by Clea Simon
‘Hello?’ She heard the quaver in her own voice. Right now all news seemed like bad news.
‘Dulcie! I’m so glad I’ve caught you.’ It was her mom, breathless as usual. Life was a continual wonder, and a continual crisis, for Lucy Schwartz. ‘You weren’t at home and I was worried.’
‘I was in the library, Lucy. And you could have left a message. I’d have called you back.’ She glanced up at the sky. The rain didn’t look ready to stop any time soon. ‘What’s up?’
‘I’ve had a vision, Dulcie. And you were in it.’
Dulcie closed her eyes and leaned back against the cool stone of the library. A vision could mean a dream, or it could mean her mother and her buddy Nirvana had been hitting the peyote again. For purely mind-expanding purposes, Lucy would say, but over the years, Dulcie had been regaled with enough of her mother’s fantastical visions to make even The Ravages of Umbria seem tame. Inspired by her psychedelic experiences, Nirvana had been ordained as a priestess of some sort about a decade ago, but since the mail-order certificate listed her given name, Shirley, most of Nirvana’s religious experiences remained private.
‘A vision, Dulcie!’ Lucy repeated.
‘Yes?’ Dulcie drew out the one syllable. She didn’t want to encourage her mom’s craziness, but she knew she was going to hear it whether she asked or not.
‘You never believe in my visions, do you?’ Blessedly, Lucy didn’t wait for an answer. ‘But this one was different – very clear. And vitally important.’
Of course; it was always something major – someone who meant to do her harm or some secret that would lead to great treasure. Lucy never called her daughter with a vision that told her to take an umbrella, and Dulcie suspected that the calls had more to do with empty-nest syndrome than with any real psychic ability. Still, Lucy was her mother.
‘Uh-huh?’ Even without the prompt, Dulcie knew her mother would elaborate. She was just stretching out the drama.
‘There’s been an intruder in your house!’
Dulcie choked back a laugh. ‘Lucy, my room-mate was murdered in my apartment. Don’t you think this vision is coming a bit late?’ Tim’s death wasn’t a joke, she knew well. But a week and a half later, it was beginning to seem like history, and her mother’s visions – well, she shouldn’t get started on those. ‘And shouldn’t your warning have been for him?’
‘And how do you know he was the intended victim?’
Lucy’s words made Dulcie stand up straight. But with only a second’s pause, she answered, ‘Because he was a womanizing pig; because he may have been dealing drugs; because he was a spoiled kid who didn’t know how to take care of himself; and, I don’t know, maybe he was flashing a wad of cash on the street? Because it might have been a totally random thing.’ She wished she had more reasons to give. ‘Because the police don’t seem worried about my safety.’
‘The cops!’ Lucy made a noise that was half laugh, half dismissive snort. ‘As if they care about my baby like I do.’
Now she was back on familiar territory. ‘So, what would you have me do, Lucy? I got the sage smudges.’ She hadn’t burned them yet, but her mother didn’t need to know that.
‘I’m not sure, dear. That’s what really worries me. I see something with falling water.’ She probably heard the torrent over the phone, Dulcie told herself. Even standing back against the wall, she was getting splashed by raindrops bouncing back off the granite steps. ‘And I knew I had to tell you to look across it. Look across the water.’
‘So, there’s an intruder waiting for me across the water? Like the Atlantic? Or maybe the Charles River?’ The rain was letting up, and Dulcie realized she was hungry. ‘Any idea what he looks like? Or is he—’ She paused, trying to recall her mother’s Tarot deck. ‘A dark man, clad in motley?’ That was often a favorite.
‘Oh dear, I wish this had been clearer, Dulcie. I’m afraid I’m letting you down again. But I think the motley is wrong, dear. And I don’t really understand about the water. I just know I’m supposed to tell you this. Oh – and, dear?’ Dulcie waited, unwilling to encourage her mother to go on. ‘It’s not a man at all. The intruder is a woman.’
The sound of another incoming call helped Dulcie get her mother off the phone then, but not before she had promised to be careful – and to burn the first sage smudge that very evening. As a result, she missed the other call which, she was pleased to see, was not from some mysterious woman at all. It was from a Bruce Patchett.
