Shades of Grey

by Clea Simon

  ‘They found my laptop!’ She bounced off her seat. ‘I’m off to get it now! And I’ve got to call Suze.’

  ‘That’s great, I guess.’ Stacia looked happy for her, if confused, and Dulcie realized she hadn’t told her what had happened. ‘Who’s Sooz?’

  ‘My old room-mate; I sent her everything as backup just last week, thank God! So I’ve got to call her and get her to send it all back right away.’ Her earlier enthusiasm welled back up. ‘You wouldn’t believe what I’m on to!’

  ‘Oh?’ Stacia took another bite, waiting. But it was such a long story.

  ‘I can explain it some other time. Anyway, I’ve got to run.’ Dulcie flung her bag over her shoulder. ‘See you around!’

  Stacia raised her hand in a half wave. She still looked confused, though it could have been the hot sauce. It did tend to build up. Or maybe, thought Dulcie, the pretty brunette just wasn’t that sharp after all.

  Fifteen minutes later, Dulcie was bounding up the stairs of police headquarters. The mix of inspiration, good food, and an insight into the vulnerability of a rival had combined to lift her mood still further. ‘Sure, she’s pretty. But she’s human. And Luke’s a thinker . . . Oh, excuse me! I’m looking for Officer Pipkin?’

  The woman at the desk just nodded and pointed off to the right.

  ‘Hi! I’m Dulcie Schwartz!’ Dulcie swung the Property door open in a grand entrance. The three men who looked up didn’t seem impressed. But one, who had been standing by a file cabinet, motioned for her to approach.

  ‘Ms Schwartz. I’m Officer Pipkin. Would you have a seat?’

  Probably forms to fill out, Dulcie thought, sliding into an empty plastic chair.

  ‘You called the police yesterday evening? To report a break-in?’

  ‘Yes, yes, I did.’ He sat down at his desk, the deep grooves around his mouth weighing down his drooping lips.

  He probably looks like a hound no matter what his mood, Dulcie thought. ‘Did you catch someone? Is that how you got my laptop back?’

  He leaned back. ‘Ms Schwartz, you’ve been under a lot of stress lately. I’m aware of the murder of your room-mate, and the circumstances surrounding that investigation.’

  ‘Circumstances? If you mean finding Tim, well, yes, that was pretty awful.’ They couldn’t still consider her a suspect for Tim’s murder, could they? She’d never been called back in. ‘In fact, my neighbor and I were wondering if the break-in was connected. Like, the murderers had come back for something—’

  ‘Ms Schwartz.’ Hangdog or not, Pipkin’s voice had a certain authority, particularly when he was interrupting her. ‘We’re prepared to be lenient here. We’re not entirely without human feelings, you know. I myself have a daughter of approximately your age.’

  ‘Yes?’ This seemed to be leading somewhere.

  ‘But if you persist in your story, there will be consequences. We are not prepared to take false reports lightly. The waste of resources, of manpower, of a major metropolitan police squad—’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ It was Dulcie’s turn to interrupt. This dog-faced fellow was accusing her of . . . what? ‘Do you think I faked the robbery? Stole my own laptop?’

  ‘The door hadn’t been forced, and the one so-called missing item, your laptop, was found during a follow-up visit, right behind your building.’ Pipkin reached back for a clipboard. ‘Yes, under your own window, behind some foundation planting. In a black plastic bag much like the ones you have in your own kitchen cabinet.’ He checked the board again. ‘In the bottom drawer, next to the refrigerator.’

  ‘This is ridiculous!’ Dulcie stood up. ‘This is crazy! Next, you’ll be saying I stabbed Tim.’

  Dogface raised his heavy eyebrows. The rest of his face remained unmoved. ‘Do you have something you want to tell us, Ms Schwartz?’

  ‘No. Not what you’re asking, anyway. I didn’t kill my room-mate. I didn’t like him, but I’m not a murderer.’ Why was she explaining herself? Perhaps there was something about that sad, long face. ‘And I didn’t fake that break-in. Why would I do that? Smash my own window? No, never mind.’ He’d looked like he was about to speak. ‘Can I just get my laptop back?’

  ‘Well, there’s a complication.’ Pipkin picked through some other papers. ‘You see, if you persist in your claim, then we’ll have to hang on to it for a while longer. Check it for evidence, and all that.’

