by Sarah Shaber
Chapter Seventeen
"THINGS ARE REALLY DIFFERENT AROUND HERE," JUDY SAID TO Simon when he stopped by the faculty mailbox on his way to his office. "Alex went into his office this morning and closed the door. We haven't heard a peep from him since—no whining, no moaning, no complaints. You must have really scared him."
"I should think so," Simon said. "I'm a scary person."
"Seriously, he's not the same man."
"Good. Let's hope it stays that way."
"And you have a zillion messages," Judy said, handing him a thick stack of pink message slips. Simon took his mail, his messages, and a cold Coke into his office and closed the door. He sat in his chair and put his feet up on his desk, popping the top of his Coke. For the first time in a long while, he felt as if he was in some kind of control of his life. He knew this feeling was an illusion, but he welcomed it anyway. Maybe he would even go to the grocery store later.
His mail was all junk, and the telephone messages were mostly concerned with his car accident. There were two calls from his insurance agent and one from the garage that was working on his car, probably about settlements and estimates. There were calls from Julia and from David. They were hours old, so he crumpled them and threw them in the wastepaper basket. The last one was from the florist, who said he had the information Simon had requested. Simon's feet landed on the floor with a thud, he chugged his Coke, and headed out the door.
"Hey," Judy said as he passed her, "you just got here. Where are you going? When should I tell all your admirers you'll be back?" "I don't know. Before class, for sure," Simon said. Then he remembered that he didn't have a car. He turned back to Judy's desk with a question about car-rental agencies. She was dangling a set of car keys from her hand.
"Marcus left you his old Mustang," she said. "He said you could have it as long as you wanted it but that if you so much as scratched it, he would have your hide." Marcus's Ford Mustang convertible was his pride and joy. His father had given it to him when he was sixteen, and he had maintained it impeccably ever since. The car was Carolina blue, with a white interior and a white vinyl top. It was probably worth a fortune. Simon knew he should be flattered that Marcus had entrusted it to him. He wished he hadn't. The Mustang had two great flaws as far as he was concerned: no airconditioning and an AM mono sound system. He wished he had thought to rent a car yesterday. He could never let Marcus know he wasn't appreciative, though, so he resigned himself to his hot, windblown, tinny fate.
The gas gauge was close to empty, so he pulled into Brooks Amoco. It was probably the last gas station in the universe that gave full service. Simon patronized it faithfully. "This is Mr. Clegg's car, ain't it?" the attendant asked. "It's a beaut."
"Yes," Simon said. "He's lent it to me for a while. Do you know what he puts in it?" "I'll fix you right up," the attendant said.
"Thanks."
After inserting the nozzle of the gas pump into the car, the attendant moved around to the front to clean the windshield. "You're looking better," he said.
"Excuse me?" said Simon.
"You was lower'n pig iron in water for a while there," the attendant said. "You know, your wife stopped here for a fill-up on her way out of town."
Good grief, thought Simon. "I've had two of 'em leave me. It's hell. They take everything you own and the courts let 'em. My first didn't get much 'cause I didn't have much, but my second got a nice double-wide that sits on my daddy's property, all the furniture, my brand-new truck, and two hundred and fifty bucks a month, just 'cause we had a couple of kids."
Simon made sympathetic noises. In fact, Tessa had taken almost nothing when she left. Everything she considered hers was packed onto and into a very small car. All the years he thought they were sharing a life, she was just camping out.
"Believe me, you'll get over it," the attendant said. "Get you another woman, too. Just don't marry her or get her pregnant. Then she can't leave with your stuff."
THE FLORIST WAS just as ill-tempered as the last time Simon had talked to him. "Some woman at the police department called me," he said. "Said I should cooperate with you. Said you are some kind of a consultant working with them or something. Said they might be able to get a search warrant if I refused."
"I appreciate it. I really do," Simon said.