‘Hi, Dulcie, this is Bruce – from the party? Would you give me a call back?’ Indeed she would, thought Dulcie, snapping the phone shut. But not here on the steps of Widener, where strange females might intrude. Lighter at heart than she’d been in ages, she started down the steps – and nearly wiped out. Her old flip-flops had long ago lost whatever treads they might have once had, and the wet stone was slick.
‘Watch your step, dear.’ Her mother’s closing words came back to her. Well, maybe Lucy knew some things after all, thought Dulcie, removing her flip-flops to walk barefoot down the cool grey steps.
By the time she’d gotten her customary post-library dinner – hot and sour soup and the yu shiang eggplant special from the Hong Kong – it seemed too late to call Bruce back. Just as well. Suze would approve of a little reticence. If it weren’t for the echo of her mother’s warnings, Dulcie would have been feeling quite smug as she unlocked her front door.
‘Honey, I’m home!’ She yelled into the empty air. This was her home, a place of comfort she’d created with Suze and with Mr Grey. ‘I’m here!’ Of course, anyone watching would know that she lived alone now. But, hey, maybe somewhere, somehow, Mr Grey would hear her and know that she’d resumed her old habits. She imagined how he would come running, chirping, at her voice. Ah, well. At least, it would amuse Helene.
Once again, Dulcie stayed up reading. The printouts on Priority proved worthless; their management seemed as efficient at covering up crime as Tim’s family. With a groan of disgust, she tossed thirty pages into the recycling bin. ‘Innovations in Fraud Protection’, indeed! But although Dulcie knew she should keep at it, or maybe get to sleep at a reasonable hour, the temptation to reward herself was simply too great. She deserved a little ‘Dulcie’ time, didn’t she? And one book in particular beckoned.
Two hours later, even her preferred subject was proving frustrating. There were only so many pages for Dulcie to go through, and these were maddeningly vague. So she went from rereading The Ravages to an essay and then to another book, which confused the issue more – and kept her up until past three.
Thus, it was nearly ten the next morning before she dashed out of the apartment, into decidedly un-mountain-like humidity. No time to call Bruce, Dulcie was already late for Detective Scavetti, and she’d only downed about a third of the large iced coffee she’d bought by the time she reached the police headquarters on Western Avenue. Toss or not? These were questions Hermetria never had to answer. But that girl was decisive, too, somehow managing to straighten out both her own finances and her personal crises, and so Dulcie took a long pull before tossing the plastic cup into the trash. She wouldn’t bring a beverage into a library, after all.
‘Ms Schwartz, thanks for coming in!’ The portly Detective Scavetti came forward to greet her even before she could give her name at the front desk. ‘Coffee?’
‘Oh! Sure.’ Following the large man off to a private office, Dulcie decided this wasn’t going to be that bad. Of course, the coffee – when it came – was thin and bitter. And Detective Scavetti looked way too stout to fit into knight’s armor, not to mention too close to bald. But he had been nice to offer.
‘Let’s go somewhere private, so we can really talk,’ he said, leading her into a small room with a table and a few plastic chairs. ‘Detective Forrester said you had something to tell me?’
‘Well, yes.’ Dulcie had a moment of confusion. ‘But you wanted to ask me some questions, too?’
He nodded, tossing a manila folder of papers casuall
y down on the desk. ‘Paperwork, mostly. It can wait. Why don’t we start by talking about Tim Worthington?’
‘Tim.’ She took a breath. It was hard to conjure up her temporary room-mate as he had been. All she could think about was the last time she’d seen him. ‘It was so horrible. He was so still. It was like he wasn’t real anymore. But the blood . . .’ She closed her eyes. The bitter coffee had been a mistake.
‘I understand, Ms Schwartz. But why don’t we think about what he was like before.’ He paused, but she was stuck in her memory: the hand on the rug; the blood. ‘Ms Schwartz?’
‘I’m sorry.’ She forced herself to focus. ‘You had a question?’
‘Actually, you called us. You said you had something to tell us. Something about Mr Worthington and his girlfriend?’
‘Girlfriend?’ The room came back into focus. ‘Girlfriends is more like it.’ Thinking about the women she had met helped her see Tim as he had been. She breathed again, and then she could talk. She leaned forward, eager to share what she knew. ‘I don’t know what you’d call motive exactly. But it turns out Tim had been seeing at least one other woman behind his girlfriend’s back. And one of her friends told me that he might have had some compromising photos of her.’ She realized then that she’d forgotten to check her computer. A pity, it would have been nice to give something to the detective.
