Shades of Grey

by Clea Simon

  Why hadn’t she noticed the strange tube before? It must have been left here recently, maybe not long before Tim’s death. And why hadn’t the cops seen it when they’d been searching her house? Well, why should they? She answered her own question as she moved on to the other eye, her mouth open. They wouldn’t know if it were her mascara or belonged to someone else. They didn’t know she could only afford the cheapest drugstore paints and brushes.

  ‘Men are clueless.’ She leaned back and blinked, looking for smudges. This was good-quality mascara, all right. It all stayed on her lashes, rather than migrating to her cheeks. Which of Tim’s women had left it? In her mind’s eye, she imagined Mr Grey looking up at her, his own unblinking eyes gorgeous and green. He seemed to be prompting her, urging her to take her thoughts one step further. ‘Is it possible that what we have here,’ she closed the sleek tube, ‘is what we call a clue?’

  As she waited for the T, she mulled over the mystery of the mascara. Alana was the obvious owner. But would anyone with hair that light, whether it was real or bleach, really be using a color this dark? Dulcie closed her eyes to visualize the bovine beauty, but all she could think of was her blank stare – and a hint of turquoise. Did Alana’s eyes bulge ever so slightly, or was that her memory getting creative?

  The rush of cool air alerted Dulcie that a train was approaching the station and, as she shook her head slightly to clear her mind of the image, she felt her curls bob. Her hair was behaving well today. As she turned her head, she saw another great hairdo: long, glossy curls so dark they were almost black. Now that woman could wear dark mascara – if she needed it – with a touch of gold. Dulcie strained to get a look at the woman’s face, but just then the train arrived, and a door opened right in front of her.

  The car air-conditioning was even working. Maybe her luck had turned. One stop was long enough to completely perk her up and she bounded up the stairs to meet Bruce with more spring than she’d felt in days.

  ‘Dulcie!’ She turned as a woman’s voice called her name.

  ‘Luisa.’ It was the dark-haired woman from the T, looking fantastic, sleek and glossy as a seal. Dulcie realized that she’d never seen Luisa when the younger girl hadn’t been crying. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The younger woman fell into step with her and looked up, a smile on her face. ‘My boyfriend and I have patched things up.’

  ‘That’s great.’ One good side effect of Tim no longer being around. Dulcie imagined Luisa with an earnest undergrad, perhaps another tutor holding down multiple jobs to make ends meet. ‘I’m really happy for you.’

  Maybe Luisa’s luck would rub off, she thought as she turned into the converted parking garage. It had been remodeled into a mall years ago, but still kept the curling up-ramp. Luisa kept pace with her.

  ‘Are you going to Pho House, by any chance?’ The budget soup joint was popular, but this could be awkward. In response, Luisa only smiled and nodded in the direction of the open glass front. Bruce was standing there, a look of anticipation on his broad and open face.

  ‘Bruce,’ Dulcie called. He looked up, his wide face breaking into a grin. Dulcie’s heart leaped as she saw those dimples.

  And plummeted as those blue eyes looked past her to Luisa. As Dulcie stood, frozen to the spot, the bouncy little brunette ran up to the big jock, who wrapped one large arm around her. Together they turned toward Dulcie.

  ‘Ah, so this is the mystery boyfriend!’ Dulcie felt her cheeks stiffening around her own smile. ‘I should have guessed, when Bruce said he wanted to talk with me.’ No wonder he had been so grateful to her for defending Luisa. It wasn’t that he appreciated her kindness or warm spirit. It was that she’d stood up for the pretty outsider when he’d lacked the courage to do so.

  ‘You found out! I knew you were smart.’ Luisa was blushing, her tan cheeks darkening with an appealing glow that only served to make her look more beautiful. ‘Bruce and I – he’s my real knight in shining armor.’

  A knight who let me speak up for you, Dulcie thought. At least Bruce seemed aware of her role in their lives. ‘I can’t thank you enough, Dulcie.’ Bruce was glowing now, too. ‘You’ve been so great, so when we decided to go public, we wanted you to be the first to know.’

