Into the Grey

by Clea Simon

  ‘Didn’t you hear?’ Ruby and the clerk exchanged glances. ‘We’ve been told to look for a large, hardbound volume of at least five hundred pages – ten pounds, that would be. They might think we’re cloistered here, but it doesn’t take a forensics expert to figure it out. They’re still looking for the murder weapon.’

  TEN

  ‘Killed by a book.’ Dulcie was talking to the cat, but she might as well have been addressing herself. She’d gone home after retrieving her bag. Somehow the idea of working at her carrel, down in the depths of the library, had lost its appeal. Even though she would be on a different floor – Level Two was off limits while the police conducted their investigation – her accustomed study area just seemed too, well, grim today. Besides, she reasoned, she and Chris had a perfectly lovely apartment.

  ‘I wonder which title?’ The problem wasn’t the apartment. Dulcie had set up her laptop on the kitchen table. The window before her let in the bright April sun, and the straight-backed chair wasn’t as conducive to napping as their old sofa. Still, she was having trouble concentrating. And when Esmé jumped to the tabletop, Dulcie gave in to her curiosity.

  ‘And could the harassment complaint have been behind it?’ An image of Roland Fenderby, not as she’d last seen him but as he had been in life – sweaty and pale – made her shudder. In response, she reached for the little cat, pulling her on to her lap. ‘That would be horrible,’ she said, rubbing the furry white belly. ‘But would it drive someone to kill?’

  ‘Depends.’ With a flick of her tail and a soft mew, Esmé answered – and then grabbed Dulcie’s hand. ‘I’d get all bitey.’

  Dulcie carefully removed her hand before the overstimulated feline began to act on her thoughts. Once she’d accepted that she heard Mr Grey’s voice, it hadn’t surprised her much when Esmé started talking too. At times, she still wondered if she really heard her cat’s voice, or if she was simply projecting or, perhaps, mad. The voice fit Dulcie’s impression of the little tuxedo so perfectly. Impertinent and feminine, with a bit of the edge that Dulcie understood. For most of her life, she’d been the smallest one in any gathering, too.

  ‘I don’t think anyone would dare touch you in a way that was unwelcome. I’m talking about some poor human student.’ Dulcie wasn’t sure why she was arguing with the cat, however civilly. It was a fight she was unlikely to win.

  ‘Just saying …’ Esmé clambered back onto the table, from where she gauged the distance to the floor. ‘We are who we are.’

  The cat landed with a thump, leaving Dulcie to consider. In some ways, what Esmé had said backed up Ruby’s comments. If Fenderby had acted improperly once, he probably had done so at other times – and maybe he’d finally tried his tricks on the wrong person. Or, Dulcie mused, watching her cat strut out of the room, proud tail high, someone hadn’t been content with filing a complaint. The confidentiality agreement had been put in place to protect the accused. The police were probably talking to the young woman who had filed the complaint now.

  ‘Poor girl.’ With a shudder, Dulcie turned back to her keyboard. She’d had enough experience of Fenderby so that her sympathy was automatically with that nameless young woman. But the police were on the case. She had her own work to do, and for better or worse, one of her biggest obstacles had been removed. If only she knew for sure that her name had been taken off the list of suspects.

  Shaking off the feeling that she was shadowed by a less friendly specter, Dulcie opened the file that contained her most recent chapter. Before Fenderby’s critique, she had thought it ready to go. Now, well, she might as well give it another read. What had Tom said? To ‘bullet-proof’ it?

  Disgusting phrase. Only a man … no, that was beneath her. Besides, Tom was the nicest sort of man. His admiration for her had been apparent, when he’d taken her seminar last semester. Despite his obvious shyness, he’d sat up front, his concentration total. He’d made a similar effort in the small group discussions on characterization and allegory and always focused so carefully on his classmates when they spoke. It was true, he never lost his stammer or the hot flush that would color his cheeks when he struggled with a word. But his valor in the face of such an impediment only made Dulcie like him more. He and Alyson had been the stars of that small group, the pretty blonde engaged in a way that now, only six months later, Dulcie found hard to remember.