  ‘Fine!’ Dulcie had grabbed her bag. She was ready to put all this craziness behind her.

  ‘We’re going to have to let the forensic techs go over it as well. It looks like someone tried to wipe it clean, but that won’t bother our guys.’ Pipkin kept his eyes on his papers, but Dulcie felt sure he wanted her to listen. ‘After all, we are coordinating with the university. They’re very interested in any suspicious computers.’

  ‘Suspicious? It’s my computer! It’s got all my work on it. Personal stuff and photos, too.’ Dulcie knew she was shouting; she couldn’t help it.

  ‘Well, then, maybe it’s just as well that we’re going to have it for a while.’ Pipkin looked up at her, his large brown eyes staring into her own. ‘If it’s here, then you know it will be safe.’

  Twenty-Seven

  When her cell rang again, Dulcie was tempted to throw it at a tree. She’d stormed out of the brick building, infuriated. How could they? The entire interview – all twenty minutes of it – had been strangely humiliating. It wasn’t just that they wouldn’t give Dulcie her own computer back. It was that sad sack’s attitude: he was acting like she was a child. Deranged. Like she was a hysterical female! God, two hundred plus years, and nothing had changed.

  Still, the number was vaguely familiar and when she answered, she was relieved to hear a friendly voice.

  ‘Hey, Dulcie, what’s up?’

  Luke appreciated some smarts in a woman, right? ‘Hi, Luke. I’ve just had an . . . odd experience.’ Standing in the sunlight, it all seemed too crazy to explain.

  ‘You don’t lead a settled life, do you?’ Before she could protest, he continued. ‘But would you want to tell me about it over dinner? I owe you one.’

  Before she really knew what she was doing, Dulcie found herself agreeing to be picked up at eight. If she could shake off the encounter with Cambridge’s finest, she thought, she might enjoy herself. And if she could reach Suze before then, she could tell her about the germ of a thesis idea – and also get some feedback on what she should wear.

  ‘Suze? Bother. Well, life continues to be interesting.’ Back in her own apartment, Dulcie found herself facing the boarded window and fuming. How dare the cops think she had done that to her own place? How dare they accuse her of faking it? ‘Call me.’ Suze’s voicemail wasn’t satisfying and Dulcie’s immediate urge – to give more detail in an email – was stymied by the realization, once again, that her trusty laptop was gone.

  ‘At least, it’s not gone gone.’ Dulcie heard her own command of the language disappearing. ‘I mean, I’ll get it back at some point.’

  With several hours to kill, she could be reading. But she needed to vent. It was her computer! Didn’t they get that?

  ‘Hey, Chris.’ He’d cared enough to help out, hadn’t he? And she ought to update him, anyway. ‘I don’t know if I’m going to need that loaner.’ Wasn’t anyone at home? ‘The cops found my laptop. They’re holding it – long story – but I think I’ll get it back soon. Anyway, uh, thanks for being there.’

  She was about to hang up when she heard someone pick up. ‘Dulcie?’ So he was home after all. ‘I just got in. So you’ve got your laptop back?’

  Dulcie sighed. She’d said it all in the message. But he’d been so generous. ‘Well, I’m going to.’ She settled back on to the sofa. ‘And maybe soon I’ll actually need it again.’ She just couldn’t resist. ‘I think I finally have my thesis topic.’

  ‘Oh?’ His voice rose in a question. ‘I thought Trista said you’d taken your comprehensives together. Isn’t she already into hers?’

  ‘She’
s ahead of me – in every sense.’ For once, Dulcie could say that and not feel the grip of fear. ‘My concentration is about a century before hers, and until today I wasn’t sure what to write about. But I think I’m going to be focusing on this one book – well, part of a book – from the late 1700s, The Ravages of Umbria.’

  Chris made an interested noise, and Dulcie warmed to her topic. ‘Novel serialization began pretty early in the eighteenth century,’ she began. ‘Newspapers carried them, and printers made cheap copies, printing out a bunch of pages at a time as little chapbooks. It made books affordable and really popular – but not very durable. So we don’t know if most of The Ravages is lost, or just never got written. But I think I found something today.’ She quickly related the plot – what there was of it – and her theory. ‘You could say, these books were more or less about the readers, about seemingly ordinary women who go through amazing trials of their personal character and convictions. So making jealousy a motive might not be too far-fetched.’