  As the two lovers turned toward each other, Dulcie used the opportunity to relax her frozen face. So that’s why Bruce had wanted to talk to her about his clique’s prejudices, about Tim. Dulcie had been casting herself in the romantic heroine role, the impoverished noblewoman courted by a young noble. Only she’d misjudged her part. She wasn’t the heroine, she was some minor character – maybe the faithful attendant. Luisa, with her angelic looks, was the young Hermetria.

  Except that Luisa was no angel. She’d been introduced to Bruce as Tim’s tutor, and she’d been stepping out with both her students. Was it possible that Bruce knew that his girlfriend was two-timing him? Was she the ‘friend in trouble’ he’d been trying to help out? Suddenly Dulcie realized that Bruce, as much as Alana, had reason for jealousy – and more strength to put behind a killing rage. Maybe he’d come by to visit Tim and found his little Luisa there. Maybe . . .

  Maybe Dulcie was simply green with envy. By the time the happy couple had finished rubbing noses and giggling, she’d gotten herself under control. She was even able to eat a little, though she had never thought that the rich house pho with the spicy sliced peppers and thick noodles would taste so much like paste.

  Declining dessert, Dulcie pled fatigue as an excuse to duck out. By then, the two lovebirds were pretty much oblivious to her, anyway. ‘Great to see you . . . both!’ With one last half-hearted smile, she managed to get herself out of the pho house and on to the street, where the reality of her situation hit her.

  She leaned back against one of Cambridge’s omnipresent brick walls and covered her face with her hands. First the debacle at Priority, now this date that had turned out not to be a date. ‘Could my life get any worse?’

  Count your blessings, Dulcie. The voice jerked her upright. Better to see people as they are. ‘Mr Grey?’ She said the words aloud. An elderly man, dapper in a summer suit and straw hat, turned toward her and quickly away again. ‘Oh, great. Now everyone thinks I’m losing it.’ A couple in shorts and Red Sox T-shirts stopped short on the sidewalk and darted across the street.

  Question the relationships. Well, that message has come a little late, she snapped back – mentally and silently. From now on, when a man asked her to dinner, she’d assume he wanted her to meet his girlfriend. Dulcie . . . She could swear the voice had become peevish, and suddenly visualized Mr Grey lashing his tale, always a warning signal. Speaking of warnings . . .

  I know, she thought, I’m too trusting. Not anymore, though. Now she had another suspect for Tim’s murder. Bruce seemed to truly treasure Luisa. If he’d known his friend was hitting on her and, worse, probably just looking to seduce her for a bit of fun, he’d have a fine motive for murder. Of course, how Dulcie was going to let the cops know about it was another problem. She wasn’t sure what they thought of her, or if she was still a suspect. But then, if she brought them one more viable option . . . It was all too much. She rubbed her face, not remembering till a second too late that she’d put on full warpaint for her supposed date. A quick glance at her hand confirmed the damage: black and gold streaks tiger-striped her knuckles. ‘I must look like Alice Cooper,’ she muttered.

  And then it hit her. Warnings – the latest warning she’d received hadn’t been Mr Grey’s general words of advice or comfort. It had come from her mother. Lucy might be daft, but she had called with a specific message – something about a female intruder crossing the water. Well, this mascara had been evidence of another woman in her bathroom, hadn’t it? And she’d had to reach across the sink to get at it. No, that couldn’t be. Dulcie shook her head. Across the tap water?

  That was insane. She was getting into Ravages territory here, with everything blamed on magic or a ghost. But when Dulcie thought about it, th
e connection began to make sense. Mascara this dark and dramatic would certainly look better on a brunette like Luisa than a blonde like Alana. Luisa had said that nothing much had happened with Tim, but she’d been awfully upset by his death. What if it wasn’t only Tim who was making moves? What if Luisa had been looking to trade up, to leave Bruce for his richer, taller buddy? What if she had been fooling around with Dulcie’s room-mate behind her boyfriend’s back – only she had found out that Tim had no intention of making her Girl Number 1? Dulcie could imagine the scene: an afternoon tryst. Maybe Luisa had said something about going public, about telling Bruce and Alana. Maybe she’d thought that ring was for her. Tim was never one for tact; he might have laughed in her pretty face. And if she’d just freshened up and reapplied that fancy mascara before meeting him downstairs, well, Dulcie’s chopping block was right out on the kitchen counter. Suze had warned her that the young brunette was a ‘person of interest’ to the police, and Dulcie herself knew the sting of jealousy. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned’. She didn’t need her late cat’s voice inside her head to explain how that could have played out.

