by Clea Simon
He must not have realized how far adrift she was in her quest for a thesis. Clearly, he didn’t have to worry about grants running out. Still, to hear that she was thought about at all was a pleasant surprise. ‘I’m sure he would have buckled down and finished business school with flying colors, Alana.’ What harm could a little white lie do?
‘His grades were coming up you know.’ Dulcie looked up at her. She sounded like she believed what she was saying. ‘He told me not to worry. And once he was off academic probation, we were going to announce our engagement.’
Dulcie nodded. Both options were safely off the table now. And before she had to respond further, she heard Stacia coming down the stairs, her tread noticeably lighter than Alana’s despite the milk crate she carried.
‘Alana, are you feeling better now? I’ve found some things.’ She put the crate on the floor and bent over it, picking through a pile of papers and plastic. ‘Some of your letters and some CDs that I think are yours. Also, some of his school notes. You don’t mind if I take them, do you?’
She turned to Dulcie with an embarrassed look. ‘I’m taking a summer course at Harvard Extension and I’m so behind.’ A slight blush darkened her cheeks further. Of course, the added color only made her prettier. ‘I guess I could be working harder. But my own stats teacher was such a dunderhead!’
She went back to rooting through the box and when she looked up, she was smiling again. ‘Most important, I found this.’ She stood up and held out the unmistakable black velvet dome of a jewelry box. Alana gasped. So did Dulcie, but for a different reason. Tim buying jewelry for a woman? Any woman?
‘Oh, Stacia! He didn’t!’ Alana was all aflutter. Dulcie was rapidly running through memories, trying to recall Tim springing for anything other than a beer. And that was on a good day.
‘He did, sweetie.’ Her friend handed her the box and stood behind her. ‘He asked me for advice.’
Alana flipped open the box and cooed. Dulcie leaned forward, and in the new spirit of sisterhood, Alana turned the box around to let her see what was inside: a square-cut diamond framed by two small sapphires. ‘So he really was going to propose.’ She sobbed in earnest now, and tears ran down her perfect cheeks.
‘Of course he was, sweetie.’ Stacia patted her friend’s back, her voice low and calming. ‘You know he loved you.’
Dulcie sat back, stunned. If that ring was real, and she rather suspected that Stacia and Alana knew the good stuff, it easily cost more than Tim’s summer rent. Alana’s earlier objections dissolved in the face of more pressing questions. Had Tim been dealing that much dope – out of her apartment? And, if that ring had been up in his room, why hadn’t Luke found it – and asked her how his goofball little brother could afford such a stunning rock?
Five
It was a dark and stormy night. No, it wasn’t really, but ‘hot and humid afternoon’ didn’t have the same ring to it. And once Dulcie had the apartment to herself again, she grabbed a book and threw herself on to the sofa, ready to return to her favorite haunts. It was dark and stormy in the mountains of Italy, at least.
The Ravages of Umbria might not be great art; most scholars didn’t even consider it in the same league as The Castle of Otranto, and that popular thriller had been ridiculed as trash even in 1764, when it was first published. Dulcie didn’t care.
Although only sixty pages of The Ravages remained, the surviving fragments told of an impoverished young noblewoman, an orphan, who lived alone in a ruined castle with only the company of her faithful attendant. The castle was set high on a rocky peak, the likes of which didn’t exist in that particular area of Italy, but the ‘daunted cliffs’ made for a good plot device, keeping both the heroine’s high-born suitor and a stout-hearted young knight errant from having too easy access. However, the craggy mountain didn’t seem to do much to deter a mad monk who had designs on either the heroine’s person or her property. But why argue with geography when the unknown author took such liberties with the rest of nature, Italian or otherwise? Magic abounded in The Ravages of Umbria. Although the first fragment, nearly fifty pages of high drama, ended before everything was revealed, there were plenty of hints that ghosts, both benevolent and otherwise, were involved. This was everything that Dulcie loved.
Hermetria had been visited since infancy by such spirits as were wont to haunt her ruin’d abode. One such shade kept close, calling to mind her father’s loyal and aged servant who had tended the lofty retreat, poised as it were, like a cloud atop the mighty precipice. That retainer, guardian of the young orphan’d girl, recalled further the amiable happiness that had once accompanied Hermetria’s family, the Baron and his Lady, jewels of conjugal felicity and parental duty.