"I had better things to do," he said. Rummaging around under the counter, he pulled out a notepad, ripped the top page off, and handed it to Simon. "Whoever bought the flowers that were sent from Bessie paid cash," he said. "Blanche Holland paid for hers by check. Her name and address and phone number were on the check. I called her and she said she would be happy to talk to you. The arrangement from Lillie and Sallie was ordered over the telephone and charged to a Lillian Blythe. We had her phone number because we always ask for it—in case the credit card's no good. Mrs. Blythe said she'd talk to you, too."
Simon carefully folded the note with the women's names and phone numbers on it and put it in his wallet.
"Thanks again," he said.
The florist ignored him.
Chapter Eighteen
"THIS IS BLANCHE HOLLAND," SAID THE VOICE ON THE OTHER end of the phone. The voice was elderly but strong and lucid. She had a cultured old Raleigh accent.
"Mrs. Holland, I'm Simon Shaw," he began. "Yes, I know. The historian from the college who is interested in Anne Bloodworth's death. I read about it in the newspaper. She was my very dear friend. I would be happy to talk to you about Anne if you think it could be useful to you."
"Is now a good time?" "That would be fine." She gave Simon directions, and a few minutes later, he pulled into a modern block of condominiums that had been built near a fashionable old section of Raleigh. The condos had been planned for upwardly mobile Yuppies, but instead, many of the aging owners of nearby mansions promptly sold their big homes and moved in. Mrs. Holland's unit was on the ground floor. A well-tended plot of impatiens and hosta bordered the short slate walk that led to the front door.
Mrs. Holland must have been watching for him, because she opened the door before Simon had a chance to knock. "I'm glad to meet you," she said, waving Simon into the immaculate living room. "I've been thinking about Anne ever since I read the article in the paper. I've had to take sleeping pills to get any rest at all."
Mrs. Holland was, as they say, old as dirt. Her hair was absolutely white and her skin was deeply wrinkled. Her hands were blotched with age spots and the knuckles were swollen. She wore bifocals. But somehow, she didn't seem that old to Simon. Her hair wasn't done like an old person's; it was cut short in a natural elfin style. Her glasses, which hung from a chain around her neck, were round wire rims. She was wearing, of all things, jeans, a ribbed knit tunic, and black Keds.
"I've got some tea steeping. It's Earl Grey. I hope you can drink it."
"Yes, please," Simon said.
The interior of the condo was bright and uncluttered. The modern pecan furniture looked new, and the sofa and chairs were upholstered in a colorful chintz. Across from the sofa in an entertainment center were a big TV, VCR, and CD player. Miniblinds and ivory lace curtains were at every window, letting in plenty of light. Two porcelain cats lay sleeping under a table. Mrs. Holland brought in a tray with the tea and a plateful of cookies.
"I like your place," Simon said. "Thank you," she said. "When I moved, I couldn't see bringing the big old heavy pieces of furniture from my house here. I split everything up between my children and grandchildren, including all my silver. Good riddance, too. Let someone else polish it."
"I'm sure a big house would be a burden," Simon said. "I feel sorry for the young couple who bought it. They don't know what they're getting into. All those twelve-foot ceilings that collect cobwebs and brass fixtures that have to be polished—not to mention the utility bills. There's no domestic help to be had these days, either. Which is a good thing, mind you. When I was a young matron, our maid, houseman, and cook were practically slaves. We expected them to live with us and be at our beck and call. I didn't so
much as get a glass of water for myself until the Depression."
"Sounds like you don't think much of the good old days," Simon said. "These are the good old days," she said. "But you came here to talk about Anne. What a shocking thing. After all these years of wondering about her, to find out she was murdered and buried in her own backyard! Mind you, I was pretty sure she was dead."
"Why?" "We—our crowd, that is—thought she had run away to avoid marrying Adam Bloodworth. We expected to hear from her after she turned twenty-one, or after old Mr. Bloodworth died. When we never did, we were afraid that she was dead. But murder was something that didn't cross our minds. In our day, young people died of influenza, not gunshot wounds."
"Tell me about her." "There was something different about Anne. Oh, we all considered ourselves to be modern young women. We danced the Charleston and bobbed our hair and thought Charlie Chaplin was the bee's knees. And we read F. Scott Fitzgerald and Sinclair Lewis and Theodore Dreiser. But we also wanted to go to parties and meet eligible young men. Anne didn't really care about her social life. She did all the right things—joined the Cotillion and made her debut—but she was just going through the motions. She was more interested in her college classes. And she was very active in the League of Women Voters, even though she wasn't old enough to vote yet."