  Fifteen

  By the time Dulcie got home, Suze had called – four times – and Luke had left a message, too. ‘Love to come by and finish up but today’s just gotten crazy,’ his voicemail said. ‘May I have a rain check? I’d love to get together when we could really talk.’ His voice was warm and inviting, but odds were good he just wanted to pump her for information about Stacia. And as much as Dulcie wanted to get Tim’s laptop, she didn’t think she was up to more romantic rejection. What she really wanted to do was crawl into a book, ideally The Ravages, and pull the cover closed behind her. However, if she was facing prosecution at Priority, she really needed Suze’s expertise a.s.a.p., not to mention a shoulder to cry on. With a small sigh, Dulcie hit ‘delete’, erasing the message from Luke, and dialed Suze.

  ‘So you really think I might be able to sue them for illegal dismissal?’ Forty minutes later, Dulcie’s mood had done a neat 180, thanks to Suze’s aggressive and affronted reaction to Priority. ‘And I might have a civil liberties case, too?’

  ‘Well, they kept you imprisoned, didn’t they? That’s kidnapping.’

  ‘I’m not actually sure they had locked the door.’ This was the best: righteous indignation, with the possibility of money at the other end. But it was probably too good to be true. Suze had jumped right in with a counter-offensive that had lifted Dulcie’s mood out of the cellar Bruce and Luisa had dug. But, truth be told, she was willing to let bygones be bygones, especially if she could get her stupid job – or any job – back. Dulcie was too tired to fight; she’d taken too many blows today. And besides, Suze had become tantalizingly evasive when Dulcie had asked where she’d disappeared to for the past forty-eight hours.

  ‘Never mind my dull old routine,’ she’d said, before giving Dulcie a vague reply; something about research and a colleague from Duke. ‘We’ve got to figure out your life first.’

  Dulcie knew Suze would spill eventually, if there was anything to spill. So she let herself be comforted, moving on to the spotlight that Priority had focused on her. ‘I mean, they told me to sit there. And like a fool, I just sat.’

  ‘Doesn’t matter.’ Suze tended to clip her sentences when she was angry. As a lawyer who would one day charge by the quarter hour, this habit would save her clients plenty. ‘The point is – countersue. We’re fighting back. If they pursue, it will cost them.’

  Dulcie’s mood dropped a notch. ‘If they pursue it? But I thought you said their case was groundless.’

  ‘Probably is. But they can argue circumstantial. You were on the server without permission.’

  Another notch.

  ‘They don’t have much, but they might pursue it to warn people off, convince their insurance carrier that they’re doing something.’

  Two notches.

  ‘But I’ve been keen for you to talk to a lawyer, anyway, due to the whole – ah – Tim thing.’

  Three notches, at least. ‘Suze, I’m broke.’ Dulcie was whispering, her voice gone with her spirit.

  ‘Legal aid, Dulce, legal aid.’ Suze must have heard something, because her voice warmed up as her sentences expanded. ‘The clinic is open to everybody, free of charge, Dulce. I’ve been going through my files, trying to figure out who’s working there this summer – and who is any good.’

  Dulcie whimpered.

  ‘Dulcie, you’ve got to. Even if you do end up spending a couple of thousand.’ She must have heard Dulcie swallow. ‘You know I’ll lend it to you, but you’ve got to do this. I mean, being in debt is better than being in jail, isn’t it?’

  ‘At this point, Suze, I’m not sure.’

  It wasn’t Suze’s fault. She was only trying to help. Still, Dulcie never expected to be able to get to sleep after that final crushing blow to her sense of self, security, and general all-round worth. She hadn’t even had a chance to tell her old friend about Bruce or the mystery of the mascara. But the endless Monday must have simply worn her out. She fell asleep dreaming of a warm, purring animal beside her. In her dreams, Mr Grey appeared on her computer screen again. Only this time, he was able to talk to her, and he was saying something about magic: Spells most potent for their proximity. There was more, she remembered watching his whiskers move, the way his tufted ears flicked back and forth for emphasis. But the rest of the dream was confused, computer viruses were created by evil spells and the third-floor bedroom looked out on to a wintry, windswept peak.

