this morning. The police are still at the house." Simon's friend Marcus Clegg arrived, carrying his briefcase and Simon's, too. "Hey," he said, touching Simon briefly on his arm. "I am so damn sorry. Let's go to your place." He raised Simon's briefcase. "I think I've got all your stuff. I'll wait with you, until . . ." "Until what?" Simon said. "Until Morgan's not dead anymore?" "Until we know more," Sophie said, placating him. "I don't need a babysitter," Simon said. "You shouldn't be alone for a few days," Marcus said. "Stop being so goddamned nice to me." "Live with it," Walker said. "We're all going to be nice as hell to you, whether you like it or not. Now go home." Once in Marcus's car, Simon's fury overtook him. With both fists he slammed the dash of Marcus's restored 1967 Carolina blue Mustang, his pride and joy. Marcus winced but didn't say anything. "Take me to Morgan's house," Simon said, speaking with a clenched jaw to keep his voice from wavering. Marcus shook his head. "Not a good idea," he said. "I need to know what happened." "I know this is hard, but I think--" "I don't care what you think. Either take me to Morgan's house or let me out of the car, I'll walk there." Silently Marcus turned toward Morgan's neighborhood. "I'm sorry," Simon said. "I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." "Under the circumstances you're entitled to behave as badly as you like, for a while, anyway," Marcus said. They stopped in front of David Morgan's modest ranch home, or rather, they stopped a half block away because an ambulance, a City County Bureau of Investigation crime van, and a couple of police cars were parked in front of the house. Bystanders lined the boundary of the yellow scene-of-crime tape and gawked, whispering among themselves. Simon snapped. He got out of the car and took off at a run down the street. His path was blocked by a burly policeman. Simon was a small man, and the policeman almost lifted him off the ground while restraining him. "I need to go inside," Simon said. "I want to see him." "The victim was a close friend of his," Marcus said to the policeman, catching up to them. He gripped Simon's free arm, and both men kept a tight hold on him. "Sorry," the policeman said. "This is a crime scene. No one allowed in until the investigators are finished with their work." "I know Sergeant Gates from the homicide division," Simon said. "Call him, he'll vouch for me." "The victim's corpse is already loaded into the ambulance." As if to frustrate Simon even further, the ambulance's engine fired, and the vehicle pulled away from the curb. "There's nothing you can do here," Marcus said. "We can do our jobs better if civilians don't interfere with our investigations," the policeman said. "Stop patronizing me, both of you. I'm not leaving. I insist on knowing everything that happened here." "We haven't come to any conclusions yet, Simon." Detective-Sergeant Otis Gates's voice boomed from a body that matched it, an ex-footballer's husky frame. He'd come out of the house behind them. "Otis, thank God," Simon said. Marcus and the policeman released Simon's arms, and the policeman, catching a nod from Otis, went back to his post. Otis Gates was dressed, impeccably as usual, in a brown pin-striped suit. Gates was a big African-American man, a devout Baptist, and a native North Carolinian with a law-and-order perspective on life. He and Simon Shaw, a liberal academic whose Jewish mother had moved south from Queens and married into an old Boone family, had become improbable friends over the past few years, after Otis had recruited Simon, a professor of history at nearby Kenan College, to help him solve a murder committed in 1926. At the time Simon accepted Otis's request mostly to distract himself from his divorce, and had surprised himself by becoming intensely involved in the case. He quickly realized that professional historians were natural detectives. Like skilled homicide investigators, they asked intrusive questions, mobilized any resources needed to answer them, and drew conclusions based on evidence. Without any scruples they probed deeply into family history, possible motives, and character. Simon solved that 1926 murder, and since then had cracked several more very cold cases. He'd become somewhat famous, dubbed a "forensic historian" by the press, attracting some celebrity, and, it must be said, a bit of criticism, even jealousy, from a few of his colleagues. It didn't help that Kenan College, a small liberal arts school situated on a lovely campus in downtown Raleigh, publicized Simon's cases for their public relations value for the college. This murder was different, though, this was immediate and personal, and Simon responded to it the way any normal person would, with shock, anger, and grief. So despite their friendship Otis dealt with him professionally, with firmness as well as compassion. "You can't go inside, Simon," Gates said. "There's nothing productive you can do here, except stay out of our way." "Tell me what happened." "Dr. Morgan died from a heavy blow to the head, from behind. He was sitting at his desk, working, I suppose, because his laptop was on. Dr. Morgan didn't know what hit him, if that's any comfort. The paramedic said he died instantly. Other than that I can't tell you anything else, not right now." "But why would someone murder him?" "I have no idea. It's early days yet." "He has a sister in Tennessee." "Notified. She's on her way." Simon, despite his scholarly vocation, was a man of action. Otis realized he needed something to do. "His dogs are at the vet's," Gates said. "They were found unconscious in the backyard. Why don't you check on them?" Morgan's dogs were like his children. "I'll drive you there," Marcus said, seizing on an opportunity to get Simon away. "We'll be here most of the night working the crime scene," Gates said. "I'll come by in the morning and tell you what I can." "I was his closest friend," Simon said. "Shouldn't you question me?" "In the morning," Gates said. "You go on, now." The young veterinarian in the crisp white coat knew the whole story. She treated Simon very kindly, which irritated him. He didn't want to be treated kindly. He wanted to put his fist through the glass of the office door and explode with misplaced anger, but he managed to check himself and be civil. "The