"Maybe she wasn't interested in her social life because she was already engaged." "She had no intention of marrying Adam Bloodworth. That was an arrangement made by her father. He had this massive business empire and was determined to keep it in the family. Women weren't supposed to run businesses back then—at least not railroads— so he brought Adam in and decided Anne should marry him. Anne went along with the engagement because she had to live under the same roof with the two of them, but she kept putting off the wedding. Her plan was to keep putting it off until she was twenty-one and could break it off officially. She was due to get a little something from her mother's estate, so it wouldn't matter if her father cut her off. Oh, there was nothing really wrong with Adam—he was quite attentive, in fact. He always sent flowers and gave nice gifts. But he and Anne had nothing in common."
"Running away seems rather extreme." "Anne had another sweetheart. She wouldn't tell anyone who he was. We called him Mr. X. She showed us some of his love letters. He was very literary and romantic. Somehow, I suspect he wasn't in our crowd; otherwise, we could have figured out his
identity. I think, or I thought, that her father was suspicious and pressed her to marry Adam immediately. So she ran away." "Her father must have been very difficult."
"Not really. She was his daughter—he was just trying to take care of her, make her future secure. She was supposed to do what he said. He wasn't much different from my own father. It was Anne who was different."
"So when she disappeared, you thought she'd run off with Mr. X?"
"That was our fantasy. Within a few years, we knew it wasn't true, because we would have heard something from her." Simon told her about the empty carpetbag that had been found at the excavation. "Something terrible must have happened to her that night," she said.
"Do you think Adam Bloodworth could have killed her?"
"Good heavens! What a thought!" Mrs. Holland poured another cup of tea for herself. She passed him the plate of cookies loaded with chocolate chips and pecans. "Please eat these up," she said. "I made them myself."
"I've already had three," Simon said. "They're wonderful."
"Made with real butter. I gave up watching my diet when I turned eighty." She took a cookie and dipped it into her tea.
"Could Adam Bloodworth have killed Anne?" she repeated. "I don't know. It's hard to imagine. Why should he?"
"He wound up with the business, didn't he?" "He couldn't count on that. And if Anne ran away with another man, I think Charles Bloodworth would have relied on Adam even more. And I don't believe he loved her, except as a sister. I just don't know. In those days, only poor white trash killed one another. Besides, I seem to recall that Adam could prove his whereabouts."
"A fishing trip."
"That part, I don't remember. And anyway, we were not thinking that she was murdered. Couldn't it have been a tramp, or a burglar or something?"
"The police think that's unlikely," Simon said. "The body was arranged so carefully, almost ritually." "I have wondered so many times in my life what happened to Anne. We grew up down the street from each other; we saw each other almost every day. We were what one used to call 'bosom friends.' At my wedding, I found myself looking for her. She was going to be my maid of honor. It's like when my baby sister died. No matter how many years go by, there's always a face missing at the dinner table."
"I know," Simon said. When he had accepted his Pulitzer, for just a second he had searched the audience for his parents' faces. A horn sounded outside.
"Oh Lord," Mrs. Holland said. "That's my taxi! I have to leave for my bridge date." She opened the door and called out to the driver.
"Five minutes, Joe!"
As she picked up her purse, Simon asked her if she could tell him anything about Lillie Blythe and a Sallie, or a Bessie. "Lillie Blythe would be a good person for you to interview. Like lots of old people, her memory of the past is excellent. Her present existence is pitiful. I haven't seen her in years. Sallie was her sister. She's dead. Bessie—let's see. Oh! I know! She was Anne's maid. They were around the same age. Bessie's mother was the Bloodworth cook. Their last name was White, I believe. Bessie got married later, and I can't remember her married name. After old Mr. Bloodworth died, Bessie and her mother opened a restaurant on Hargett Street. They were wonderful cooks. Bessie's mother made a banana cake with caramel icing that was to die for. I pined for a piece many times after they left. And all I had to do was to go to their restaurant. I never did it because it was in the colored part of town. Isn't that stupid?"
