Into the Grey

by Clea Simon

  In truth, the air outside was a welcome relief. Cool and fresh, with the hint of warmth to come. It was so pleasant, in fact, that Dulcie was tempted to abandon her quest and play hooky. A more leisurely stroll by the river than the one Lloyd had led her on, or a latte and croissant in the sun.

  But no, she had left the convocation with research in mind. And, with Lloyd otherwise engaged at the memorial and covering her sections, she had the office to herself. Fifteen minutes later, she was hard at work. Not tracking down criminals, she acknowledged. But maybe just as important.

  ‘Dogs to their vomit,’ she typed into the university search engine, finding the phrase lifted from Proverbs. What else had Polly Fenderby said? Something about ‘rising by sin’. It was, as she’d suspected, Shakespeare, not the vague ‘poets’ that the widow had credited. But this was just a warm-up, and so with a little trepidation, Dulcie typed in her next query: Polly Fenderby herself. Who was the sad, angry woman who had made such a spectacle of herself in front of her late husband’s colleagues?

  A quick search surprised her. The widow – Dulcie counted off the years – was barely forty, a good twenty years her husband’s junior. And while the most recent mentions were all gardening related – she had leveraged her green thumb into boards of various suburban garden societies – she did not appear to have ever been much of a scholar, no matter what the gossip had said.

  Then she found it: a wedding announcement from Midwestern daily. ‘Penelope Wrigley to Wed,’ read the headline. ‘Bride-to-Be Marries Professor.’ The body of the short article confirmed what Trista had already shared. Polly Fenderby might not have set the world on fire with her scholarship, but she had been studying with Fenderby when their romance started, here at the university. ‘The new Mrs Fenderby intends to give up her studies to focus on homemaking,’ the article ran. The implication, Dulcie knew well, was that the pretty young woman in the picture had come East to hunt for a husband, her goal all along a Mrs rather than a PhD.

  What was strange was the follow-up. When the Fenderbys hadn’t had children, Polly appeared to have focused on her gardening. ‘Blue ribbon lilies’, read one caption. The photo showed a slightly older photo of the young bride, but one who was still smiling and hopeful. ‘Daffodil days’, read another, extolling in particular her poet’s narcissus. Dulcie remembered the young plants she had seen in the Fenderbys’ house, the damp spring earth still clinging to the bulbs.

  But over the years, as her focus on horticulture had grown, the couple appeared to have downsized. Those first photos were of bigger yards in the outer suburbs, and Dulcie wondered if the woman she had met had resented losing the large yard for the convenience of Cambridge. City townhouses could be pricey. Then again, Dulcie thought, so could settling a case of sexual harassment.

  That, Dulcie knew, was speculation. And certainly not something she could ask the widow about. Still, it was interesting to confirm that Fenderby did indeed have a history of involvement with his students, dating back to his marriage. Maybe, Dulcie thought, the widow’s scowl – not to mention that wild accusation – had some precedent.

  Dulcie took out her phone. Mrs Fenderby was a student, she texted Suze. Maybe others? She paused. Her cousin’s suit was still confidential. Harassment?

  There was no reply, and Dulcie found herself thinking of Polly Fenderby’s garden. The woman had a gift, even if age and her husband’s philandering had dulled the bright prettiness of that first photo. It wasn’t like Fenderby had been any prize. Fat, balding and sickly when he died, he’d probably never been her match – except in status. Maybe that was inevitable, she thought, when a pairing was so unequal. Maybe it was a good thing that she and Chris were both struggling grad students. Maybe she shouldn’t graduate before he did.

  No, that was fear talking. And when further queries turned up nothing more, Dulcie knew she should distract herself with some useful activity: work. Opening the notes file on her computer, she got to it, typing up her notes from the Mildon. She might not know why her author had changed the wording in that passage, but at least now she had it recorded. At some point – maybe even after she had filed her dissertation – she would be able to go back to it and figure out what it meant.

  What it meant. Dulcie sat back. The office windows let in the afternoon sunlight, a slanting beam that raked the overflowing bookshelves lining the wall. One word, or, no, three, and here she had spent hours on it. Not far from here, people were trying to make sense of a man’s death, while she was documenting a change in wording in a draft of a book that probably hadn’t been read for two hundred years. A change that probably wouldn’t even make it into her dissertation, assuming she got to finish it. Assuming she was able to graduate.

  She had to. Dulcie sat back, allowing the screen before her to go blank. No, what she did wasn’t a life or death concern. But words mattered – not only to her but to other readers and scholars. To anyone who loved books and cared about how they were created. About why people made choices. Maybe it was about life, anyway. It certainly was how Dulcie wanted to spend her life. Unless …

  Dulcie pushed the chair back and blinked up at that shaft of light. The movement made the dust motes swirl, and for a moment, Dulcie thought she could see the faintest outline of a cat – a grey cat – in the slow dance. The swirl like a cursive ‘S’. Like the document she had taken notes on, so elegant and old-fashioned. Like something else as well. Staring at the dust, she tried to remember. So much of what she read these days was typed. Even memos tended to be printed, if they were even on paper at all. Her thoughts went back to Fenderby, his head cradled on all that paper. And that one little note – your little blossom – three words. Surely, the police had noticed it. Had picked it up for testing or analysis, or whatever the police did these days.

  No, Dulcie shook her head, the movement dispersing the dust in the light. She had been told to stay clear. To let the professionals do their jobs. She had questions that the police might not know to ask. She had heard things – she knew things – about Fenderby and her cousin. About the way the department functioned. But everyone had warned her against getting involved. It wasn’t like she didn’t have enough on her plate. Especially now, with her life’s work at stake.

