Grey Matters (16 page)

But he might be able to help her understand what was going on with Lloyd. ‘Mr Gosham?’ He had replaced the book on the table, and looked eager to get back to work. ‘I share an office with Lloyd Markson.’

Gosham glanced back at her, his face blank.

‘Professor Bullock’s assistant? His other assistant, that is. The grad student who does most of his research.’

Gosham nodded, but had moved on to another book. Dulcie felt her time running out.

‘He’s working with the professor on something new, supposedly. A rare text. And, well, I heard there was a break-in at the professor’s house, and it’s gone missing. And, well, I was wondering if you’d heard anything about it.’

‘What? Are you asking if I’m a fence?’

Dulcie blinked. The image didn’t scan.

Gosham must have seen her confusion. ‘A point man? A dealer in stolen artifacts?’ He slammed his hand down on the work table. ‘Do you know what my reputation is, young lady?’

‘Yes.’ Dulcie tried to back track. ‘I know Professor Bullock trusts you implicitly.’

The bookbinder seemed mollified. ‘Well, that’s a relief. No, I hadn’t heard anything about a robbery.’ He paused, a thoughtful look on his face. ‘Is this about Polly? Did she suggest you talk to me about a theft?’

‘No, not at all.’ She stepped back from the intensity of that stare. ‘Why would she?’

The big man shrugged. ‘No reason.’ He’d turned away again, so Dulcie couldn’t see his face. But even he seemed to realize that this answer didn’t suffice. ‘It’s just that she, well, I don’t know if you know, but she’s been very upset. Ever since that young man – what was his name? – was killed.’

‘Cameron, you mean. Cameron Dessay’

‘Cameron Dessay.’ His voice was flat. ‘Yeah. I think they were close.’

Aha! Dulcie decided to press for more. ‘And so were you two, am I right, Mr Gosham?’

‘What is it to you?’ He was back to his gruff self and didn’t even look up.

‘Well, I’m just saying . . .’ Dulcie didn’t actually know what she was saying. Or why she was prying for that matter. Maybe it was the lack of romance in her own life recently. Maybe it was that spark she had seen in the usually drawn assistant. She tried to picture what Mr Grey would say – or do – but only got a sense of fur being ruffled. A tail lashing in anger. Gosham’s manner, no doubt. ‘I know she was over here a lot.’

Gosham grunted, which Dulcie took as an acknowledgment. She wandered back to the work table. Next to the awl was some kind of chisel, the metal end shiny with use.

‘She was here the day Cameron was killed, wasn’t she?’ She touched the awl. Its handle was black with use. ‘Tuesday afternoon?’

‘She came by, sure.’ Gosham’s voice was softer. Was it sad? Dulcie couldn’t tell. ‘Just to pick up some books, though. I had them all done up and she insisted on unwrapping them, every one. Like I’d have given her the wrong ones for the professor.’

Yes, sad. He must have felt wounded by her lack of trust. Dulcie recalled the neatly wrapped package she’d seen. What a contrast to the pile of books, scattered every which way on the floor after Polly had dropped them!

‘Is that why you two fought?’

‘We didn’t fight.’ Gosham’s voice was even, but Dulcie felt tension rising. ‘We aren’t fighting. We talked. Briefly. And then she left.’

‘That quickly?’ Polly had been gone for at least an hour. Of course, she could have had other errands in the Square, but Dulcie was betting on something personal. Had Cameron come between them? If so, had he angered another lover or rival, as well?

‘That quickly. I was working that day. Why?’

‘I’m just wondering.’ The roll of brown paper was affixed to one end of the table. ‘She wasn’t at the professor’s when I got there, and she didn’t show up for at least an hour.’ Dulcie reached toward the roll and brushed against a palette knife, spotted with disuse. It started to roll, and she grabbed at it.

‘What are you doing?’ Gosham got it before she could, catching the blonde wood handle just as it fell from the table. ‘God help me.’ He shoved the tool in his pocket and turned away. ‘Are you another one like her?’

‘What? No.’ A faithless woman? A meddler? Dulcie started after him, determined to get some answers. But when she reached for him, for the worn plaid flannel of his shirt, he spun around and glowered down at her.

‘I don’t need another interfering woman.’ Dulcie could feel his breath on her face. His eyebrows, this close up, bristled like the fur on an angry animal. ‘In my studio.’ Dulcie stepped back, but he stepped forward, keeping pace. ‘In my life.’

Dulcie stumbled back until she felt the door behind her, pulled it open, and fled.