‘So, your room-mate was a real hound?’
She’d drifted for a moment. Say nothing but good of the dead, and all that. But the detective brought her back.
‘Ms Schwartz?’
‘Yeah, I guess he was.’ Dulcie swallowed. ‘Alana – that’s the girlfriend – thought they were serious. I mean, she’s now saying they were going to get married. But she can’t be that dumb.’
‘And you knew him much better, of course.’
Dulcie sipped at her coffee. It was pretty foul, but it was caffeine. ‘Well, I was his room-mate.’
‘And?’
She put her cup down. The fake cream had left a chalky taste in her mouth. ‘And what?’
‘Well, you’re young, single.’ He ran one hand over his thinning hair. ‘Tim was by all accounts an attractive guy.’
‘What? No.’ The thought – and the non-dairy creamer – made her mouth pucker. ‘We were not – repeat, not – romantically involved.’
‘Oh, that’s right.’ Scavetti pulled the folder back and opened it with one hand. He flipped through a few pages and seemed to settle on one. ‘I’d forgotten. Sorry. You two didn’t get along, right?’
‘Well . . .’ It was true, but it would be bad karma to spell out what a jerk Tim had been.
‘Your neighbor, Helene Duvoisier? She said he was pretty mean to you. Used to tease you about your pet cat?’
‘Yeah.’ The weight of the last few days hit her and she sighed. ‘Mr Grey.’
‘You still miss him.’ For a big guy, his voice was gentle.
‘Yeah, I do.’ Oh, God, was she going to cry?
‘That wasn’t very nice of your room-mate, then, was it?’
She shook her head and reached into her pocket for a tissue. Detective Scavetti leaned back and retrieved a box for her. ‘Thank you.’ She blew her nose.
‘That must have made you so mad.’ He kept talking, politely ignoring her distress. ‘And you come home from work, after a long, hot day. And here’s this rich kid, who doesn’t have to work, and he teases you about your cat?’
‘Wait a minute.’ Dulcie sat up. ‘Am I a suspect here?’
‘We’re just talking.’ The big man leaned back to give her more space and put his hands up in a gesture of surrender. Something about it looked like a practiced move. ‘About your old cat – now, you said something to the officer on the scene about seeing the cat that day?’
‘I saw a cat that looked like Mr Grey. I’m fully aware that he’s not around anymore.’
‘That’s not what you told Officer Priz—’
‘I was very upset that day. I’d just come home to find my room-mate dead. Killed. In my apartment.’ She was a doctoral candidate, at the most prestigious university in the country; she should be able to make herself clear. ‘Yes, I thought I’d seen a cat that looked like my old cat. But clearly it could not have been him.’
‘Uh-huh.’ Detective Scavetti was nodding, looking at the blank window behind her. ‘And this cat spoke to you. And you must have been tired, and so angry with Tim—’
‘I don’t think I want to talk with you anymore.’ Dulcie pushed her chair back and stood up. ‘I don’t believe you can keep me here, and I know you haven’t read me any rights.’
‘Now, I didn’t mean to upset you, Ms Schwartz.’
‘I’m not upset.’ She was furious, but better he shouldn’t see her temper. ‘I simply came in this morning to tell you what I’d found out about Tim. If you choose to ignore that perfectly good information, well, I have other things to do.’
‘Of course, of course.’ He rose too and walked quickly to the door. For a moment, Dulcie held her breath. Was he going to prove an evil monk, intent on imprisoning her? But after a moment’s pause, he pulled the heavy door open and gestured her through. ‘Thank you for coming in, Ms Schwartz.’ He walked her to the end of the hall. She could see the building’s main lobby and, outside, a bright Saturday morning, as brilliant and beckoning as the Umbrian plains. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
‘I’m sure you will.’ It was as cutting a remark as she’d dared to make. When she got home, she promised herself, she’d start burning that sage.
But first, she needed to call Suze. She not only needed a friend, she needed some legal advice.
Suze was not encouraging. ‘You did what? You talked to the police about a homicide – without a lawyer?’