dogs are in the back," she said. "Want to see them?" "Please," Simon said. Morgan's black Labrador retrievers lay, prone and unconscious, in individual cages. Intravenous bottles hung over them, clear tubes snaking into big soft paws wrapped with tape. Both were monitored. The machines beeped as the peaks and valleys of their vital signs moved across black screens. Rex, the oldest dog at ten, looked the worst. Simon couldn't tell that he was even breathing, although weak respirations showed on the monitor. Simon reached through the bars of the cage and stroked Rex's white-flecked muzzle, but got no response. Luke, the three-year old, looked better. His eyelids opened a crack and his tail moved when Simon touched a paw. "Are they going to live?" Simon asked. "I think Luke will," the vet said. "I don't know about Rex. He's older, already had some heart disease." "My friend would want them to have the best care possible," Simon said. "I'll take care of the bills." "We're doing everything your doctor would do for you if you overdosed," she said. "We just have to wait and see." "So they were drugged." "Yeah," she said. "We've drawn blood samples for the police." At the front desk Simon signed the papers that would commit him to the dogs' bills, and left all his phone numbers. "We'll call you if there's any change," the vet said. "And I am so sorry. We all liked Dr. Morgan very much." "Thanks," Simon said. "You realize what this means," Simon said, climbing back into Marcus's car. "Morgan's death was planned. His murderer drugged the dogs so they couldn't sound an alarm." "I know," Marcus said. "Sergeant Gates told me, when he called the history department this morning, that it looked premeditated." "But in God's name, why?" "I can't imagine," Marcus said. David Morgan was an archaeologist for the state of North Carolina. He was the most uncomplicated man Simon knew. Never married, he was absorbed in his work, the prehistory of North Carolina. Crisscrossing the state in his black Ford pickup, dogs riding in back in the camper, surveying and excavating, was his life. His staff had to nudge him to get a haircut when he needed one. Even in his office he wore work boots, jeans, and flannel shirts. Simon had never seen him in a tie. Morgan's idea of a party was two beers and a UNC basketball game on television. He had few relationships--his sister and her family, Simon, a couple of old friends from graduate school, a woman Episcopal priest in Durham he insisted he wasn't dating. Then Simon remembered. "Have you told Trina?" he asked Marcus. "Not yet," Marcus said. Trina was Marcus's brilliant thirteen-year-old daughter, the second of his four girls. She had met Morgan a few years ago when Simon and Morgan joined the Cleggs at their beach house on Thanksgiving, and instantly bonded with him. After a weekend of trailing him and his metal detector up and down the beach, she decided to become an archaeologist herself. Morgan, who until he met Trina claimed to dislike children, had been both bemused and flattered, giving her tours of his dig sites and letting her visit his lab. Once in his own home and out of public view, Simon succumbed to shock. He dropped onto his sofa and put his head in his hands. He tried to absorb the fact of David Morgan's death, his murder. Marcus sat down next to him, but seemed to know not to try to comfort him. "I hope it's true," Simon said. "What?" "That he didn't know what hit him," Simon said. He wondered why he thought that ignorance of impending death was positive. Because he didn't want his friend to be afraid? What about making peace and all that? What would he, Simon, want in the same circumstances? He couldn't say. He needed a stiff drink. "Look," Marcus said. "I can't stay, I wish I could, but I've got to get home. I need to talk to Trina before news of the murder gets out." "How do you think she'll take it?" "I haven't a clue. She's thirteen. Her behavior is unpredictable under the best of circumstances these days." "I'll be fine," Simon said, wondering how much bourbon was in his liquor cabinet. After Marcus left, Simon made a beeline for his liquor cupboard. He poured a good two fingers of Maker's Mark into a glass to calm his nerves, filled it with Coke to settle his stomach, and stirred in two preventative doses of Goody's headache powders. He took the glass out onto his porch, where he sat and sipped and listened to the construction noises from a new library being built two blocks away. Simon wasn't one of those who bemoaned the city's growth. He liked Raleigh's down-home upscale feel, the coffee shops next to the barbecue joints, the county speedway coexisting with a new Saks, lofts and condos infilling the empty lots scattered in old Victorian neighborhoods, opera at the new concert hall competing with country music at the state fair. You could buy a fresh bagel or a Krispy Kreme doughnut for breakfast, depending on your mood. And Raleigh was still just two hours from the beach and four hours from the mountains. The construction noise ceased, the workday was over. Evening came earlier every day now. Handfuls of long brown needles drifted down from the loblolly pine in his backyard, blanketing the ground below. Squirrels roamed the tall tree's branches, breaking away to rob his neighbor's restocked bird feeder. A graceful maple, tipped with scarlet but still thick with green foliage on its lower branches, stood poised between summer and autumn. Simon inhaled the cozy odor of smoke from evening fires wafting around the neighborhood. In a matter of days dioramas constructed from straw bales, pumpkins, and gourds would replace the jungle of potted plants on his neighbors' front stoops. It would be a long night, the first of many, he knew. He'd experienced grief before, when his parents had died, and he had a good idea what to expect. All the psychological stages had to be endured before balance could come back into his life. It couldn't be avoided. Best to get it over with. He went back inside for more bourbon. He would send away whatever poor soul had been drafted to stay with him tonight. Then he could get drunk in peace. Copyright (c) 2007 by Sarah R. Shaber. All rights reserved. Excerpted from Shell Game by Sarah R. Shaber All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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