THIRTY

W
hat was that about? Dulcie didn’t stop to think it through till she had a counter seat at Lala’s and a three-bean burger in front of her. Only then did her heart slow its pounding enough for her to summon logic.

Something had gotten Roger Gosham angry, and that something seemed to concern Polly. If that something involved romance, it certainly wasn’t running smoothly. Could Gosham have seen Cameron as a romantic rival and killed him? Dulcie took a bite and chewed over both the burger and the thought. The timing seemed off. He’d been angry at Polly, but he’d let her go. If he’d been the type to lash out in jealousy, wouldn’t he have gone for her? Or at least tried to catch them together? And besides, he’d given away a perfectly good alibi. From what he’d said, it seemed likely that the bookbinder and the assistant had spent more than a few minutes together on that fateful day.

Dulcie dragged a french fry through the hot sauce and tried a different tack. Maybe Polly had been the one furious at Cameron. Maybe the handsome grad student had toyed with her, turned his high-powered charm her way and then dumped her. Or at least fouled her more promising romance with the bookbinder. So, she’d come home, stabbed him. And then what? Walked around the block to waste time before her dramatic entrance?

Dulcie ate the fry without really tasting it. No, it didn’t seem likely. Still, something was odd. If only she actually had the psychic skills that Lucy claimed, life would be so much easier.

As if on cue, Dulcie’s phone rang: Lucy, or at least the community center phone. But just as she was about to pick it up, a hearty slap on the back nearly knocked her off her chair.

‘Dulcie!’ She turned to see Jerry, Trista’s boyfriend. And, yes, just behind the gangling mathematician, her petite friend. ‘Long time, no see!’

‘Hey Jerry, Trista.’ With a twinge of guilt, Dulcie pocketed the phone. ‘What’s up?’

‘What’s up with you?’ Jerry reached across the counter for a menu, while Trista rolled her eyes.

‘Really, Jerry. You’re going to get the three-bean burger with fries and extra sauce. And I am, too.’

‘I might go for cheese, this time,’ said Jerry, even as he conceded defeat by placing the menu back on the counter. ‘But, hey, what’ve you been up to?’

‘I’ve been around.’ Since the semester started, Dulcie had been busy. But she’d been trying to keep up with her friends. ‘Have I missed anything?’

‘Only one of the best dinners ever!’ After sports, Jerry liked food. And Trista.

‘Jerry’s exaggerating, Dulce. And I think everyone understands that you didn’t want to come out Tuesday.’ As Jerry gave the long-suffering waitress their order, Trista came around to Dulcie’s other side, nabbing a stool that had just opened up. ‘But when Chris showed up, we really thought he’d have brought you along.’

Chris? What dinner was this?
‘Suze had left me a message.’ She tried to recall. Wasn’t that for Ariano’s roommate?

‘Never mind.’ Trista looked distracted, and Dulcie had the distinct impression that she wished Jerry hadn’t mentioned it. ‘You are coming out tonight, though, right?’

‘Darts.’ Dulcie nodded, glad that she remembered. Friday night. The People’s Republik would be packed, as the English Department faced off against History and Lit. ‘You think we have a chance?’

‘Course we do!’ Jerry put his arm around his petite girlfriend. ‘Trista’s got the best arm in the state.’

‘Order Fifty-three?’ A shout went up from near the cash register, and Jerry slid off the stool.

‘You’re not staying?’ Dulcie realized, with regret, that she’d really wanted to talk to her colleague outside of the departmental offices.

Trista smiled, but shook her head. ‘I’ve got my junior tutorial in five. Not that they care if I’m there or not.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Commiserating felt good, but as Trista shouldered her own bag, Dulcie reached out for her. ‘One sec, Trista. I’m curious, do you have any thoughts on authentication?’

‘You mean like documentation?’ Trista raised one pierced eyebrow. ‘’Cause I’m an expert on notes and trivia. Once you get into late Victorians, man, I swear they never threw anything away.’

‘Well, sort of.’ Trista was a friend, and she only nodded when Dulcie told her about Lucy’s dream. ‘And so, I’m wondering, you know, if maybe I have it all wrong.’

‘Dulcie?’ Dulcie didn’t realize she was looking down at the menu, her head hanging lower as she talked, until she felt Trista’s hands on her shoulders. ‘Do you hear yourself?’

‘What?’ She looked up. Trista was staring at her, ignoring Jerry.