‘Why would I need a lawyer, Suze? I didn’t do anything.’ The groan that came back over the line didn’t help Dulcie’s mood. She’d been pacing as she recited the events of the morning, but now she pulled up a chair and grabbed a pen and a notepad. Maybe Suze would have some practical suggestions. ‘I’m serious, Suze. I never thought they were, well, investigating me or anything. I mean, I’m the one who found the body. Why would I have called them if I’d just killed him?’
‘If it were a crime of passion. Annoying room-mate pushes you over the edge. If you were mentally unstable and had scared yourself. If you felt you weren’t really responsible because some ghost cat had made you do it—’
‘Suze! You’re scaring me.’ Everything her old friend was saying made sense. Dulcie started doodling nervously.
‘I’m sorry, sweetie, but you should be scared. The number one thing we always tell everyone at legal aid is “keep your mouth shut”. Never – and I mean, never – talk to the police without counsel.’
‘But I didn’t realize I was being questioned.’ Dulcie went over the session in her head. She should have been taking notes then. How had things gone so wrong so quickly? ‘He seemed really nice at first, like he was really interested in what I had to say.’
‘Yeah, it’s a common technique. He was building rapport. First they develop trust, and then they start suggesting ways that the crime might have occurred. They make it sound only logical, like you had to kill him.’
Oh, man, all that stuff about how Tim was a jerk. Well, he was a jerk. But that hadn’t made Dulcie kill him. And she wasn’t going to be talked into confessing, either. ‘They didn’t read me my rights.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Suze sounded depressingly confident. ‘They don’t have to do that until they bring you in and charge you.’
‘Great.’ Dulcie dug her pen into the paper, working out her frustration in a series of darkening crosshatches. ‘But why would they think it was me? I mean, especially if he was dealing?’
‘Because he probably knew the killer.’
Suze’s reasoning was disheartening.
‘The door was open, right?’
‘But maybe he knew his supplier, or his customer or something. And, besides, Tim always left the
door unlocked. It was one of the things I hated about him! Like, he expected “the staff” to take care of it.’
‘You’re not sounding particularly sympathetic, Dulcie. That’s motive.’
‘Great.’ Dulcie knew she was muttering. ‘Tim – the room-mate who keeps on giving.’
‘It’s not all bleak.’ Dulcie heard rustling on the other end of the line. Maybe Suze was making notes, too. ‘I mean, if they had anything solid, they’d have arrested you by now.’
The crosshatches became darker. The paper rippled beneath Dulcie’s pen. ‘I can’t believe this!’ She knew she was whining, but Suze would understand. ‘I mean, why me? OK, I know why me. But, well, you make it sound like I’m definitely a suspect.’ The lack of an answer drove the point home. ‘What if they never catch who really did it? How am I going to know when I’m cleared? Will they let me know?’
‘Not likely.’ Suze could get sort of lawyer-y at times. ‘But, you know, every day that they don’t arrest you is another day you’re free.’ Dulcie groaned. The sound must have broken through Suze’s legal fog. ‘I’m going to look for some names for you. Get you someone to go with you if they bring you in again.’
‘You think they’re going to question me again?’ She drew a big question mark and underlined it, then started filling it in with more crosshatching.
‘I hope not, kiddo. But if I were them, I think I might.’
Sometimes Suze sounded more like a mother than Dulcie’s real mother.
‘That’s great, just great.’ All she wanted was to be writing. Or reading.
‘So, are you getting any work done?’
Suze wasn’t psychic. Dulcie knew her old friend was only trying to cheer her up, but it was the worst question at the worst time.
‘Oh, Suze.’ She could hear the despair in her own voice. ‘That’s not working either! I’m not getting anywhere. I just keep going back to the same old fragments of The Ravages of Umbria. And there’s nothing there. If there were, it would’ve been written already.’ Suze had heard plenty about the unfinished manuscript. She could probably compose her own chapbook on it, but she wisely remained silent. ‘I’m not going to find anything. I’m not going to be able to renew my grant. I’m going to have to drop out.’ She sighed. ‘Maybe I’m not a scholar, Suze. Maybe I just want comfort reads, and stories that I can write my own endings to.’ She twirled the pen and then started doodling again. ‘There’s nothing new to say about The Ravages. Nobody’s cared about this story for more than two hundred years.’