  ‘If we take into consideration the assumed gender of the author …’

  Dulcie’s own writing stopped her. It was true that nobody knew whether the author of The Ravages of Umbria was male or female. She had come close to uncovering the author’s identity, but at this point in her thesis she had just about given up on finding anything definitive. However, she had found so many clues to the author’s gender that she ought to make this sentence stronger.

  ‘Taking into consideration the likely gender of the author …’

  There, that was better. After all, it wasn’t simply The Ravages. In the course of her research, Dulcie had linked the unnamed author to several political tracts – all of which lamented the laws that bound women to their families, particularly to unhappy marriages. And her major discovery, apparently fragments of a later novel, clearly dealt with this theme, with a heroine who flees an abusive man, seeking only to establish her independence.

  ‘… one sees the unconscious effect of bias, like a dark moon whose gravity distorts the orbit of a planet.’

  Dulcie sighed, discouraged. Maybe that was a bit much. Where had she gotten that anyway? As the screen went dark again, she remembered. It had been in one of her student conferences. She’d been trying to explain how, even without knowing much about the author, the reader could infer a lot.

  ‘That’s how astrophysicists know to look for a black hole,’ her student had said.

  Alyson. Of course. Dulcie remembered now. It had been just after spring break, the season still more a wish than a reality, and they’d been meeting in her office. Unlike senior faculty, Dulcie had to share her office. Usually she didn’t mind. She and Lloyd not only got on well, they shared a certain dogged temperament. They were also pretty good about staying out of each other’s way, the overstuffed basement room not really being conducive to study when one or the other was having meetings.

  Only on this occasion, Lloyd had been present. Mid-terms had descended like a late blizzard, and between panicked students and last-minute papers, both of them were working all out. Which would have been fine, except that when Alyson had said that about astrophysicists, Lloyd had snorted. Quite audibly.

  ‘Really?’ Dulcie had tried to cover, and distract her student. ‘Black holes?’

  ‘Yes, it’s also how they’re looking for dark matter.’

  Another snort. Dulcie winced. Alyson was more direct.

  ‘Excuse me?’ She had turned to Dulcie’s office mate. ‘Do you have a problem?’

  ‘Me? No.’ Lloyd wasn’t the confrontational type. He couldn’t hide the grin on his face, though.

  ‘I used to date a professor of astrophysics, you know.’ She turned back to Dulcie. ‘I do know what I’m talking about.’

  ‘I believe you,’ said Dulcie. Whether or not the science was true, she’d been taken by the imagery. ‘And I like the idea of proving the existence of something by its effect on others.’

  Lloyd had excused himself soon after. To his credit, when he’d returned, he’d brought donuts, and the incident was soon forgotten. But Dulcie thought of it now – not in terms of her office mate’s rudeness: they’d both been under pressure and she’d long ago forgiven that. But in terms of her student. Alyson had expressed interest in the topic. More interest than in anything else, recently. In January she had even indicated that she might want to do her thesis on something related to bias – in her own way, following Dulcie’s lead. And for that reason, not because the undergrad had seemed to have insight into the late Professor Fenderby, Dulcie thought maybe it was time they have a chat.

  She could hear Esmé charging around the
apartment as she went in search of her phone. For a small creature, Esmé made an amazing amount of noise. Then again, Dulcie reminded herself, females have been taught to be silent for too long.

  ‘Alyson?’ The little device had begun to vibrate as she picked it up, and if her student had a simultaneous urge to speak to her, Dulcie was too well versed in seeming accidents to downplay this.

  ‘That’s the name!’ Or not. Dulcie recognized the voice of her mother, as well as her usual habit of starting a conversation in the middle.

  ‘Hi, Lucy.’ Dulcie took the phone over to the sofa, determined not to mention her recent thoughts about her mother’s Wiccan beliefs. Lucy would see more there than the obvious – that Lucy was undoubtedly missing her only child. ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Alyson,’ her mother said. ‘Who is she?’

  Dulcie took a deep breath. Sometimes she worried that her mother was getting flakier with age. Then she’d remind herself that Lucy had been like this for as long as she could remember. ‘She’s one of my students, Lucy. I was reading something and thinking that I should call her. She …’ There was too much to explain. ‘She might have some insight into something I’m researching.’

  ‘She might.’ Her mother sounded doubtful. Lucy tended to see magic in what Dulcie would call coincidence. Magic that Dulcie didn’t put too much credence in. ‘But you should be careful, Dulcie, about trusting these hunches of yours.’