Ghosts – kindly or not, at the thought of such things, a chill ran up Dulcie’s spine and she found herself twisting to look at the carpet, to look at that spot again. No – better not go there.
She turned back to the book and started flipping pages. ‘That jealous spirit too great a portion of ambition had, too high for its station and thus designed upon another’s’. In this later section, the author hinted that something was up with the ghosts – that the spirits were not all benevolent. The few scholars who had written about The Ravages suspected treachery. From the surviving fragments it was unclear what the ghost had done. Probably robbed Hermetria, and perhaps killed her family, Gothic ghosts being able to take on corporeal form when necessary. The second fragment, just ten pages, implied a resolution.
The last pages almost read like a confession: ‘Spells most potent for their proximity have robbed you of your patrimony. Beware the jealous spirit of—’
That was all. The fragment ended mid-sentence, the ultimate cliffhanger, although the phrase ‘jealous spirits’ ran throughout the story. The academics who’d bothered to take up the question basically agreed that the evil monk had been in on it too, with or without another ghostly accomplice. But Dulcie wasn’t so sure. Ghosts were tricky things.
She shivered. Maybe this wasn’t the book to be reading now. Better to think again of the lovely grey cat she’d seen the other day. Could it have been . . .? That sighting had been the one high point in an otherwise horrible day, but it wouldn’t do to get carried away. It had just been a cat. A different cat, not Mr Grey. Still, when she’d asked Helene and Bob, her neighbor on the other side, neither could recall any cat in the neighborhood that had looked just like that – long silver fur, a face more Siamese than Persian, the slanted eyes giving the feline an intelligent and inquisitive look.
‘Didn’t you have a cat like that?’ Bob had remembered Mr Grey all right. He’d been the one to spot her pet the night Tim had let him out. ‘Nice-looking animal. Whatever happened to him?’
She’d replied briefly, not wanting to relive his last days in detail. And, no, nobody else had seen a long-haired grey cat in the area, not recently. Shaking her head, Dulcie readjusted the cushions behind her. Propped up in this way, she had little choice but to look at her book or out over the back porch. The tree outside wasn’t that interesting, and so she reopened her much marked-up paperback, and started again with the opening scene.
Alone but for her companion Demetria, a noblewoman of good family, whose fortunes had fallen prey to evil times, she would gaze over the majestic peaks, whose summits, veiled with clouds, revealed at times their jagged teeth . . .
Dulcie punched the cushion. Talk about rock-like. Usually by the end of the first page, she’d be oblivious to her surroundings, lost in the fictional principality and its family drama. She kicked at the afghan throw she’d automatically pulled off the couch’s back, another present from her mother.
‘. . . two suitors, despite her poverty . . .’
No, something else was wrong. She sat up, stretching out her legs. It wasn’t even Tim anymore, or hardly. The new rug, the rearranged furniture – her apartment was beginning to feel like her own again; all her own. Maybe that was it. It was the couch; she had too much room because Mr Grey wasn’t th
ere. It had always been his habit to ‘study’ with her. She remembered his clairvoyance now with a pang. If she was on the phone or getting ready to watch TV, the grey cat would go about his own business. But whenever she settled in for a good read, he’d be there within thirty seconds. She’d open the cover of a book and feel the gentle thud as he jumped to the foot of the sofa, curling up for a nap as she read. She’d tuck her feet up so as not to disturb him, and they’d stay like that for hours. Now she’d tucked her feet up out of habit, but without that ‘thud’, without the warmth of a coiled, sleeping cat, the sofa just wasn’t as comfortable.
‘Alone, but for her companion . . .’ Could Demetria have been a cat?
That way madness lies, she told herself, and pulled herself upright. It was Sunday; her last afternoon before the tedium of a mindless work week. She had to be able to relax and read somewhere. Down by the river? Outside the window, clouds gathered. That rainy feeling wasn’t only in her head. An iced mocha and one of those muffins she loved would do the trick. With a sigh, she heaved herself to her feet, slipping her book into her bag as she headed for the door.