  The dream had been so compelling that when Dulcie awoke she was surprised to see sunshine, rather than snow, through her open window. A gentle breeze promised a pleasant day. Birds chirped and chattered, and Dulcie snuggled into her pillow, forgetting for a moment that she had moved to the city. Was that a cardinal she heard? From her bed, she could see one fluffy cloud, like a child’s drawing, floating across the sky. She yawned and stretched and turned toward her clock.

  ‘Oh, hell, it’s eight thirty!’ Dulcie jumped out of bed and was halfway into yesterday’s skirt before the realization hit her: she had no job anymore; there was nowhere she had to be. Only two months before, on such a beautiful morning as this, that would have been a wonderful realization, money be damned. But today . . . she sank back down on to the bed. All it meant was that she’d have more time alone with her worries. Outside her window, that one puffy cloud must have moved. The bright sun was replaced by shadow.

  ‘Great.’ She’d become so used to talking to Mr Grey that speaking her thoughts out loud had become second nature. But as she heard her own voice, she felt again the one-two punch. Mr Grey was gone. And Tim, who used to tease her, had been stabbed to death in her own living room. For a brief moment, she contemplated crawling back under the covers. Maybe she could sleep until the cops came for her or everybody just went away.

  Dulcie . . . Talking to yourself and your deceased cat was one thing; hearing your cat respond was too much. Dulcie sat back up. She’d been letting herself drift into some fantasy-fueled dreamland for too long. No wonder the police had doubted her sanity. No wonder no man was interested in her. If she wasn’t careful, she could end up just like Lucy.

  Dulcie shuddered. That thought got her out of bed. If she was losing it, slipping into some kind of heat- or grief-induced dementia, she could at least fight it; assert some kind of control, make some kind of discipline for herself, to slow the inevitable decline. A shower and a proper breakfast would be a start. And then she would go right down to the law school’s legal aid office and begin dealing with her problems. That’s rational, Dulcie told herself, that’s behaving in a reasonable, adult manner. Still, as she lathered up her thick brown curls, Dulcie couldn’t fight the feeling that, sitting right outside the shower, in his usual post on the top of the toilet seat, a large grey cat was watching her, purring, his tail coiled neatly around his front paws.

  A bagel with low-fat veggie cream cheese and two large iced lattes later, Dulcie had must
ered the courage to proceed with her plan. Taking the T into Harvard Square, she made her stride brisk and purposeful as she marched the remaining four blocks to the legal aid office. Suze had warned her the night before that the office where thirty-odd students and a handful of actual lawyers worked would be easy to miss. But although the small white house blended in nicely with its surrounding neighbors, Dulcie liked the look of it. The neat little colonial was set back from the street behind a small lawn, but its tall, open windows and dark-green shutters looked inviting; less threatening, less corporate than a cool glass-and-steel office.

  And far less organized. Although Dulcie had let the brass fox-head door knocker fall on the wooden front door before letting herself in, she was almost run over by a set of boxes with legs. ‘Sorry! Sorry!’ The front entrance way, built for colonial-era occupants, wasn’t made for them both, and Dulcie found herself pressed against a wall of wooden cubbyholes, from which envelopes and flyers poked. As the boxes squeezed past her, a male voice emerged from beneath them. ‘Sorry! ’Scuse me.’ The boxes were marked with sections of the alphabet: A–F, G–P, T–Z.

  ‘Did you lose a box?’ Dulcie couldn’t imagine carrying a higher stack, especially if the boxes were even halfway full, but she couldn’t help calling after the retreating form.

  ‘Sorry? Oh, no. We don’t need those today.’ A round face emerged as the boxes leaned briefly against a fax/copier. ‘Are you one of the new interns?’

  ‘I’m a supplicant,’ she replied. Then, catching the confused look, ‘I mean, I need help.’