  Dulcie bit back her response. It was coincidence, nothing more.

  ‘In fact,’ Lucy continued, ‘the name Alyson comes from the aristocracy. Very patriarchal. I knew an Alyson once who—’ Her mother broke off. If it were anyone else on the line, Dulcie would think she had thought better of what she’d been about to say. With Lucy, however, Dulcie assumed a distraction. Her mother had the concentration of, well, Esmé. Sure enough, although Lucy had apparently put her hand over the receiver, Dulcie could hear someone calling.

  ‘Never mind,’ her mother said a moment later. ‘Anyway, dear, I wanted to talk to you because your chi needs strengthening. I had a dream about it, and it was all very clear. Something about too much time around books.’

  Dulcie’s complaint was interrupted before she could enunciate a complete word.

  ‘Please,’ her mother cut her off. ‘Don’t thank me yet. I’ll do what I can at our next circle. But, Dulcie, you need to be among people, too, you know. Real, live people, with good energy.’

  ‘Thanks, Lucy.’ Dulcie suppressed a shiver. There was no way her mother could know what was going on. That her words had brought up what Trista had uncovered. How exactly had Trista gotten that information, anyway? Her multiply pierced friend had always been a flirt, but she’d become more frantic in recent months. Not what Lucy would call ‘good energy’, Dulcie was pretty sure.

  ‘And that Alyson?’ Lucy had continued to talk. ‘You should tell her to be careful, too. The patriarchy has a way of eating its own.’

  ‘I’ll tell her,’ promised Dulcie. ‘In fact, I’ll call her as soon as we get off the phone.’

  ‘Don’t put it off too long.’ Her mother had adopted her stern voice. ‘There’s so much blocked energy around you, clogging your aura. I mean, what with that horrible murder and all.’

  ‘Murder?’ Dulcie sat up. Lucy’s visions tended to be much more vague and usually incorrect. ‘You “saw” about the murder?’

  ‘Of course I did,’ her mother snapped back. ‘It’s all over the news. “Professor Bludgeoned in Campus Library.” And now I’ve got to run, darling!’ In the distance, Dulcie could hear voices calling her mother’s name. ‘Toodle-oo!’

  ‘Toodle-oo?’ Dulcie turned to find Esmé staring up at her. For once the little cat had nothing to say.

  Shaking her head as if to clear it of the cobwebs, Dulcie took the phone back to the kitchen to call her student.

  ‘Alyson?’ The undergrad picked up on the first ring. ‘It’s Dulcie, Dulcie Schwartz. I was wondering if you had a moment.’

  Dulcie had her screen open in front of her, but even as she scrolled back down to that one line, she felt a flash of regret. Calling a student for help with her own work might be selfish. Might even, it occurred to her, be inappropriate.

  ‘Oh, hi.’ The delay said it all. Alyson might have picked up right away, but she wasn’t thrilled about talking to her tutor. ‘Can you tell me what this is about?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie could have kicked herself. ‘I shouldn’t have called.’

  The silence only confirmed her suspicion.

  ‘Please, just tell me if I’m out of line.’ There was nothing to do now, Dulcie thought, but to carry on. She’d reached that bit of text and so, with a deep breath, she continued. ‘Only, do you remember when we were talking about gender roles a few weeks ago? About, well, the effects of sexism?’

  ‘Yes.’ Alyson drew out the word. ‘I think so.’

  She didn’t. Dulcie could hear it in her voice. Why else would she sound so tentative? It hadn’t been that important a conversation, except for the ideas it had sparked in Dulcie’s mind. Still, maybe she could refresh the undergrad’s memory. She’d already interrupted her day.

  ‘I’m going over some of my own work and something has come up with those pages we were discussing. I probably shouldn’t even be asking you about this, but I’ve been hoping to submit this chapter and, well, you seemed to have such a fresh take on the work.’

  ‘No, no, it’s fine,’ Alyson answered, her voice sounding normal again. ‘In fact, I’d enjoy talking about work. Things have been so weird, you know?’

  ‘Tell me about it.’ Dulcie felt a surge of sisterly warmth. ‘Hey, have you had lunch yet? Maybe we could meet at Lala’s and go over my notes.’

