Grey Matters (13 page)

TWENTY-TWO

T
he promise of eggplant lasagna went a long way toward mollifying Dulcie after that bombshell. Dulcie hadn’t been quite sure that her roommate believed in the feline ghost, and to hear that she had – and that she took the warning seriously – shook Dulcie to the core. Luckily, although Suze had neither a huge range of recipes nor enough time to cook on a regular basis, occasionally both urge and opportunity coincided.

‘You need some good home cooking. Well, some home cooking at least,’ Suze had said. ‘And I need to do something brainless and immediately gratifying.’ Suze had gone on to explain about an ongoing study group report on the implications of some Supreme Court ruling or other. ‘Call Chris, too. I’ll be making enough to freeze, but you know it’s better fresh.’

She had called while the sauce was simmering, and while they talked had begun layering the pliant pasta into the large, square bake pan the roommates had found at a yard sale only a month before. Just the sound of Suze’s prep work did a good job of calming Dulcie after the fright of the afternoon, and she promised to be home in time to enjoy the final masterpiece while it was still hot.

‘Want me to pick up anything?’ The idea of a real meal with friendly faces had buoyed Dulcie considerably. ‘Some more of that Algerian red?’

Suze made a gagging noise. ‘Just bring Chris. I’ll tell Ariano to pick up some wine.’

As they signed off, Dulcie had to fight the slight sinking feeling she’d had at the mention of Suze’s beau. Ariano was a perfectly nice guy. He and Suze had met during her summer internship in Washington, and he’d followed her up north, trading in a Georgetown University job for one at Harvard, handling information technology for the university libraries. Which meant that he could help out when the roommates ran into computer problems. Plus, as one of the few gainfully employed men in their circle, Ariano was the source of much superior vino.

‘May the days of Algerian plonk be over!’ Dulcie called out to the yard in an attempt to rally her feelings that only succeeded in scaring a squirrel. It was just that after the last few days, Dulcie would have liked to have Suze to herself. Especially, she admitted to herself, because she knew Chris wouldn’t make it.

‘Hey, Chris?’ Her call had gone straight to voicemail, and although she left the relevant details – lasagna, decent wine, love and affection – she felt her good mood draining even further away. ‘If you really can’t get away, let me know?’ Talking to voicemail was like pouring that wine down the drain. ‘Maybe I can bring a plate over.’

Hating the pleading sound in her own voice, she clicked the phone shut. She’d reached the Union by then and after one glance up at the warm red of the bricks, decided to stop in. Thursday afternoons, Lloyd had office hours and she ran the risk of disturbing him during a student conference. But these days, students usually emailed or called, and he used the time to catch up on his own work; they both did. And sometimes an interruption would be welcome.

Dulcie felt her spirits lifting as she descended the steps toward their office. So what if Chris wasn’t available? She had other friends. Besides, Lloyd might be able to cast some light on Professor Bullock’s odd behavior. The more she thought about it, the more the visit to the professor’s townhouse seemed like a bad dream. A crazy professor, his haunted assistant, and some strange sounds in the basement . . . It was all beginning to sound like one of her books. Yes, that was exactly the kind of plot device that would have her undergrads rolling their eyes. But maybe, mused Dulcie, for her it made sense. When one spent so many waking hours among the ghosts and haunted castles, why wouldn’t ordinary life start to show signs of the paranormal?

Plus, Dulcie admitted, ghosts were somewhat less scary – and a lot more fun – than many human motivations. Would anyone really care about Hermetria, for example, if the poor young woman was only dealing with loneliness, bills, and the care and upkeep of a drafty old castle? Dulcie felt a pang of remorse; the way she was thinking, she might as well be her mother, viewing the world as filled with her portents and omens. Well, she’d call Lucy later tonight. Maybe by then Lloyd would have some insight on the mysterious book that Lucy had warned her about.

But as she turned down the hall of offices, she saw neither Lloyd nor Raleigh, nor the open, welcoming doorway she’d expected. Instead, an impossibly thin young woman in a long suede coat slouched against the wall like a super-chic faun.

‘Oh, hello.’ The thin girl’s greeting sounded strangely like a reprimand.

‘Hi.’ Dulcie was confused. ‘Are you waiting for Lloyd?’ The girl shrugged, lanky blonde hair obscuring her face. Dulcie reached for the doorknob. Midterms were over, but maybe a particularly difficult assignment had his students queued up.