The sky was rumbling by the time Dulcie reached the coffee-house. But as she pushed open the heavy door a string of brass bells jangled merrily, and she realized she was smiling again. The little shop was packed; the roar of its air-conditioning providing the explanation for its popularity. Dulcie looked around and found herself focusing on a new addition: a small, round fish-bowl set up high, where the coffee-house kept its flavored syrups. It must have been the movement that caught her eye. The bowl’s sole occupant, a fire-engine-red Siamese fighting fish, darted back and forth inside, its flowing fins and glittery body reflected large on the bowl’s sides.
‘Hey, is that new?’ She nodded toward the bowl.
‘Nemo? He’s been with us a while,’ the barista called back. He grabbed two empties and retreated, but Dulcie kept staring. Ever since she’d lost Mr Grey, she’d been like this – mesmerized by any animal she ran across: another cat, a sparrow hopping along the sidewalk, and now a fish. If she didn’t watch herself, soon she’d be trying to pet a spider. She pulled out her book and within minutes was back on that mountain top.
‘Dulcie?’ The sound of her name broke the spell and she looked along the bar, crowded with laptops and latte mugs. It was the girl from the funeral. She had a nearly empty glass of iced tea in her hand, and if her swollen eyes were any indication, she’d been crying.
‘Hi. It’s Luisa, right?’ Dulcie patted the stool next to her, and the younger woman squeezed in. The tears as much as the almost-black curls helped Dulcie to place her.
‘Uh-huh.’ The newcomer nodded and sniffed, taking a last, noisy draw on the straw. ‘You remember me.’ She tried to smile, but a stray tear escaped. With the back of her hand, she wiped it away – and then pulled on one long, black curl in an awkward attempt to hide the motion.
‘Of course, I do.’ Dulcie bit her lip, unsure of what else to say. ‘You were at the funeral.’
At the mention of the funeral Luisa put her hands over her face, sobbing in earnest again. Maybe that hadn’t been the most sensitive thing to say, Dulcie realized. Suze, even Mr Grey, would be better in this kind of situation. ‘Luisa, it’s OK. I mean, you don’t have to be embarrassed.’
Trying to summon the spirit of her room-mate, if not her former cat, Dulcie reached out to pet the young girl’s back. Luisa was wearing a thin rayon shell, warm to the touch, and Dulcie could feel her trembling. ‘There, there,’ she said, feeling extremely ineffective. She looked up at the fish for a clue. The fish continued to swim.
‘Yeah?’ The barista, bored by the drama, was waiting for her order.
‘Large iced latte. And can you bring another iced tea for my friend?’
The barista shrugged, but within a minute plopped down two pint glasses rattling with ice. ‘That’ll be four-fifty.’
Dulcie fumbled with her wallet, and by the time she’d sent the server off, Luisa had calmed herself.
‘Thanks.’ She was all but whispering, barely audible as she sipped at the cold drink. ‘I’m sorry about that.’
‘No need.’ Dulcie took a moment to study the younger woman. Despite her swollen eyes and a nose that was definitely red, Luisa was worth the perusal. With dark-tan skin, lustrous curls, and the kind of eyebrows that in novels would be described as raven-winged, Luisa was definitely a looker. But not, Dulcie knew – from both her clothing and her demeanor – one of Tim’s usual types. Curiosity was pricking at Dulcie like little cats’ claws. The girl was more truly bereft than Tim’s supposed fiancée, unless something else was causing the waterworks today. Odds were, she wasn’t an orphaned heiress, but she certainly seemed haunted. ‘Do you mind if I ask what’s wrong?’ Luisa looked up, her eyes welling. ‘Is it Tim?’ A nod and a sniff. ‘Were you a close friend of Tim’s?’
Luisa sighed and nodded, and then sighed again. Dulcie waited, and after a few more sighs, the younger woman started to talk. ‘We met through the Bureau of Study Council. I was helping Tim with statistics.’
Dulcie sipped her iced latte. This wasn’t study-partner grief. Sure enough, the story came out.
‘And, to thank me, he started taking me out. I didn’t want to go at first. I mean, he was paying me, too, to tutor him. But he kept saying that if he had to work so hard, he wanted to enjoy a good meal after; that it was really for him, and that it would help him remember our lesson if I’d talk with him afterward. And, well, we started seeing each other. Sort of.’
Sort of? Dulcie raised her eyebrows.
