True Grey (10 page)

‘
Welcome – I'm a fifth-year doctoral candidate, also looking at
The Ravages
, and I'd love to chat. I'll be at your talk, or maybe you can call me?
' She added her number and looked about for a way to affix it to the door. No, there were no nails protruding. This wasn't the kind of door anyone would stick a thumbtack in. Well, since the suite was unlocked, Dulcie took a step in and found herself in a book-lined chamber. She'd tuck it right under that lamp. That way, anyone entering would be sure to see it first thing.

‘Hello?' There was no answer, and the room felt still. ‘I know, Mr Grey,' Dulcie whispered to the quiet. What she was doing was wrong, but the temptation was just too great. After all, someone had to be here. She could see, at about waist height, that somebody had set a pile of papers on the edge of the bookshelf. Peering over, she saw typed pages, the sun reflecting off the binder clips. It looked thick; Dulcie estimated three hundred, maybe three hundred and fifty pages. Drawn by curiosity, she walked further into the room. Surely, it couldn't hurt to take a peek.

Anonymous Unveiled
, she read. This was it – the manuscript of Melinda Sloane Harquist's book. Dulcie took a breath. To read this, here, in its unpublished – probably uncorrected – form was crossing a line. She should walk away. Maybe she could get permission to look at it later. Maybe Melinda would want her to review it, peer to peer.

Anonymous Unveiled
. . . Mr Grey, she knew, would not approve. Lucy, however, might say the book was here for a reason. For a brief moment, her impulse struggled with her discipline, but as with the last dumpling, temptation won. Dulcie flipped open to a double-spaced page and began to read:

‘
If, as seems likely, our mysterious and yet wildly wayward author was involved in the scandal, then isn't it probable that in light of her willful ways she
caused
the scandal?
'

‘Wow,' Dulcie said out loud, in an unconscious echo. This Sloane Harquist woman certainly liked her alliteration. ‘I wonder . . .' Dulcie reread the opening, when some other words hit her: Likely? Probable? This was speculation, not fact! Dulcie leaned forward to read more – maybe this woman
hadn't
made any great new discovery – and started back as a fly zipped right by her eye. Blue and fat, it buzzed as it circled, almost as if it were drunk, she thought, swatting at it without effect. Where was she?

‘
The scurrilous doings, the scandal of the year, which shockingly would entangle prominent members of the fledgling government.
'

‘Wow,' Dulcie said again, the single word forced out in disbelief. Sloane Harquist not only loved her alliteration, she'd never met a polysyllabic word she didn't like. Maybe, Dulcie tried to be charitable, this was a rough draft. After all, something was scrawled in the margin in an elegant, if almost illegible, cursive:
Missing man? Paine?
Well, that made sense. Melinda had decided to insert a reference in what seemed to be an introductory passage. Dulcie squinted at the rest of the line.
Change? See . . .
It was no use. Sloane Harquist's handwriting was decorative, but harder to read than Dulcie's own, and so she went back to the typed copy.

‘
As we can see in the overwrought – nay, wordy – writing in the description, “life's elixir had begun to solidify and darken”.
'

Dulcie stiffened: that phrase. It was the same one she had commented on. Biting her lip, she read on. ‘“
Staining the red-gold hair a dull brown.
”'

Dulcie's heart sank, the heat – the humidity – making her feel ill again. It might as well be summer, Dulcie thought. It was awfully warm in the room. That lamp had been left on all morning, probably, adding its incandescent glow to the glare of the midday sun off the river. There was a funny smell, too. Not just the Charles – the river had been cleaned up in recent years. Something a little sweet, like some cold cuts had gone off in the fridge.

That fly buzzed around her head, and Dulcie waved it away again. Then another, right by her. Heading past her, toward a seating area, where a leather sofa and two armchairs huddled beneath more bookshelves.

The flies were heading toward that oversized sofa, and Dulcie found herself turning in that direction, too. That's when she saw the bust lying on the carpet, white against the dark of the shadowed Oriental rug. It must have fallen, she thought, walking toward it. It must have been up on the bookshelf and become unbalanced. Already feeling more than a little guilty, she reached for the statue. If she could figure out where it went, she'd slip it back into place.

