Grey Matters (23 page)

‘Why? What do you mean?’ Dulcie followed Polly and watched as she calmly began washing the mugs, fighting the urge to grab the thin blonde and shake her. ‘Do you know what’s going on?’

‘I believe so.’ Polly put the mugs upside down on the rack and began on the teapot. ‘And I have to say, it isn’t unexpected after Professor Bullock’s complaint.’ She seemed so calm, so matter-of-fact that Dulcie found herself paradoxically panicked, as if Polly’s calm presaged the worst.

‘What?’ Dulcie couldn’t stop herself. She reached for Polly’s arm. ‘Polly, please. I’ve known Lloyd for years. You have, too.’

‘Well, I shouldn’t talk out of school.’ Polly paused and Dulcie forced herself to wait. Lloyd certainly had reason to complain about the professor’s treatment of him. Had he said something? Done something? It took all her will not to tighten her grip on Polly’s thin arm. But in that moment, Polly had reached a decision. ‘Professor Bullock has noticed certain items have gone missing.’ She reached for a dish towel, pulling away from Dulcie.

‘What do you mean, Polly?’ None of this was making sense.

‘Valuable items.’ Polly dried her hands and turned to face her. ‘A Montblanc fountain pen, things like that. Professor Bullock is a good man and for the longest time he didn’t want to do anything. But, really, this time Lloyd has gone too far.’

‘How does he know it’s Lloyd?’ Dulcie refused to believe it.

Polly shrugged. ‘He had access and everyone knows he’s just scraping by. I don’t know why now. Maybe a little ghost said something.’

The ghost reference was probably a joke. After all, Polly knew as well as anyone about Dulcie’s area of specialization. But Dulcie was in no mood to laugh. Instead, she just stood there, staring at the wall, trying to make sense of the idea. Lloyd a thief? No, it didn’t seem possible. But she couldn’t stop thinking of the package on his desk. A wrapped book, much like the rare and beautiful ones from Gosham’s, and just that night, Professor Bullock had reported a book stolen.

FORTY-ONE

N
o. Everyone knew that the theft report had been retracted. At least, that’s what the scuttlebutt in the department had been – once Lloyd had mentioned it. Could Lloyd have spread that rumor to cover his own tracks?

Dulcie shook her head. This was her colleague they were talking about. She needed to help him. Excusing herself, she turned away from Polly and punched in a number.

‘Suze? Glad I got you.’ As quickly as she could, and knowing full well that Polly was right behind her, Dulcie explained the situation. The answer was not what she wanted.

‘No way, Dulcie.’ Suze sounded friendly, but firm. ‘For starters, I’m still a student, too, remember? And the legal clinic doesn’t take on criminal cases. Besides, Dulce, how do you know he’s innocent? I mean, Lloyd’s name has been coming up an awful lot recently.’

‘That’s because he’s in the department.’ Dulcie fought to keep her voice level. ‘And he’s entitled to some kind of defense.’

‘Which he’ll get.’ Suze continued. ‘I’m sure.’

‘I’m not.’ Dulcie tried to recall if Lloyd had ever mentioned any family. ‘Hey, Suze, can I call you back?’

‘Sure.’ Suze sounded warmer now. ‘Or you can just come home. Really, Dulcie, this sounds like a minor matter. They probably won’t even hold him.’

Dulcie wasn’t so sure, and the idea of her gentle officemate stuck in a holding cell on a Saturday night wasn’t fun. She tried to think. Lloyd might not have family, but he clearly had one well-to-do friend. Scrolling back through her calls, she found Raleigh’s number. The call went direct to voicemail – she must be on the phone – but Dulcie left a message.

‘Raleigh, it’s Dulcie again. Dulcie Schwartz.’ She paused, not sure how to ask. ‘Since you seem to know Lloyd so well, would you have a contact for his family? Or, well, would you know anybody who could bail him out?’

‘Bail?’ She heard the voice behind her and turned. Polly was staring. ‘Do you think they’d give him bail?’

Dulcie snapped the phone shut, Raleigh forgotten. ‘Why wouldn’t they, Polly? It’s just theft – a property crime, right?’ Dulcie was no expert, but all those years living with Suze must have taught her something.

Polly only shrugged. ‘For starters,’ she said, her voice maddeningly calm. ‘But from what the professor was saying, I think they may also want to talk to him about Cameron’s . . . about the incident.’

Incident? The word hit Dulcie like a punch in the stomach. ‘They suspect Lloyd of murder?’

