Grey Matters (3 page)

The memory took away her newfound calm. Cameron hadn’t been her favorite person by far. But to see him so still, so cold . . . Dulcie bent forward again.

‘Miss, are you all right?’

The world was getting smaller and Dulcie closed her eyes. It didn’t help, and the dizziness made her gasp. But just then she felt a brush against her ankles. A soft and comforting touch, like a cat leaning in to be stroked. Automatically, Dulcie opened her eyes, but saw only her own feet and the big black shoes of the cop. She sat up.

‘Did you see a cat in here?’

He looked at her with suspicion. ‘Miss?’

‘I could’ve sworn I felt a cat go by. You didn’t see anything?’

He shook his head, and called out, keeping his eyes on her all the while. ‘Sylvio? Sylvio? Can you come here a minute? I think this young lady needs a ride home.’

It wasn’t until he had walked her up to her door, rang the bell, and handed her over to Suze’s care that Dulcie realized she didn’t have her own key. She’d left her bag at the professor’s house.

THREE

‘
A
nd Professor Bullock doesn’t have a cat, right?’

Dulcie was lying on the sofa, the kitten on her stomach, as Suze grilled her. Dulcie would have objected, except that Suze had fussed so when Dulcie came in, escorted by a cop who double-parked his cruiser in front of their apartment. Not usually the maternal type, Suze had insisted that Dulcie lie down and now the two of them were eating ice cream out of soup bowls; Dulcie to get her blood sugar back up, Suze in solidarity. So even though her roommate was acting more like the third-year law student she was this fall, rather than the friend she’d been for years longer, Dulcie took it. With a large spoonful of rocky road.

‘I’m sure, Suze,’ Dulcie said, once she had swallowed. Scooping up a little bit of the melting ice cream, she held out her spoon. The kitten licked at it and took off, as if spooked by the cold sweetness. Dulcie watched the little cat leap for the coffee table and not quite make it, hanging on for a moment of startled silence before falling and bounding back out of the room. Usually, the kitten’s antics amused her, but today the kitten’s clumsiness only served to accentuate the difference between its youth and an adult cat’s dignity. When she looked up, she saw how Suze was watching her, not the kitten. Her normally fastidious roommate didn’t even comment when Dulcie then used the utensil to dip into her friend’s favorite, mint chocolate chip. Swallowing a lump in her throat that the ice cream couldn’t explain, Dulcie ventured a question: ‘Do you think it could’ve been Mr Grey?’

Suze took a conveniently large mouthful of the ice cream and used the opportunity to look over at her friend. Mr Grey had been Dulcie’s beloved pet, an intelligent long-haired stray who had adopted her as an undergrad, and who had come to live with the two friends until his death the previous spring. Although Suze had been fond of the handsome feline, Dulcie had been his person – and it was Dulcie who believed that the spirit of the great grey cat still talked to her, showing up at moments of crisis to give comfort and suitably feline cryptic advice.

Dulcie thought back on that moment, the passing brush of fur that had calmed her when panic had started to overwhelm. The whisker she had found had a logical explanation, but that moment of contact had been just as real. She looked up at her roommate. ‘I know you’re skeptical, but don’t you think it makes sense? I was in trouble, so maybe he appeared again.’ She pictured Mr Grey, the slanted black-lined eyes and pointy face, more Siamese than Persian. How easily she could imagine him looking at her, elegant white whiskers perked up in a feline smile. ‘He knew I needed him. And you’re going to get a cold headache if you keep taking spoonfuls that big.’

‘I think you had an awful day.’ As a law student, prevaricating came naturally to Suze. ‘You found one of your colleagues dead – murdered – and then you had to be grilled by the police, with nobody there to support you but your thesis adviser. Who is, if you don’t mind me saying so, practically useless.’ Dulcie nodded, but didn’t interrupt. Suze continued. ‘All of that has to have been a horrible shock, so I believe that you think you felt a cat.’

‘But you don’t believe it was Mr Grey.’ Dulcie looked down. The tiny kitten had reappeared and was trying to climb up her legs, using her claws to rappel up Dulcie’s jeans. She reached down to hoist the kitten to her lap. The little animal seemed to be trying to entertain, but as adorable as the black and white creature was, it – she, Dulcie corrected herself – still couldn’t replace Mr Grey. That dignified feline had been more than a pet. He’d been her constant companion, able to read her mood if not her mind, through years of academic and personal struggle. In some ways, his absence had only made him a more tangible presence in Dulcie’s life. No matter what Suze believed, Dulcie was convinced he came to her, sometimes as a presence, sometimes just as a voice, when she needed his wise feline company. Sometimes, Dulcie suspected, the kitten could talk, too. If only she wanted to . . .