‘You’ve had a hell of a week. Now, I know about Lucy.’ She raised her hand to stop any protest. ‘I know. But really, what I think we’re dealing with here is a super bad week, coupled with a thesis adviser who can’t keep his act together long enough to find his pen set, or whatever.’

‘I don’t know, Tris.’ Something was just not right, and Dulcie knew she hadn’t really explained it.

‘Look, Dulce. It’s all a question of context. Think of everything that’s happened.’

‘But Bullock always said . . .’ She could hear him in her head. He’d never thought much of
The Ravages
.

‘Look, the man hasn’t written anything of his own for more than twenty years. Forget about him. He’s jealous. And, I mean, he’s a murder suspect.’ Trista paused, momentarily lost in thought, her tongue darting out to play with the ring on her lip. ‘Hey, you don’t think . . .’

She paused so long, Dulcie wanted to shake her. ‘What?’

‘Maybe Professor Bullock is hiding something. And maybe he’s trying to gaslight you.’

‘Great.’ Dulcie did not really think it likely that her thesis adviser, the Cyrus University Professor of Eighteenth Century Literature, would stoop to driving her mad. There were, after all, simpler ways to destroy her career. But when she’d pointed this out to Trista, her friend had made mince meat of Dulcie’s theories.

‘No, really, it makes sense.’ Trista actually sounded excited by the concept. ‘I mean, as far as anyone knows, he sucked the life out of poor Polly Heinhold, and it looks like he’s going to do the same to Lloyd.’ Dulcie flashed to Lloyd’s latest complaint, the new discovery that threatened to derail months of work. It was possible.

‘I’d say it’s probable!’ Trista kept on. ‘I mean, who else is in his sphere of influence?’

‘I’m hardly—’ Dulcie threw some bills down to cover her own lunch and followed her friends to the door.

‘But you are!’ Trista interrupted, as Jerry held the door. ‘You’re doing new and exciting research in his field.’

‘Unless I’m barking up the wrong tree entirely!’

The three were shouting over traffic, and as they slipped inside Harvard Yard, Dulcie missed Trista’s words.

‘What? Wait up!’

But Trista was dashing up the steps of Sever. ‘I said – context!’ she shouted back. ‘And don’t forget – darts!’

Dulcie watched her friend disappear inside. Trista’s suggestion, as odd as it was, had been strangely heartening.
Maybe I’m not paranoid after all
. She smiled at the thought.
Maybe my professor is out to get me
.

But even as she stood there, a cold blast – and the memory of her mother’s latest missed call – swept that idea away. Trista might think she knew Lucy, but her suggestion ran counter to everything Dulcie’s mother had ever taught her. Although she was always ready to attribute just about anything to the supernatural, Lucy never did like to assign negative motives to a person. ‘It’s the Threefold Law, dear. What you believe of others comes back to haunt you,’ she’d say. ‘Closeness breeds power, and you must always use that for good.’ And that was one lesson, Dulcie thought, that usually made sense.

Still, there was something odd going on with the professor. If only she could talk to Lloyd. Walking slowly over toward the library, Dulcie chewed over her officemate’s strange disappearance. Trista had talked about context. Lloyd not being there was out of place, as much as Raleigh poking about – and as that neat package in their overcrowded office. A leaf blew by, impossibly red. It skittered across the pavement to the bare dirt, just low and fast enough to tempt a playful feline. Mr Grey would have been on it in a minute. She could picture that: her sleek grey cat, chasing the last of the autumn beauty. She watched the leaf fly, as if evading those velvet paws; a jewel against the dull November setting. Like that emerald, in a way. The one from her dream: images of the sea beyond the borders. Of the forest, far away. She smiled. Imagery from
The Ravages
always had that effect. The leaf skittered away and Dulcie watched it, before turning again toward the library.

Nobody liked
The Ravages
. Readers had been looking at
The Ravages
for centuries and disregarding it until Dulcie uncovered its secret. The book was a mystery, partly by intent and partly due to history. Because only part of the book had survived, nobody had known the identity of the ‘jealous spirit’ who had preyed on the heroine. And Gothic literature being what it was, everyone had looked to one of the ghosts floating around. Although, really, in retrospect, why would a ghost care about a beautiful young woman or what remained of her wealth?

No, it had fallen to Dulcie to uncover the clues hidden in the characters’ speeches. While other readers had just rolled their eyes at one more overwrought Goth, Dulcie had looked further. She’d been the one to realize that Demetria – the sidekick – wasn’t all she pretended to be, and that the clues were in her speeches – in the author’s cunning use of language.