  ‘Fascinating.’ He seemed to mull over what she’d said, and when he responded it wasn’t what she expected. ‘It must be difficult,’ his voice sounded thoughtful, ‘to be championing something based on emotions in our era of logic.’

  ‘Spoken like a computer sciences guy!’ He meant well, she knew it. But she couldn’t resist the tease.

  ‘No, really.’ He pushed on. ‘I mean, Harvard is all about logic, about proof. This place can make it very hard to trust your instincts, to trust yourself.’

  ‘Well . . .’ she began, pausing to think about it. Was this era any different than two hundred-odd years ago, when the books were written? ‘Things haven’t changed that much. Even back in the 1780s, some of the authors tried to pass their novels off as real. They were always framed as “true” stories. Some of the authors even made up elaborate fake documents to back them up.’

  ‘No wonder the critics hated them.’ Chris was chuckling now. ‘And no wonder you stick up for them.’

  That caught her attention. ‘What?’

  ‘Well, it sounds like being a grad student. I mean, we’re involved in uncovering truth. And we spend half our lives checking documentation. But, really, isn’t being a grad student kind of romantic – pursuing knowledge for its own sake? Isn’t that the ultimate expression of humanity? Dreaming the impossible dream, and all that?’

  ‘That’s Cervantes. He was Spanish. But some do say that Don Quixote was the first novel—’

  ‘OK, OK!’ He was laughing outright. ‘Excuse a computer nerd’s ignorance. But go on – if you have a theory you must have an idea about the ending, right?’

  ‘These books always turn out the same way.’ She sighed; it was all so predictable. ‘The villain is uncovered and punished, the heroine triumphs and finds true love. Pretty conventional, really.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem?’

  Did Chris actually care? In a way, it didn’t matter. Dulcie knew she had to talk this out. ‘Well, if my theory holds, I know who the villain is.’ That part still sounded good to her. ‘But, I don’t know why really.’ There; she’d hit the crux of it. ‘I love the whole idea that the author hid Demetria’s villainy in a stereotype, sort of like linguistic camouflage. In so many ways it makes sense with the text. But then it just starts to fall apart. If Demetria is the villain, why isn’t she wealthy? Why is she still hanging around her victim? She doesn’t seem to profit from her evil deeds.’

  ‘Would she have to?’

  ‘Yeah, I think so. These books were a reaction against the so-called Age of Reason. They were a celebration of emotion, of the heart, of human nature. In some ways, the beginning of Romanticism, maybe even of feminism! So her crime is valuing something over loyalty and friendship. But what?’

  ‘Everybody has secrets, Dulcie.’ He paused and she remembered him coming out of the health services. ‘Everybody – and didn’t you say these books celebrate human nature? Maybe there was a guy they fought over in that missing part. Maybe she was driven by love?’

  ‘Who knows?’ It was no good. Even though Dulcie herself had wondered about Demetria’s suitors, the dearth of evidence was getting to her. Plus, she was beginning to get the nagging feeling that Chris – Suze’s intended – was flirting with her. ‘I’m just hoping I can make my case about the author’s use of characterization.’ What had seemed like a slam dunk only a few hours before was slipping out of reach.

  ‘You should trust yourself, Dulcie,’ Chris said, sounding surprisingly like Mr Grey. ‘Trust what you’ve found. Faint heart never fair thesis won, and all that. Or is Gilbert and Sullivan too modern for you?’

  They both laughed, and Dulcie felt herself cheered. ‘Maybe that’ll make its way into my thesis.’

  ‘Glad to be of help, milady.’

  After they hung up, Dulcie walked into the kitchen. The boarded-up window had been preying on her nerves, and at least from the kitchen she could look out at the street. Late summer, and the afternoon sun was just beginning to fade. Shadows stretched from the trees and street lights, and Dulcie stood there long enough to feel them approaching. She knew she could go for a walk, even see what was up with Helene and the kittens. But everything seemed like too much work. Times like this were when you needed a room-mate, someone to just sit with you when you needed company. Someone you could talk with, who would understand what made you tick.

  Sort of like Chris did? The thought broke into her consciousness so unexpectedly that she turned around, looking for Mr Grey. But no, this one came from her own mind. Chris really had been there for her yesterday, too, first offering to help with her computer, then accompanying her home when she needed an escort. She shook her head. Two hours till Luke would pick her up for a real date. A Saturday night dinner. And here she was, thinking of – Chris?