‘I mean, I’m sort of seeing someone else, and I know he has a girlfriend. But I don’t know how serious that is. Was.’ She gave another sniff, and Dulcie jumped in before the sobs could start again.
‘So you were seeing each other casually, right? That sounds fine.’ Dulcie thought of the ring, but decided to keep her mouth shut. To Luisa, this might have been the beginning of a real romance. To Dulcie, it sounded like Tim being Tim, hitting on a girl because she was pretty and vulnerable. Besides, she didn’t know who that ring was intended for.
‘It was fun. Tim wasn’t like anyone else I’d ever gone out with.’ Luisa’s face brightened as she told Dulcie about lunches at Sonsie, evenings at Rialto, the late-night sushi place. None of these were Dulcie’s usual haunts, but if Tim had been spending so much time with this girl, wouldn’t he have mentioned her or brought her home?
‘I’m amazed we never ran into each other,’ Dulcie said, fishing. ‘I mean, at the apartment.’
Luisa had the grace to blush, looking down at the bar so that her heavy hair fell over her face. ‘We hadn’t gotten that far yet. I mean, I’m not like that. And he was going to break up with his girlfriend first.’
By hitting her over the head with a Tiffany rock? Dulcie had to keep herself from grabbing the younger girl’s bare, tanned wrist. ‘Luisa, are you sure Alana didn’t know about you, too?’ It was hard to imagine Alana getting worked up over anything, but still, Tim was hers. And jealousy was a hell of a motive.
But Luisa shook her head. ‘Yeah, I’m pretty sure. That’s what the cops were asking me about yesterday.’
‘The cops? Luisa, if you—’ Dulcie wanted to ask more, to find out if the dark-haired girl was a suspect. But just then she felt her empty glass whisked out of her hand.
‘Would you ladies care for anything else today?’ The moment was broken. Luisa pushed herself off her stool and reached for the bag that had been resting at her feet.
‘Here you go.’ She fished through the bulky knit bag for her wallet.
‘Luisa, if you want to talk—’
‘I should get back home. I’ve got a study group at six. It was just so good to see you. To see someone who knew Tim.’ With a smile and a wave, she was gone. Dulcie looked back at the counter, just in time to see the dollar bill before the barista grabbed it. Only someone who had worked in a service job would tip that much for an iced tea. With a sigh, she slid off her own
stool and looked up to see that the Siamese fighting fish was no longer circling. Its little ‘o’ of a mouth still opened and closed rhythmically, but it held to the edge of the bowl, its black button eyes staring straight past her. Brass bells jangled and Dulcie glanced over her shoulder in time to see Luisa slip through the front door. Straightening up again, she saw that the fish’s banner of a dorsal was extended to its full height. The fish had been staring at the door – and if that fin was any indication, the bright-red fighter was either angry or scared.
‘Dulcie, I’m really beginning to worry about you.’ She’d told Suze about the cat earlier, and her friend had made sympathetic noises. Suze knew that most of Dulcie’s waking hours were spent in a fictional world where ghosts were part of the furniture, at least in the upper reaches of ruined castles. An intelligent fish, however, was going too far.
‘Look, I’m not saying that the fish knew something.’ Dulcie was lying on the sofa, feet tucked behind a pillow. The pillow didn’t fill the space where Mr Grey used to curl, but it was close. ‘Still, something spooked it.’
‘Like, maybe, being stuck in a tiny bowl in a busy coffee shop?’
Dulcie could hear the fatigue in Suze’s voice.
‘Dulcie, I think you’ve been spending too much time in that Umbria book, only you’re not locked up – you’re choosing to stay inside, alone. It’s not healthy. I mean, Dulce, we’re talking about a creature with a brain the size of a split pea at best.’
‘Yeah, I know.’ Suze was working hard and the Washington summer was even hotter and muggier than New England. Still, Dulcie couldn’t resist. ‘And at times I do feel like Hermetria, or at least Demetria, the faithful attendant. But, Suze, I know what I saw. And, well, it’s possible, right? I mean, animals are sensitive in ways that we aren’t. And first that cat—’
‘Dulcie!’ Suze’s temper was fraying. ‘Get a hold of yourself! Your room-mate was murdered and you’ve just had coffee with a person of interest, and you’re thinking a fish was freaked?’
