by Clea Simon
The two sat there for a moment, lost in thought, until finally the younger woman looked up.
‘What is it, Dulcie?’ she asked.
Now it was Dulcie’s turn to stare off into space, flooded with uncomfortable thoughts. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she said. ‘But I’m thinking that there’s another player involved in Roland Fenderby’s murder.’
TWENTY-FIVE
‘Chris, I think Fenderby’s widow knows more than she’s saying.’
Dulcie had called Chris as soon as her cousin had left, eager to confide in the one person she knew she could trust. The fact that she was talking to her boyfriend’s voicemail made it easier to relate what had happened. She trusted him. Loved him, too, but in person, he was prone to interrupting her with questions about her reasoning. ‘Mina had a really odd talk with her,’ she began. ‘Disturbing.’
What Dulcie didn’t tell her boyfriend were her own suspicions. Despite her best attempts to convince her cousin, knowing that she herself was pretty much barred from Rogovoy’s office, she had been unable to convince the younger woman to talk to the police once more. The younger woman had stood firm, citing her own conviction that Rogovoy and his colleagues – she referred to them as a task force – knew more than they were letting on. Dulcie wasn’t sure she agreed. Wasn’t sure, if she were being honest with herself, that she entirely trusted Mina’s motives. But she told herself that with everything that had gone down, she understood her cousin’s reaction. Mina had undoubtedly decided that the best course of action for her was to lay low and avoid further contact with the authorities. Still, she had to wonder, wasn’t it likely that the more the police knew, the sooner Mina – and Dulcie herself – would be cleared?
Chris’s voicemail was mum on the issue.
‘I can’t be certain,’ Dulcie concluded, after laying out her thoughts. ‘But I’m pretty sure the widow was aware of what Fenderby was up to, and that there’s somebody else involved.’
‘What was that about?’
Dulcie looked up to see Lloyd, his arms full of student papers.
‘Here, let me.’ Dulcie grabbed the door while her office-mate shuffled in.
‘Thanks,’ he released the flood of paper over his desk. ‘Was that your cousin?’
‘Yeah.’ Dulcie was reticent to say more. ‘Mid-terms?’
Lloyd nodded, bending to retrieve an exam book that had fallen to the floor. ‘Practise tests,’ he said. ‘I swear, the freshmen are getting more anxious every year. This was completely optional, and yet I’ve already had students who are asking if they can take it again.’
‘Why would you want to take an exam twice?’ Dulcie asked the bald spot on the top of Lloyd’s head.
‘Crazy, right?’ He rose and brushed himself off. ‘They all want an edge. I’ve told them they can learn as much from the mistakes on the practise test as from taking it again. I think they want to impress me.’
‘Well, that’s nice.’ Dulcie retreated to her own desk. ‘Isn’t it?’
‘It worries me.’ Lloyd began to neaten the pile. ‘I mean, what will they do if they don’t all get A-pluses?’ He picked up a red pencil and pulled one of the booklets over. ‘Sue me?’
‘What do you mean?’ An idea had begun to tickle through Dulcie’s mind.
‘Like, you know, claim that I had unfair grading practices.’ He licked the tip of the pencil and ran it along the page. ‘Or maybe just threaten me. I mean, that would do enough damage.’
‘Lloyd, you’re a genius!’ Dulcie jumped up. She’d shocked her office-mate into silence. ‘I bet that’s why – what happened.’
‘Excuse me?’ Lloyd looked down at the blue book as if it might cough up an explanation.
‘I think someone was blackmailing Fenderby – and that’s what got him killed!’
Lloyd didn’t act surprised, and so Dulcie elaborated. ‘I think someone at the university gave him an alibi about the sexual harassment suit, and then threatened to withdraw it. His wife said as much to Mina. And that’s still blackmail, right? Can you have negative blackmail?’
‘Dulcie.’ Lloyd’s voice was soft and low, even as he stood and walked slowly toward her. ‘Dulcie, please.’
‘They’ve been treating Polly Fenderby with kid gloves,’ Dulcie was warming to her subject. ‘I mean, she is the grieving widow and Griddlehaus must have told the cops that he saw her leaving her husband’s office. But she knows something, Lloyd. She might even know the identity of whoever gave her husband his alibi.’