Simon walked outside with her and opened the door to Joe's taxi. Joe looked nearly as old as Mrs. Holland, but his black face wasn't as wrinkled. His eyes were enormous behind lenses that were thick as the bottom of a Coke bottle.
"I'm running late, Joe," she said.
"You always running late, Mrs. Holland," Joe said. "You never could break off a conversation."
Mrs. Holland reached out of the taxi window and grasped Simon's hand tightly. "If you find out anything about what happened to Anne, anything at all, would you please let me know?"
"Absolutely," Simon said.
"You-all talking about Miss Anne? I saw where somebody from the college found her body," Joe said. "My daddy worked for Mr. Bloodworth down at the depot." "That's right!" Mrs. Holland said. "Joe, do you know what happened to Bessie White?" "She married Ben Watling's boy Freddie; they farmed out near Apex when it was still country. I used to see her sometimes at the city market on a Saturday. Freddie died during the war and she married somebody else and moved back to Raleigh. They ran her momma's restaurant for a while after she died. I can't remember Bessie's second married name, though. His people were Methodist, and mine have always been Baptist, so we didn't run together."
"I think she's still alive," Simon said. "Flowers came to the funeral in her name. In fact, I think she might have been at the burial."
"Could be," Joe said. "The Whites were all long-lived. I can ask around, see if anyone knows what happened to her," Joe said. "If she's still alive, she'd be old. Almost ninety." Simon gave him a card. "If you find out anything, will you call me?"
"Sure," Joe said. "Bessie sure could make lemon meringue pie. My wife got the recipe from her, but it never tasted the same."
Chapter Nineteen
SO, SIMON THOUGHT, ANNE BLOODWORTH WAS A BLUESTOCKING. She attended a four-year women's college and planned to graduate. She belonged to the League of Women Voters, just one of the women's clubs, leagues, and missionary societies that waged war on the considerable social ills at the early part of the twentieth century. By Anne's day, they had passed women's suffrage and Prohibition into law, and women had turned their attention to l
aw and order, lynching, child labor, and prostitution. These women were a formidable lot. They didn't much like what America's preoccupation with business and moneymaking had done to society, and they intended to do something about it. It was a big job. Life was prim and prosperous on the surface but rotten with poverty, crime, and the double standard at its core. A Capone was just one of the nasty products of the era. And Anne's father, Charles Bloodworth, railroad baron that he was, would have represented the Establishment in spades. Dinner-table conversation in the Bloodworth home must have been very lively.
Lillie Blythe's name had nagged at Simon ever since the florist had given it to him. He thought he'd heard of her before in another context. He stared at her address, and then he remembered. Her house was on Rose, a small two-block street buried deep in his own neighborhood. Once when he was collecting signatures for a zoning petition, he had made the mistake of knocking on her door. She had seemed pleasant enough at first, but her conversation revealed the frightening mental chaos of old age, and Simon had beat a hasty retreat as soon as he could. She attracted all the neighborhood speculation that elderly recluses usually do. Rumors about her abounded, especially among the kids, who carefully avoided walking by her house on their way home from school. She supposedly had a loaded gun in every room and would shoot anyone who set foot on her property. Raccoons, squirrels, and stray cats lived in her house, it was said, lured by the food and water she left out for them every day. She played opera all night—usually Carmen—on an ancient hi-fi. Every now and then, her neighbors would wonder if she was dead or alive. Just as they would be about ready to call the police to check on her, she would emerge from her house, carefully dressed in an outfit from the Eisenhower era, complete with demure hat and gloves, and go to Cameron Village to do her shopping. Sometimes she pulled a cart behind her to bring back her groceries, and sometimes she returned in a cab.
Simon did not look forward to interviewing Lillie Blythe, but he didn't see how he could avoid it. She might know something critical. After all, if she had been mentally competent enough to read about Anne Bloodworth's funeral in the newspaper and to order flowers, then she must have periods of lucidity. Maybe Simon could catch her in one.
