Shell Game: A Professor Simon Shaw Mystery - Hardcover

Shaber, Sarah R.

4.01

418 ratings by Goodreads

9780312356026: Shell Game: A Professor Simon Shaw Mystery

Hardcover

ISBN 10: 0312356021 ISBN 13: 9780312356026

Publisher: Minotaur Books, 2007

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Professor Simon Shaw, Pulitzer Prize winner and sometime sleuth, encounters his oldest corpse yet: Uwharrie Man, who died fourteen thousand years ago on the banks of Badin Lake in North Carolina. But Uwharrie Man isn't the murder victim in Simon's latest case. That victim is Simon's closest friend, archaeologist David Morgan. Simon is convinced that David died because he came between factions struggling for control of Uwharrie Man's bones---the Lumbee Indian Nation, who want to rebury the skeleton, and the archaeologists, who want to study and display it.
Tension escalates as the Lumbee insist that Uwharrie Man is Native American, while the archaeologists suspect he was Caucasian and push for the opportunity to investigate further. Simon's colleague in detection, police sergeant Otis Gates, disagrees with Simon's theory about David's death, straining their friendship to its limits and leaving Simon to hunt for the killer alone.
Adding to Simon's burdens, he has been chosen to be the executor of David's will and must deal with Morgan's difficult sister, who is Gates's prime suspect. Throughout, Simon single-mindedly pursues his friend's killer, whose identity shocks everyone, Simon most of all.
Shell Game is Shaber's best entry yet in a solid and always delightful academic cozy series.

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About the Author:

Sarah R. Shaber's first book, Simon Said, won the St. Martin's Press/Malice Domestic Contest for Best First Traditional Mystery Novel. She lives in Raleigh, North Carolina, with her family.

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?"...

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