‘Dulcie, listen.’ He stood in front of her and reached to take her hands in his. ‘You’ve had a shock. I know that you believe what you are saying, but, no, I don’t think we have to go to the police. I certainly don’t think you should talk to Fenderby’s widow. I think we have to mourn.’
‘To mourn? Fenderby?’ She heard it, then. The high pitch and volume of her own voice. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I was excited by the idea of solving this.’
‘I know you were.’ Lloyd was using his best teaching voice, the one she associated with panicked undergrads. ‘But I’m hoping you’ll have a seat and we can talk about this. And then, maybe, we can go to the meeting together.’
She shook her head, not understanding.
‘The departmental meeting,’ he repeated. The words made no more sense the second time. ‘Didn’t you get the message?’
‘No,’ she said, her voice falling to a soft hush. ‘I’m on probation.’
‘Ah.’ He nodded, as if that explained everything. ‘No wonder you’re upset. But I’m sure this was just an oversight. Or – have you checked your messages lately?’
‘Lloyd!’ This was getting to be too much, but when he looked at her, she shut up. ‘What’s the meeting?’ she asked instead.
‘About Fenderby, I assume.’ He leaned back on his desk. ‘Probably one of those things where they talk about distributing his responsibilities and offering grief counseling.’ He paused and fixed her with a solemn look. ‘Which might not be a bad idea for you, Dulcie.’
‘I am not mourning that man.’ The idea was preposterous.
‘No, but you did have a very rude shock. And then to find out that you were under suspicion …’
‘That’s just it!’ She was getting worked up again, but she caught herself. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Do you think I can still go to the meeting? Even though …’ She couldn’t even say it.
‘Of course,’ Lloyd sounded confident. ‘I was going to get a head start on the practise tests, but I think taking a walk will do us both good. Don’t you?’
By the time they got to the departmental headquarters, Dulcie felt like she’d had a workout. Lloyd had steered her down to the river and back again, striding at a clip that had Dulcie jogging to catch up. If she had been suffering from some kind of nervous overload, she figured, his cure would have been a good one. As it was, she found herself regretting the day’s missed meals. That half a cookie wasn’t doing much to sustain her.
‘Do you think they’ll have refreshments?’ A crowd was already gathering as they mounted the stairs.
‘Cold funeral meats?’ Lloyd at least was able to joke as they squeezed inside. ‘Or the equivalent, a cheese plate.’
Sure enough, through a cluster of bodies, Dulcie could see the requisite tray, pale cubes of white and yellow already sparse. If she didn’t hurry, the best she’d get would be the celery sticks.
‘Excuse me.’ She pushed her way through. Half of these people were undergrads, and her years of study had to count for something.
‘Dulcie!’ Trista greeted her from the other side of the tray. She’d managed to snag a plastic cup of what looked like flat cola. Passing it across the table, she called out. ‘Hang on. I’ll get another.’
‘Thanks.’ Dulcie sipped. Not cola: sherry, sweet and rather warm. With her other hand, she grabbed the last orange cube, and a few carrot sticks for good measure.
‘I wasn’t sure you’d be here.’ Trista had worked her way around, her own glas
s in hand. ‘What with the investigation and all.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Dulcie eyed the room. ‘Lloyd had to tell me. So, have you managed to talk to Tom?’
‘Not yet.’ Trista craned around, as if she would grab the undergrad here. ‘In fact, there’s another angle I want to follow up on. It could be big.’
‘Tris?’ Dulcie looked at her, debating whether to tell Trista what she’d overheard. Her friend was even more keyed up than usual. ‘I’m a little concerned …’
‘OK, everybody,’ Thorpe, standing on the stairs, called out. ‘If everyone can quiet down.’
The presence of the acting chair did little to quell the conversation.
‘He’s going to have to wait until the food runs out,’ said Trista, taking Dulcie’s arm.
‘People, please.’ Nancy had mounted the stair beside him. For her, the crowd quieted. ‘Mr Thorpe has some announcements.’