The bust was heavier than she had first thought, the white of the stone fooling the eye into thinking it was light, and Dulcie had to use both hands to lift it. As she hefted it, she saw that the nose was chipped and there was a smudge, like mud or paint, on its side. Resting the thing against the end table, she wiped at it and was a little surprised to see that her hand came away dark red. Paint, then. Or . . .

The buzzing grew louder, as another fly flew by, and Dulcie turned to look. The sound was furious, frantic, drowning out everything in her head. Drowning out everything except the sight before her. On the carpet, hands flung outward, eyes open but unseeing. Not seeing. Never seeing again.

Dulcie gasped, unable to breathe. The pounding in her head threatened to take over, the noise of the fly a deafening roar, as Dulcie released the statue and it crashed, once again, to the carpet with a deep, dull thud. Dulcie didn't hear it, though. Didn't register the voices below her either. The last words she'd heard echoed through her mind –
warned,
she'd heard.
Three times warned.

Mr Grey had been trying to help her. Mr Grey – not Esmé with her petty jealousies, her strange dissent. Mr Grey. Only Dulcie hadn't listened.

‘D
ulcie!'

At last the sound of Lloyd's voice penetrated Dulcie's panic. She had heard Mr Grey, coming to her rescue, urging her to run. But she had only taken a few steps before she saw her office mate, standing in the doorway, several faces crowded behind him. One, she could see, was wearing the uniform of a university EMT.

‘In here,' she gasped, gesturing for them all to come in. That's when she saw the smudge on her hand. The blood, she corrected herself. And that's when the world began to go black.

‘Sit down, miss.' The EMT was by her side, and she was being maneuvered into a chair she hadn't noticed before, just behind the door. Lloyd stood, hovering. ‘Please, put your head down, miss.' The EMT was talking to her. ‘Can you tell me where you're bleeding?'

‘I'm not.' She shook her head, confused. But the undignified position – her head between her knees – was helping. Without sitting up, she started to explain. ‘Lloyd went for help because he thought I was sick. I mean, I
was
sick. I've had a hell of a headache, but this isn't—'

‘Oh my God!' Another voice, male, that Dulcie didn't recognize. She tried to sit up, but the EMT had his hand on her upper back. ‘Melinda! Help!'

‘That's what I was trying to tell you.' Dulcie turned her head to address the EMT, but he was already clambering to his feet.

‘Mellie! Darling!' Even from the back, Dulcie recognized Dean Haitner. He'd changed into a suit, probably for the reception, but his tie was already askew, his jacket rucked up. With his hands up in the air – then in his thick hair – he appeared to be dancing.

‘Please, sir. Step back.' The EMT moved him aside and knelt by what Dulcie knew was a dead body. ‘Sir, please.'

‘Darling?' Dulcie knew she wasn't at her best, but she didn't think that ‘Darling' was one of the names in the visiting scholar's long list. No, there was something else going on here, and suddenly Dulcie knew for sure why this particular guest had received special attention. ‘Darling?' She turned to find Lloyd staring at her. ‘So the rumors about him are true? He was going out with her?'

‘Dulcie, I thought you were sick . . .' He seemed a few steps behind her. ‘I thought you couldn't go up the stairs.'

‘I couldn't, Lloyd. I had the worst headache you can imagine.' Sitting up, she brushed her hair out of her face – and felt the sticky wetness on her fingers.

‘But you came up here. You came up here.'

‘Oh my God! Oh my God!' The EMT was talking to the dean now, trying to turn him away from rug, from the sight of Melinda Sloane Harquist lying on the floor. ‘Oh my God.'

‘Nobody was supposed to have access.' Rafe, the tutor, was staring at Dulcie. ‘I told Lloyd. There had been threats.'

‘I know.' Dulcie tried to wipe the stickiness off her cheek. ‘But the door was open. I thought I'd ask her—'

‘The door was
open
?' Rafe was leaning in toward her. ‘Or unlocked?'

‘I just wanted to leave a note.' Dulcie couldn't wipe it off. The stickiness, the dark crimson stickiness was everywhere.

‘Where is it?' The dean's focus had changed. ‘Where is it?' His voice was growing louder.

‘Where's what?' Rafe turned toward the dean in confusion.