  ‘That would be wonderful.’ Yes, whatever bother she had caused her student was forgotten. ‘I really could use the distraction.’

  Dulcie was about to respond – she wouldn’t have called a meeting with any of her tutors a distraction – but then she remembered what Lucy had said. Maybe it was simply time for both of them to step away from their studies and to socialize, like normal people do.

  ELEVEN

  ‘Now?’ Esmé’s mew, half question, half complaint, made Dulcie pause. Yes, she had intended to work in the apartment.

  ‘Lunch with Alyson will jump-start my thinking,’ Dulcie explained, as she packed her bag. ‘Besides, I’ll be helping her with her work too.’

  The little cat stared at her person, ears out flat making her look like a disgruntled owl.

  ‘It’s only lunch, Esmé.’ Dulcie felt the weight of that cool green glare. ‘A girl’s got to eat.’

  ‘Huh.’ Turning her black back on Dulcie, Esmé walked off in a huff, tail held high.

  Silently promising to spend more quality time with her pet, Dulcie slipped out of the apartment. Being able to understand her cat’s thoughts had its definite advantages, but the downside was that it was very hard to live up to feline expectations.

  ‘You don’t blame me for going out. Do you?’ Dulcie addressed the budding branches that waved over her as she walked. The breeze was picking up, but Dulcie liked to think there was something friendly in the gesture. A benediction, or maybe a celestial stroking of her metaphorically ruffled fur. ‘I mean, it’s not like I’m consorting with the enemy or something.’

  The day had grown warm enough that the breeze was welcome, but Dulcie felt a chill as she walked. Why had she said that, about an enemy? Surely, whatever had happened to Roland Fenderby had nothing to do with her. The horrible discovery had been bad timing, she was certain. In fact, the whole thing would probably prove to be an awful accident. Tragic, certainly. But not malicious. Who would want—?

  Dulcie stopped in her tracks, heedless of the pedestrian traffic. ‘Watch it, lady!’ a large man in a dark suit grumbled as he ducked around her, bringing her back to the present. To what Trista had told her, and Ruby too. Yes, there was someone who might want Fenderby dead. Someone whom the regular channels of justice had d
isappointed.

  It didn’t matter. Dulcie continued walking. This was not her concern. Simply because she had had the unfortunate timing to discover … to discover what had happened, she told herself, dismissing from her thoughts the memory that threatened to overwhelm her. Simply because she, too, was a young woman. One whose voice, too often, was not heard – or adequately respected – on campus. A scholar studying an author who also wrote of harassment and abuse, and whose work hinted at a flight from her homeland, simply to escape a man.

  Like Fenderby?

  ‘I said, watch it!’ This time it had been the man in the suit who had stopped short. Or stopped, at any rate, while Dulcie, preoccupied, had walked into him. He was standing on the corner but turned to glare at her. His tie looked uncomfortable in this weather. Too tight, which had to explain the red flush climbing his neck to his face.

  ‘It says “walk”.’ Dulcie pointed to the signal. The flush climbed higher as he glared. ‘Excuse me.’ Dulcie veered to the right to pass and tried to ignore his muttered imprecations. Women had to put up with so much in the city. It did not necessarily make one into a murderer.

  ‘Alyson!’ Her student had made it to Lala’s before her, and stood outside, leaning against the glass front, pretty face turned up toward the sun. ‘I hope you haven’t been waiting long.’

  ‘Just got here,’ the younger woman said, stepping forward from the wall. ‘It was kind of nice to have a moment to myself.’

  ‘Oh.’ A wave of unease swept over Dulcie. She shouldn’t be bothering her students. Not for her own selfish reasons. ‘If you’re busy, maybe we shouldn’t …’ She left the sentence unfinished.

  ‘Nonsense.’ The undergrad waved her off. ‘It’s just what with everything going on.’ She shook her head as the lunchtime crowd surged around them.

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Dulcie didn’t ask for any further explanation, especially not out here on the busy sidewalk. Not when her favorite restaurant beckoned. As if on cue, the door swung open, releasing the scent of coriander and onion. Maybe Lucy was right, Dulcie thought, and she did need more company. At least, both she and her student needed sustenance. ‘Shall we?’