Polly shrugged her thin shoulders again, and Dulcie wondered again just who this woman was.

‘That’s just not possible.’

‘Who knows what men are capable of?’ Polly turned, as if to go back to the kitchen. ‘Do you think I should make more tea?’

Muttering something she hoped was coherent and not too rude, Dulcie grabbed her coat and headed for the door. Something was definitely off at Professor Bullock’s, but Lloyd was more likely the victim than the culprit. And if Polly was having personal problems, she added as she jogged down the stairs, they weren’t Roger Gosham’s fault.

She headed back toward the Square with one thought in mind: Chris. No matter what was going on with their relationship, he’d listen. And Dulcie needed someone to do that now – someone who didn’t think strictly in terms of law and liability. Suze’s response had shocked her. Her roommate was undoubtedly being sensible, and trying to look out for Dulcie, too. But the legalistic nature of it had been a little cold, a little harsh. Maybe, thought Dulcie, it was just as well she wasn’t going to Thanksgiving at Suze’s this year. Was this distance the natural outcome of them each having different specializations, a gradual shift that was only now settling them into different world views? Or was it simply that they hadn’t spent that much time together recently, both of them so caught up in their studies – and with their new boyfriends – that neither knew what the other found important? That thought stopped her, and Dulcie paused halfway across the bare Common. Were she and her old friend drifting apart? Would she and Suze ever be as close as they had been, all those single, lonely years before? A pang went through Dulcie, matched by a gust of frigid air. Night had dropped Cambridge into a frosty chill, but the stinging in her eyes wasn’t all from the wind.

‘No pizza?’ To his credit, after his initial disappointment Chris looked happy to see her. And as soon as she started to explain what had just happened he even waved off a tired-looking student to tune in.

‘Five minutes, Sal. Check your coding.’ He’d glanced around. ‘Hey, let’s surface, Dulcie. I can take five.’

She followed gratefully as he led the way up to the Science Center café, hanging back only when two more students waylaid him. They were worried that he was leaving, basically, and once he calmed them down he and Dulcie were able to retreat, snagging a corner table for bad coffee and warm chocolate chip cookies, still so hot the chips were molten.

‘So, Lloyd is in jail?’ Chris had helped Dulcie deal with a situation the previous summer, and they both had some experience with the law. ‘Or is he just being questioned?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dulcie bit her lip. ‘I should have asked Raleigh. She just said he’d been arrested and I assumed the worst. But maybe the cops just picked him up to talk to him. Hang on.’ She tried Lloyd’s apartment and then his cell, getting voicemail in both places. Another call to Raleigh had the same result. ‘All this communications technology, and we still can’t simply talk.’

‘I’m wondering.’ Chris pushed the plate toward her; a large chunk remained. ‘You thought the cops were looking at Professor Bullock for Cameron’s murder, right?’

‘Yeah.’ Dulcie thought back, and ate the cookie. ‘But he couldn’t have done that – I mean, I was there.’

‘Well do you think he ended up talking to them about something else? About the thefts?’ Chris used one long finger to nail a crumb, under the guise of making a point. ‘I mean, maybe he set some kind of trap.’

‘I don’t know.’ Strangely, Dulcie wasn’t finding it unbelievable that her thesis adviser might want to sabotage a student. ‘I just don’t know if he could be that organized.’

Chris looked at her, and she shrugged. ‘He’s just sort of the absent-minded professor these days. I mean, he keeps losing things.’ She paused. ‘Unless someone really has been stealing from him.’

‘Could it have been Lloyd? I mean, not the murder . . .’

But Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, no way. I’ve never had any qualms about leaving my bag in our office, or anything like that.’

‘But you’re another student, as broke as he is. And the professor has this big, fancy house up on Tory Row. Plus, from everything you’ve said, Lloyd has reason to resent Bullock. Maybe, this was a little revenge.’

‘No, no way.’ Dulcie stared at the table, looking for the answer in the patterned linoleum. When she looked up at Chris, her voice was firm. ‘What you’re saying makes sense, but that just isn’t Lloyd. I mean, I’m not Lucy, but I do have a sense about people.’

Chris smiled and reached for her hand. ‘Yes, you do. But if the cops don’t have any evidence, why would he be under arrest?’

‘You’re so rational.’ Dulcie squeezed her boyfriend’s hand. ‘But you forgot one option. Maybe it’s simply that whatever implicated Lloyd could apply to someone else as well.’