‘It’s locked,’ suede girl said, just as Dulcie tried the door. ‘Don’t bother.’

Dulcie fished out her key and opened the door. Not until she switched on the light and saw the empty space, both desks as cluttered as always, did she realize she’d been holding her breath. No, there was nothing strange here. Except for Lloyd’s absence.

Dulcie turned and realized that the skinny girl had followed her in. ‘Did you have an appointment?’

‘He’s supposed to be here now.’ The girl strolled over to Lloyd’s desk and with a bony hand, nails bitten to the quick, began poking through his papers. ‘I’m in his class.’

‘Do you mind?’ Dulcie tried to put some authority in her voice. The combination of whine and nosiness wasn’t attractive. ‘I’ll have to ask you to leave those alone.’

Something must have worked. The girl looked up, a spark in her hooded eyes. ‘Oh, you’re the other grad student. Dulcie Schwartz?’

Dulcie blinked and the girl nodded toward the sign on the door. Of course.

‘You’re the one with the ghost stories.’ Lloyd’s student leaned back against his desk, appraising Dulcie. ‘Funny, I thought you’d look different.’

‘Black hair and lipstick?’ Dulcie had been through this before. ‘Funereal attire? Unearthly pallor?’

The other girl shrugged, overplucked eyebrows arching.

‘Wrong Gothic. Like Lloyd, I specialize in the fiction of the eighteenth century. Not rock and roll.’

‘Pity.’ The girl pushed off the desk and sauntered toward the door.

‘Shall I tell Lloyd you came by?’

The girl half turned and looked back over one suede shoulder, her shadowed, angular face as glamorous and dismissive as a movie star’s. ‘Whatever.’ And she was gone.

Dulcie closed the door behind the skinny student and sat down at her desk, more to reassert her claim on the space than to get anything done. In front of her, a pile of student papers silently loomed, and she pulled them toward her. There was no visible dust on them, not yet, but their very presence served as a reproach.

‘Imagery in the Sermons of Jonathan Edwards.’ Great. More burning insects and fiery pits. Dulcie flipped through the three-pagers to find five more iterations of the exact same title. No wonder she hadn’t been able to start on these. Couldn’t her students at least pay lip service to originality? She closed her eyes, the mound of papers before her becoming something more lofty and yet strangely welcoming. If only the only task before her was to scale a mountainous peak, like the ones surrounding Hermetria. Never mind that there were no rocky crags in Umbria, not like the ones depicted in
The Ravages
, anyway. For a moment, she let herself imagine being locked away, in a ‘lofty retreat, poised as it were, like a cloud atop the mighty precipice.’ Then she’d be able to get some work done.

How was she supposed to work on her own thesis when she had a full section of English 10 students, most of them clueless freshmen? Not to mention three very clued-in junior tutorial students, who had no respect for her. And now one supremely confident senior, who seemed to expect Dulcie to drop everything and help her with her undergrad thesis.

She opened her eyes with a start. Is that what Cameron had done? Given her extra attention? Dulcie let the papers fall back on to the desk, momentarily forgetting her more onerous duties. She – and the police, apparently – had been focused on where Cameron had died. Specifically on the professor. But Cambridge wasn’t that big a city and if someone had a personal grudge, it would have been easy to follow the handsome grad student across the open Cambridge Common. It certainly would have been easy enough to see an opportunity in the overgrown front yard of the brick townhouse.

Had Cameron angered someone with his attentions to Raleigh Hall? Any kind of involvement between a tutor or teacher and a student was strictly forbidden, and Raleigh had denied any relationship. But she did seem to be quite familiar with her former adviser. Not to mention that Raleigh was an older undergrad, probably more like Cameron’s peer than his protégé. Plus, Dulcie had to admit, both Raleigh and Cameron were gorgeous. Perfect physical specimens. They’d have looked great together.

Dulcie thought back to the gossip she’d heard about her late colleague. Cameron Dessay had certainly invited lust. ‘Byronic’ was the term most often bandied about, at least by the English Department. With his black curls and fine-featured face, the other departments probably just called him ‘dreamy.’ Had he been linked to anyone, male or female? Graduate or undergrad?