  And why not? Her own thoughts had begun to take on a Mr Grey-like opposition; phantom pet as devil’s advocate. Just because he’s not involved with someone else? ‘But I didn’t know Bruce was seeing Luisa.’ She spoke aloud. Or interested in anyone else? ‘I don’t know for sure if Luke likes Stacia.’ The voice ignored her. He’s tall. He’s smart. He’s not bad looking. ‘But he’s Suze’s. And I don’t want to be the Demetria in this drama.’ Saying it out loud didn’t help. She knew the truth: Suze didn’t want him.

  So, does that decrease his value? God, she was back to that again. She was ‘just a girl, a grad student, and ABD’. And Chris was just a . . . what? ‘A really nice guy, who’s smart and kind’. She envisioned his broad mouth – the way it wrinkled back up to his eyes when he smiled – and his thick, dark hair, the bangs that always fell into his face. ‘And, yeah, he’s cute, too.’

  This time, she was sure she heard a purr.

  It was with great confusion, therefore, that she heard the doorbell two hours later. She’d settled, finally and with no help from Suze, on a sundress that showed off her shoulders, but was still undecided between a jacket or a more informal wrap – one of Lucy’s knit jobs – in case of heavy air-conditioning. The bell rang again, and Dulcie grabbed the wrap. It wasn’t one of Lucy’s best, she’d run out of the cream wool halfway through and switched to a dark purple. But Dulcie felt defiant. ‘Some men seem to like me just as I am!’ With one last tug at her curls, she descended to the front door to meet her date.

  An hour later, she was confused all over again, but not unhappy. Luke was, as he always had been, charming. He’d chosen the perfect spot: a Watertown bistro known for its good food and relaxed atmosphere, but not so expensive as to make Dulcie feel she was being bought.

  ‘So, what do you think of the wine?’ He’d poured the last of the rosé into her glass. ‘I’m game for another bottle. Or we can try something different.’

  Dulcie sipped the light, fruity wine and tried to look serious. ‘Summery. Fresh.’ She licked her lips. ‘I’m getting a sense of strawberries and—’ She broke out in a laugh. ‘I’m sorry, Luke. I think I’ve probably had enough.’

  ‘Me, too, I guess.’ He refill
ed her water glass. ‘But some dessert might help soak it up!’

  ‘Well . . .’ She hesitated. Stacia did not have a roll around her middle.

  ‘Split something?’ He smiled a wicked smile. ‘I’ll take the half with the calories.’

  ‘You’re on! But, would you excuse me?’ Face flushed from the wine, Dulcie needed the walk as much as the restroom. What was going on here? Was he being so friendly because he didn’t see her as a romantic option? That line about calories had a buddy-buddy feel to it. Or was he just so sure of her? A small spark of anger rose up. ‘If he thinks that I’m just a poor grad student . . .’

  The flush of a toilet broke into her thoughts and brought her back to earth. It was a date. He was being nice. She wasn’t even sure if she liked him, right?

  A minute later, looking at herself in the ladies’ room mirror, she couldn’t tell. At least her hair was behaving, responding to the humid night with curls rather than frizz. And those long hours indoors had kept the freckles in check. She smiled. Nothing between her teeth, so she let the smile broaden into a real grin as she walked back to the table. There she found Luke staring off into space.

  ‘Luke, is anything wrong?’

  ‘What? Oh, I’m sorry.’ He turned back toward her, his face sad. ‘I just saw one of Tim’s friends with a woman. His fiancé, I think. And it made me think of – well—’ He sighed.

  Dulcie reached out to take his hand. ‘I’m sorry. It must be so hard.’

  He tried to smile, and failed, but covered her hand with his own. ‘It’s just so odd. I mean, the timing. Maybe Tim would’ve been like that eventually. Settled down. Happy. Successful.’

  ‘Well, he was trying.’ She couldn’t see it, but to say so at this point would be unkind. ‘I mean, he was getting tutored and everything.’

  ‘Yeah, he really liked her, too; said she was smart.’ Plus, thought Dulcie, he was probably screwing her. That was often a bonus in a tutor. ‘You know, when I think of it, he might have turned out all right. As funny as it sounds, he did like smart women, you know.’