‘Thank you.’ He looked over at the secretary and cleared his throat. Dulcie couldn’t decide if he looked more pleased or embarrassed that it had taken his girlfriend to still the room. Neither could he, apparently, because it took a few more coughs before he began to speak.
‘I’m sure you’ve all heard the unfortunate news.’ Low murmurs greeted this. ‘The very unfortunate news that Professor Roland Fenderby has met with …’ More throat clearing. ‘We have lost a valuable member of the department. And I’m sure you are all concerned with what this means for the remainder of your school year.’
It wasn’t the best transition in the world, but it was to the point.
‘I would like to reassure you that the department will make all possible allowances for work that Professor Fenderby had assigned or would have been overseeing. Our own Nancy Pruitt is drawing up a roster of replacement tutors and graders, which we hope to post by tomorrow.
‘In the meantime, we understand that people have been understandably upset by all of … this.’ He paused, the awkwardness of his own speech apparent to all. ‘I mean, the university has also arranged for grief counseling to be available to any student currently matriculating in the department.’
‘Told you.’ Lloyd had come up behind them.
‘Some of you may also want to know that there will be a non-sectarian memorial on campus tomorrow at eleven in the Mumphrey room. The funeral will be private, at the family’s request, but we felt that such a gathering might be a way for many of us to remember the man.’
‘Nancy, I bet,’ whispered Trista. Dulcie nodded in agreement.
‘Anyone who would like to take part is, of course, welcome. Please talk to Nancy after we are done here. And now to the less pleasant part of my task.’ Trista turned, eyebrows raised.
Even Lloyd looked pained. ‘Less pleasant?’ he mouthed the words.
‘As I’m sure you are aware, the university police are involved in uncovering the facts of the incident.’ Thorpe pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and mopped his brow. ‘Many of you have already been contacted. We expect you, as members of the university community, to aid them in this manner, to the fullest extent possible.’
The murmuring grew too loud at that for Thorpe to say any more, and it took Nancy – climbing up several more steps – to restore order.
‘Please, people!’ she called. ‘I do have sign-up sheets for counseling and Mr Thorpe and I will be available tonight and, of course, during our regular hours tomorrow. If any of you need assistance. This is a time for the community to come together.’
‘Is that what we’re doing?’ Raleigh kept her voice low as she squeezed in next to Lloyd. The room had grown uncomfortably close, and Dulcie was regretting the warm sherry.
‘Well, the intent is good,’ her boyfriend countered. Trista snorted in response and Dulcie turned toward her.
‘Fenderby would have loved this,’ said Trista. Maybe it was the light, maybe it was the sherry, but Dulcie thought her friend looked pale and sweaty. ‘He’d be circulating around the room, offering “sympathy” hugs.’
‘Was he really that bad?’ Dulcie reached behind her. There was usually a couch here. She really wanted to sit down.
Trista rolled his eyes. ‘He never tried the trick where he asks you to slide past him to get a book?’
Dulcie shook her head. A mistake, she realized, as the dizziness hit. ‘Ick, no.’
‘Or the one where he says you’re so bright and shiny—’
‘Like a new penny?’ Dulcie remembered Mina’s words.
Trista nodded. ‘Makes sense for you. You’re a redhead. But me?’
‘He never …’ Dulcie let it go. ‘Did you report it?’
‘Nah, I should have.’ Trista looked around. ‘Might have saved someone. Might have … pfft.’ Trista paused to pick what looked like a cat hair from her lips, and she paused to examine it. ‘How did that …? Well, never mind. I’m still trying to figure out what our shy buddy Walls has to do with it.’
‘Do you see him here?’ Dulcie had found the couch behind her. But before she let herself sink into it, she looked around. ‘Wait – Tris?’
‘What?’ Her friend settled onto the armrest beside her.
‘Never mind,’ said Dulcie, letting her head fall back. ‘That was weird. I just thought I saw you on the other side of the room, talking to Nancy. You don’t want to speak at the memorial, do you?’
She opened her eyes with an effort. Trista’s pallor had been replaced by an unhealthy flush.
‘Nobody there would want to hear what I have to say.’ Her voice had grown quieter, too. ‘And I’ve already missed my turn.’