‘Maybe.’ Chris stared off at the space above Dulcie’s head, and she wondered for a moment if he was thinking of getting another cookie. ‘But there’s something amiss here. I mean, there’s been a pretty brutal murder.’ Dulcie knew what he meant, even if it was close to a tautology, and didn’t interrupt. ‘And the police are arresting someone for a property crime?’

‘Well, life goes on.’ Dulcie turned it over in her head. ‘And if the professor complained . . .’

‘Yeah, but why? One of his prize students is dead, and he’s bringing charges against another of his protégés for, what? For pocketing a pen or something? I’m wondering if there’s something else going on here. Like, maybe it’s because Lloyd is the only one who didn’t drink the Kool-Aid.’ Chris looked at her. ‘I mean, besides you.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, I don’t know the man, but from everything you say, he’s a self-important jerk who hasn’t done any real work in thirty years. And yet, he’s revered like he’s some kind of genius.

‘Twenty years, and he is a tenured professor,’ said Dulcie, as if that explained everything. ‘And English is a little different from Applied Math. But, hey, what did you mean about the professor bringing charges?’

‘Why else would Lloyd have been arrested? At least, if he really was arrested for theft.’

Dulcie had nothing more to say to that and slumped back in her seat. When Chris got up a few moments later, she raised her face for a kiss, but kept sitting there, long after her boyfriend had gone. The cafe stayed open all night, and as she sat, Dulcie was dimly aware of comings and goings, computer-pale faces and the enticing aroma of those cookies. But all she could think about was her officemate and her professor. Something was going on, and she had no idea how to get at the truth.

FORTY-TWO

H
er dreams didn’t help. This time, she was desperately searching a mountain-top castle, the high Alpine winds whistling outside as she tried to find the keys to the dungeon. She kept turning corners, sure she’d find them on a hook inside the next door. She could picture them, oversized antiques on a big, iron ring. But they were never where they should be.

‘Misplaced or stolen?’ A familiar voice cut through the wind. ‘And who would know?’

In her dream, glowing green eyes stared out of a shadowy corner, but when she looked closer, they were gone. ‘Mr Grey? What do you mean?’

The wind must have found a crack because suddenly a tuft of ash and smoke blew up from the fireplace, stinging her eyes. She stepped back and felt something brush against her legs. Something soft and strangely warm. ‘Think about it, Dulcie. Who would care?’

It was no use. She woke in the dark to find the new kitten ricocheting off the walls. ‘Kitten!’ she called and the little cat stopped in her tracks, stared at Dulcie, and bulleted off down the hall. ‘Wonderful.’ Dulcie knew she wasn’t being fair. Odds were, her disrupted sleep was what was causing the young animal to tear off like that. But she couldn’t help feeling somehow misled. There was only one cat she wanted, and he was gone. No matter what anyone said about kitten behavior, she couldn’t imagine Mr Grey had ever acted so crazed. And now, even in her dreams, he had grown frustratingly remote, his questions elliptical and evasive.

She drifted off, only to find herself in a different part of the same castle. This time, she could hear someone in the basement, rattling a door, and she felt the pressure to act – and act swiftly. But no matter how many stairs she raced down, how many heavy oak doors she pushed open, she couldn’t find the keys. Only the sight – the merest glimpse – of a grey tail, somewhere ahead, kept her going, and she woke again, more tired than she’d been, with the same questions ringing in her mind. ‘Whoever was being stolen from, that’s who would care.’ She punched her pillow into place. ‘And we already know that Professor Bullock thinks Lloyd is to blame.’

Do we? She sat up. This time, she’d heard the voice while awake. ‘Mr Grey?’

‘Dulcie, Dulcie.’ She felt, as much as heard, a soft padding, as if her late pet were settling in at the foot of her bed. ‘Sometimes, you are such a kitten.’ She was about to ask about that when she heard a crash and a muffled mew. Sleep would have to wait.

‘I don’t know what to do with this animal.’ Dulcie was on her knees by the broken geranium pot when Suze came down the stairs, tying her robe. Beside the shattered clay pot, just visible in the first light of dawn, the tiny kitten was licking dirt off a white bootie.

‘She’s just a kitten, Dulcie.’ Suze yawned. ‘She probably wanted to play.’ Behind her, Ariano appeared, his black curly hair sticking up like a fright wig.

‘Everything OK down here?’

‘Yeah. Sorry to wake you guys up.’ Dulcie finished brushing the dirt into the dustpan and looked around for a place to put it. Suze fetched the kitchen garbage.

‘Here. I think that plant might be history.’