‘Her book – her thesis! The reason for all the precautions!' The dean was still gesticulating madly, sweat popping out on his brow. ‘She was convinced someone was going to try to steal it.' He paused and seemed to see Dulcie for the first time. ‘And you – you're covered in her blood.'

‘O
ne more time, Ms Schwartz.' The big detective gestured with his pen. ‘Let's just go through it again, together. OK?'

‘I've done that – we've done that – already. Twice, at least.' Dulcie was sitting in the university police office, in a small private room she'd never seen before. In front of her, with the pen, the pad, and the exasperated look, was her old friend, Detective Rogovoy. But any sense of comfort she should have gotten from the familiar face was gone – dissipated by his utter lack of reasonableness.

‘I can't tell you anything more.' Dulcie tried once again. ‘You've written it all down.'

Rogovoy sighed, a heavy exhalation that made his not inconsiderable bulk rise up and collapse again. For a moment, Dulcie thought he might deflate entirely, a thought that she found a little scary. Then he inhaled, and she found herself relaxing.

‘Ms Schwartz?' He didn't sound any happier though. ‘Dulcie?'

She nodded, a prickling feeling beginning in the back of her head. That headache – the one that had laid her low after section – was coming back again. Or, no, this felt like pinpricks, sharp claws digging into the base of her skull. A warning? She shook it off. No, this was an ordinary headache, not a message from Mr Grey. It had been a horrible day – tragic – but surely the worst part had already happened. Mr Grey had been looking out for her: that original headache had been sent by her spectral pet, an attempt to keep her from entering the suite, she was sure. That hadn't worked though, and she had blundered into a tragedy.

She rubbed the back of her neck. Tension, that's what it had to be. Tension and the stale air of this small, white room. Rogovoy had to let her leave soon. He might only be a cop, but he worked at the university. He had to know that she was a trained scholar, and that meant a trained observer – and she had already related everything that she had observed during her brief, horrible time in the visiting scholar's suite.

‘I know you, Ms Schwartz.' Dulcie looked up into the detective's troll-like face with a bit of surprise. The deep-set eyes on either side of a particularly lumpy nose looked sad, and she wondered if he felt her pain. But, no, he couldn't have read her mind, not really. He must have seen her rubbing her neck, she realized, and pulled her hand down to her lap. The prickling was getting worse; she needed to finish things up here. Pushing the image of a cat – those claws, unsheathed – from her mind, she made herself listen to what he was saying. ‘I know you're a good kid. Really.'

He paused again, and Dulcie found herself thinking of a cat again. Not just any cat – a wide, grey face, green eyes flashing. Mr Grey: on alert and ready to strike. Her neck tingled and stung, and she wondered what she had done to displease her old friend as she waited for Rogovoy to continue. He was dithering, probably as overworked and tired as she was. She blinked away the thought of claws and considered ways to move the conversation along. Yes, she could say, she knew she would have to be available for questions. She'd probably have to sign something. Then, maybe, he would finally give her the tired nod that meant he was about to push his chair back and release her to go home.

Home. At the very idea, she was struck again by how tired she was. It wasn't yet four, the day outside still bright and sunny when she'd been driven over to the university police headquarters. But between last night's terrors and the horror of this afternoon, she felt like a year had passed since she had left Esmé in the kitchen. Since Esmé had made that odd comment about Mr Grey. What had the little tuxedo cat meant, anyway? And was there any chance Rogovoy would have one of the patrol cars give her a lift?

‘And since they're involved, this has become much more complicated.'

‘Huh?' Dulcie looked up. Rogovoy had been talking, but she'd been in another world. A quiet world of cats. ‘I'm sorry. I didn't hear?'

‘I said the Cambridge Police have taken over the investigation.' He was speaking slowly now, as if she were stupid or hard of hearing. Still, with the words that were coming out of his mouth, Dulcie felt like maybe she was. ‘I am not the one in charge here.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry.' The big guy worked so hard, Dulcie's heart went out to him.

He was shaking his head. ‘No, it's not that. I have – well, I have my hands full this term anyway, what with the new security measures. After last spring, you know.' Dulcie did. In addition to the attack in her basement office, a combination of fraud and attempted robbery had exposed the vulnerability of the university library system. ‘Ms Schwartz, I'm telling you this because it concerns you.'