TWENTY-SIX
I myself am the tinder, awaiting one incautious flare. It is my name that may catch and flare. May cause the conflagration that brings down this house, and she who sleeps the rest of innocence within. To counter that hungry Flame, that fiery Spark that would consume, I must dampen that within me that would burn all down. Must indeed tamp the very Rage that has fuelled my Flight, the Fear that drove me on, seeking Safety and refuge for us both. Yea, though I seek to slake my thirst and ease my parch’d Throat with the cooling draughts of Truth, so would I find her Goblets o’erbrimmed with Blood, the noble Ichor that flows throw me and thus to her slumber crest’d crown.
Dulcie woke late from a troubled sleep, her dreams haunted by bloodied books that fell from dark shelves without warning and sticky sweet syrups in little cups.
‘I can go with you.’ Chris took one look at her when she came into the kitchen and jumped to his feet, unseating the cat, who complained with a soft mew. Dulcie had staggered home the night before and barely managed to tell him about the memorial before stumbling into bed.
‘No, I’m fine. Really.’ She returned his hug, with a silent apology to Esmé, before turning to pour herself some coffee. ‘The whole crew will be there. I think a lot of them will be speaking.’ She remembered what Trista had said, but felt that somehow she had gotten it wrong.
‘If you’re sure …’ He looked doubtful, and Dulcie wondered if she’d talked in her sleep. ‘Well, I should be off then.’
As soon as he’d left, Dulcie began to ransack her closet. Unlike some of her students – particularly a certain clique who took her seminar in error – she had little black in her wardrobe. Still, after throwing several blouses and a long-forgotten skirt on the bed, she found something that ought to work: a top and skirt in a somber dark grey. It might not be exactly funereal, but it also didn’t show the cat hair as obviously as the black nylon, cobwebbed with Esmé’s white belly fluff. How was it that everything she owned automatically attracted the opposite color fur so consistently?
‘Mrrrup.’ Esmé jumped on to the bed, as if to make her own contribution.
‘Oh no, you don’t.’ Dulcie snatched up the day’s clothes as the cat drew back, startled. ‘I need to look presentable, Esmé.’
Whatever her pet’s thoughts on that, she kept them to herself. Though Dulcie did notice the loud purr emanating from her stout body as she kneaded a midnight blue vel
vet top discarded as too ostentatious. By the time Dulcie was dressed, the cat was settled comfortably on the tunic, her fur spread around her as daintily as a proper lady in The Ravages might have arranged her skirts.
‘See you later,’ Dulcie called as she swung her bag onto her shoulder. It wouldn’t help to view her pet’s decorum as a silent rebuke. Better to just see it as a small animal enjoying a new soft bed, rather than project her own qualms on to the cat.
For qualms she had, as she made her way through yet another gorgeous spring day. Even her slight hangover began to dissipate in the fresh warm breeze. As if to deny the solemnity of her destination, the morning was as bright as … as a new penny. The phrase jumped into Dulcie’s mind and just as quickly she discarded it. Hadn’t that been what Fenderby had called her cousin Mina? She shivered suddenly, pulling closer the sweater she had donned at the last moment. No, that wouldn’t do. It was a lovely day. A spring day after a long winter, but maybe that was the metaphor she should stick with – the reprieve after something awful and oppressive had passed.
It was a terrible way to think about a man’s death. And scary. As Lucy’s daughter, Dulcie couldn’t help but think of the repercussions of such ill wishes. But surely she hadn’t caused the professor’s demise, no matter what anyone might think. And she wasn’t rejoicing in it. What she felt was simply relief.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Dulcie was relieved, as well, when she pushed open the door to the Mumphrey Room. With its wood paneling, darkened by years of sweaty hands and exasperated sighs, the chamber had the gravitas for a memorial event.
‘Funereal enough for you?’ She turned, to see Lloyd, a slight smile playing over his pale face. His girlfriend, Raleigh, didn’t look as amused. Then again, the pretty senior would be graduating this year. As an honors candidate, even as an undergrad, she’d be expected to defend her thesis here in this room, and now she looked around, as if imagining these walls closing in on her.