Not that Suze was having any of it. ‘I know you loved Mr Grey, Dulce. He was a great cat.’ She paused, and Dulcie waited for the inevitable. When it came, her roommate at least had the grace to soften her voice. ‘You know, Dulcie, if you could let go of him, just a little, you might find yourself falling for that little girl on your lap.’ She took another bite of ice cream, smaller this time. ‘You might even give her a name.’

FOUR

A
s much as she wanted to stay in bed the next morning, Dulcie dragged herself out. She’d slept badly, her dreams bringing her close enough to see glowing cat’s eyes – Mr Grey’s eyes – and to hear two words – the key – but nothing more. She’d woken herself up trying to talk, to ask what that meant. Desperate to reach out to her one-time pet. But she’d been as mute as the kitten who had taken Mr Grey’s place, and he’d disappeared, those glowing gold-green eyes fading into the dark. She longed to recapture the dream, although she suspected that its message had more to do with her research frustrations than anything personal. But the departmental secretary had stressed that attendance at the emergency meeting was mandatory, using an excessive number of exclamation points for emphasis. Besides, Dulcie needed to get her bag back.

‘Better to be there than be talked about. Right, kitten?’ The kitten, who was taking an early morning bath, did not look up.

As she made her way into the Square, Dulcie juggled her travel mug and dug her cell out of her pocket. At least that hadn’t been left behind! But the one voicemail waiting was from Chris, not Professor Bullock. Her boyfriend had called pre-dawn, probably as soon as he’d gotten her message. She’d have preferred to have him run to her rescue. But like most of his colleagues in applied mathematics, her studious beau had a tendency toward the nocturnal, an inclination that the department preyed on. For the past few weeks – since midterms, really – he’d been up most nights in the computer lab. Like her, he was just scraping by and serving as the on-duty expert during those overnights paid pretty well. Besides, he’d explained only a week before as he left after another late dinner, this was the lab’s down time, when he could get his own work done fastest. But Dulcie suspected that her lanky sweetheart was also just a softie for the undergrads who gathered there, bleary-eyed and frantic, desperate for his help.

‘Dulcie! How are you?’ The concern in his voice warmed her almost as much as the dark roast. ‘I just got your message and it’s . . . damn, it’s nearly five. I’m so sorry.’ Another voice interrupted and she heard Chris’s muttered response. ‘Look, I’ll try you again at a better hour. Or call me!’

‘Hey, Chris,’ she said as her own call went straight to voicemail. ‘Thanks for your call. I’m off to the big departmental meeting. I swear, if they say anything about grief counseling, I’ll throw something.’

Dulcie hung up. That bit of bravado helped and she turned down Dana Street with a little more lift in her step. Despite the economy, this academic neighborhood, right outside the Square, had been spruced up in the past year, its old clapboards boasting new paint and fancy trim. Well, if the neighborhood could put on its bravest face, so could she, Dulcie told herself. Still, having an actual boyfriend – someone who was physically present – would have been better. Some days, she felt like the heroine in
The Ravages of Umbria
. Hermetria had been haunted by a friendly ghost. Did that keep her warm at night? As Dulcie climbed the stairs to the refurbished colonial that served as the English Department’s headquarters, the lack of sleep and accompanying self-pity led her to one strong answer: No.

The ancient but quite reliable departmental coffee maker was hard at work as Dulcie entered, and she refilled her mug before joining her peers in the back conference room. A dozen students, all in varying states of wakefulness, sat around a long, oval table. No Professor Bullock. On the near side, a bleached blonde with two nose piercings looked up and waved.

‘Hey, Trista.’ Dulcie sidled over to the chair her friend had held for her. ‘Bother, I was hoping Bullock would be here.’

‘Really?’ Trista asked with surprise, but then leaned toward her friend. ‘How are you?’ Dulcie was about to respond when she realized that all eyes were on her. Before Trista could press her, though, Martin Thorpe, the acting chair, came in. More stooped than usual, Thorpe cleared his throat, then looked down at the bundle of papers in his hands as if they had shown up of their own free will. Dulcie had never studied with the balding scholar – his specialty, Renaissance English poetry, made her grind her teeth – but today she felt sorry for him. Tenure and staffing were hard enough without throwing murder into the mix.