Dulcie tried to picture Cameron as he had been. Tall, slim, but with a lean grace that hinted at muscle underneath. That dark hair almost too long against his fair skin. She could almost visualize him, driving in his little convertible, his arm around someone equally slender and pale. A blonde? A brunette? It was no use. The more she tried to focus, the more she saw him as he’d last appeared – too still. The blue-white skin specked with blood.

She pushed herself from the desk. She wasn’t going to get anything done here. As a last-minute thought, she stuffed the English 10 papers into her bag. Maybe after a few glasses of wine, she’d be able to stomach grading them.

TWENTY-THREE

‘
H
oney, I’m home!’ Dulcie called up the stairs.

‘Dulcie?’ The voice that called back was male, but the face that peered down at her was female and covered in fur.

‘Kitty!’ Dulcie mounted the steps and picked up the kitten, carrying her into the kitchen despite some squirming and an annoyed mew. ‘Hey, kitty, what’s wrong?’ The kitten stared up at her, but said nothing as Dulcie set her down. ‘Wow, Ariano, what’s that?’ Suze’s boyfriend was standing over the stove stirring something that smelled faintly of vinegar, pepper, and some unidentifiable herbs. Dulcie pushed by. ‘Smells wonderful.’

‘Watch it!’ Suze’s stocky beau held up a wooden spoon defensively and Dulcie backed off. ‘I just burned the skin off these peppers and they are super hot. But there’s bread and cheese on the table.’ He pointed with the spoon and Dulcie cut herself a wedge of cheese. At her ankle, the kitten chirped softly and so Dulcie broke her off a piece, too.

‘I’m drawing the line at the stuffed peppers. You know, you spoil that creature.’ Dulcie looked up, but Ariano was smiling.

‘She wouldn’t like them anyway.’ In truth, the kitten had only licked at the proferred treat, intent instead on rubbing against Dulcie’s leg. But as a peace offering, Dulcie sliced more of the cheese, something hard and crumbly, and offered it to the chef. ‘Where’s Suze?’

‘She’s off to Christina’s.’ Ariano laid the cheese on some bread and munched happily. ‘Somehow it seems you two had run out of ice cream.’

‘Horrors.’ Dulcie cut herself another slice of the dry, salty cheese and offered another to Ariano.

‘No, thanks. I want to save my appetite.’ He turned back to the stove top and his peppers. ‘Suze didn’t think you’d be back before seven.’

Another mouthful of bread and cheese kept Dulcie from responding, and Ariano didn’t press her. She looked over his shoulder, watching as he split the softened peppers and spooned a chopped meat mixture inside. It smelled delicious and she wondered if the fragrance alone could account for the kitten’s burst of affection.

‘I should learn to cook,’ Dulcie said, as much to herself as to Ariano. He smiled and kept spooning. She didn’t voice the end of her thought – ‘might as well, I’ve got no future in academia’ – because the kitten, at just that moment, had thrown one small paw over her foot and bitten it.

Dulcie didn’t need the small, sharp pain to put her off balance. A half-hour earlier, she’d been in the library. Deep in the stacks, she’d hoped to find the solace that her office hadn’t provided, or at least to shake off the strangeness of the day. Of the week, really.

Maybe it made sense that everything was spooking her. After all, she’d found the dead body of one of her colleagues only three days before. But in the past, the library had been a source of comfort for her. Even this past summer, when trouble – in the form of a crazed hacker – had followed her down to Level A, that basic sense of security hadn’t really been ruptured. This was her turf, her safe place.

And so, after leaving her lonely office, Dulcie had come to Widener, heading directly to the lower level she knew best. Shrugging off any leftover hesitation – and the guilt over those ungraded papers – Dulcie had deposited her coat and bag at an empty study carrel and set off to work. Her idea, which had seemed so smart out in the light of day, was to do a bit of detective work. By comparing some of the more arcane descriptions –
The Ravages
, like all the Gothics, was full of flowery language – she’d hoped to track down some clues as to the unknown author’s identity. Maybe not a name, but a location. An age. Maybe a phrase that would help trace her to a particular school.

Not that the author was likely to have gone to school. Odds were, Dulcie’s nameless heroine had been home educated. Just as likely, she’d read all the same books as her colleagues, and lifted from the best of them. But in the back of Dulcie’s mind had been something – some clue – that she’d read a few months back and not made a note of. Something to do with the rhythm of the words or their order. If she could find that phrase once more, and link it to a known writer, she’d thought, she just might have something to work on.