‘Good morning.’ Thorpe looked up from the papers. Nobody corrected him, and he continued. ‘Thank you for coming in, all of you. Especially you Americans.’ He looked around and nodded at a few of the gathered students. Of course, Dulcie realized, picking out her colleagues. ‘Origins of Colonial Style: The Puritan Sermon’ met Tuesdays at ten.

‘I thought, ah, we should have this meeting because of, ah, recent events.’ Thorpe’s eyes dropped to his papers again, his throat working like he’d been asked to swallow a Norton’s anthology. Trista raised her eyebrows at Dulcie, and Dulcie kicked her friend under the table.

‘Some of you have probably heard of the unfortunate demise of Cameron Dessay yesterday.’ He glanced around the table. So did Dulcie, and noticed how many of her colleagues quickly looked away. Despite his easy manner, Cameron hadn’t had many close friends in the department. ‘We are all saddened by the, ah, loss of such a promising young scholar.’

Trista kicked Dulcie back.

‘And, of course, the department will be organizing some kind of memorial, a commemorative service of some sort, to be announced later. We are also—’ here, Thorpe looked around with a little more focus, perhaps expecting help from the assembled scholars, ‘coordinating with Mr Dessay’s family in terms of the actual funeral and possibly a memorial scholarship to be created. We will be posting information as all of this comes together, and either I or Nancy will be emailing you all.’ Nancy, the plump and competent departmental secretary, nodded.

‘The timing of all of this is, of course, very unfortunate.’ Even Thorpe seemed a bit embarrassed by that, but his attempts to recover were worse. ‘I mean, death in one so young is always unfortunate. But death this late in the semester—’

Someone coughed, and the beleaguered chairman gave up. ‘What I mean is, Cameron had a full course load. And I need to redistribute it among you.’ A low groan rose from the assembled students. Thorpe stood straighter, now that he had a purpose, and looked around. ‘Shall we begin?’

Twenty minutes later, Dulcie thought she’d gotten lucky. Either because of the obscure nature of her specialty or its growing unpopularity among undergrads, she’d avoided any extra tutorials. She’d only been given one assignment – a senior named Raleigh Hall. ‘Sounds like a prep school,’ Dulcie had muttered to Trista. Raleigh was working on her undergraduate honors thesis, and, unless she complained and found another scholar to take her on mid-year, Dulcie would step in as her adviser.

‘Do you think he was light on me because, you know?’ Dulcie leaned over to Trista as the group broke up. She didn’t have to explain more: In the mysterious ways of social groups, the news that Dulcie had found the body seemed to have spread.

Her friend shrugged. ‘Who knows? Some of these undergrads can be real handfuls, though.’ Trista paused, then smiled. ‘Hey, maybe Bullock will drop that ridiculous progress report thing now. I mean, threatening to jam you up with the grant committee was just unconscionable. He better than anyone else should know you’ve got to do a ton of research before you start writing, right?’

She looked over at her friend for confirmation and Dulcie nodded, resigned. Trista was deep into her own thesis, ‘Characterization through Metaphor in Late Victorian Fiction,’ and ever since Dulcie had told her about Bullock’s new requirement, she had pronounced the whole idea ridiculous. (‘We’re finishing our post-grad education, and he wants us to check in every ten pages?’) ‘It’s just not fair,’ she protested now. ‘Not that any of this is.’ She’d groaned softly when Thorpe had handed her two more sections for the Dickens survey course, but accepted it with outward grace. At least, as she’d put it, nobody was ‘checking up on her.’ Now the two joined the small crowd milling by the coffee machine, waiting for the next pot to brew. Dulcie snagged the last cinnamon donut hole – Nancy must have sent a work-study student out for more – and sagged against the wall.

‘Wait here.’ Trista grabbed her friend’s travel mug and moved in for the fresh brew.

‘You okay?’ Her place was taken by Lloyd, Dulcie’s office mate. Lloyd the Long-Suffering, as Trista had dubbed the chubby little man, was also an eighteenth-century specialist. Considering his specialty was criticism and satire, he might have been more chipper. But he also served as Professor Bullock’s research assistant, which explained the name.

‘Yeah.’ Dulcie was noncommittal. She didn’t know how much any of her colleagues knew.