  A faint vibration made her start, and she reached for her phone. If Detective Rogovoy was asking for her help … But, no: Suze had sent a brief text: Courage! Working on things. That was all. And while Dulcie knew that her mother would take that as an encouraging sign – an omen that the universe was aware of her frustration – for Dulcie it was enough to drive her to despair.

  Things? Dulcie typed in – and then erased her text unsent. She knew she wasn’t being fair, that she should be grateful for the update, as vague as it was. Anything to do with the law took time, Suze had taught her. The two had been roommates all through Suze’s law school years and into the early part of her career, when she’d clerked at the legal aid clinic. That had helped Dulcie to understand first-hand how much research went into everything, how much evidence was compiled before any proceedings – from an appeal to an arrest. That was why, Suze had told Dulcie, she shouldn’t be unduly worried about being involved in an investigation.

  ‘Everybody who has come into contact with Fenderby is probably part of the investigation,’ she had said. Not that this helped Dulcie relax much. After all, Suze was no longer at the university. She might have forgotten how byzantine it was, how easy it would be to lose standing, to lose her students and fellowships, her placement – even her opportunity to file her dissertation – if she wasn’t quickly cleared.

  And then it hit her. Suze might have forgotten what things were like here, but Dulcie remembered what her roommate had taught her. Opening an email file, Dulcie started typing a direct appeal to the dean. As quickly as she could type, she was citing due process and habeas corpus. Even if she didn’t get all the details exactly, Dulcie felt like she was making a good case for herself. You don’t room with a law school student for that many years w
ithout having some sense of how things worked. What about innocent until proven guilty? With a final poetic flourish, she finished the missive, CC’d Thorpe, and sent it off.

  Closing her computer with a soft thud, Dulcie reached for her bag. Even if her research into Polly Fenderby hadn’t yielded much, it had served to explain a little about the widow. Besides, that search had made her get down to her own work. It had been wonderful to focus on her findings for a few uninterrupted hours, to be able to properly record what might yet prove to be a breakthrough. Now, she needed to take action. She owed it to her cousin and to herself to try. Besides, she told herself, it was only common courtesy to visit someone who was ill.

  ‘Alyson Beaumont?’ She waited at the reception desk of university health services. ‘She would have come in about an hour ago?’

  Dulcie wasn’t sure what her student’s condition would be or if she’d be allowed visitors. What she had realized was that Trista, in her defense, was putting the worst possible interpretation on her collapse. Dulcie owed it to Alyson to find out what the truth was, and, if necessary, intercede.

  ‘Hang on.’ The receptionist picked up a phone and turned away for privacy. For a moment, Dulcie feared the worst. Wasn’t that what they did when someone died? Called for a doctor or a supervisor to come down and break the news? But just as Dulcie steeled herself to ask, the woman turned back around.

  ‘She’s been admitted,’ she said. ‘Third floor.’

  It had to be the heating system. Dulcie licked her lips, as she waited for the elevator. The infirmary hadn’t adjusted to the warmer weather, she decided. Why else would her mouth be so dry?

  The door pinged and Dulcie jumped. Only when the doors started to slide shut again did she step forward, stopping them with her hand. She couldn’t be nervous, she told herself as she pressed the button for the third floor. Alyson was her student, no matter what else she may or may not have done.

  Still, Dulcie couldn’t deny her reluctance as she stepped out on the desired floor. What was she going to say to her student? How, after all this time, was she going to ask her what she needed to know?

  ‘May I help you?’ A young man in a white coat addressed Dulcie in a soft voice, his dark brown brows bunching in concern. Of course, she probably looked like she was in pain.

  In response, she forced a smile. ‘Alyson Beaumont?’

  ‘Room 302,’ he said. ‘I’ve just visited with her. She’s tired, but I think she’s still awake.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Dulcie took a deep breath as the young doctor walked away. He had neither asked for ID nor forbidden her entrance. Letting the breath out slowly, she headed toward the room.

  ‘Alyson?’ Dulcie knocked gently on the opened door before entering. ‘It’s me, Dulcie.’

  ‘Ms Schwartz?’ A movement in the far bed, by the window, drew Dulcie in. Alyson Beaumont, her face as white as the pillowcase, had turned her head. Dulcie walked up to the bed. If Alyson’s eyes had been shadowed before, they looked practically sunken now. Her lips were a strange bluish grey. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  ‘My pleasure.’ Dulcie relaxed, pulling the flimsy guest chair up to the bedside. ‘How are you?’

  ‘Tired.’ Alyson looked it. ‘But better, thank you. I thought I was just getting sick.’ She had closed her eyes, and Dulcie wondered if she was going to sleep. ‘I feel … faded, somehow. Like I’ve been erased, you know?’

  ‘I guess.’ It had to be a coincidence, Dulcie told herself. ‘Like you’ve been scraped out?’

  ‘Exactly.’ A feeble nod. ‘Removed from the picture.’

  Dulcie started. There was something about that image that sparked a memory. Alyson saw her reaction. ‘You don’t think that I …’ She paused. ‘I didn’t do this. Honest.’

  Dulcie nodded. That hadn’t been her concern. ‘But you are involved,’ she said, screwing her courage up. ‘I wanted to ask you about Tom. You said that he was the one who saw a redhead. And I …’ She paused. It wasn’t going to be easy to admit that she’d eavesdropped on the undergrads, but there was so much she wanted to know. ‘I wonder if there’s anything you want to tell me?’

  It didn’t seem possible for the face on the pillow to get any paler, but Dulcie thought it did go a bit green.

  ‘Tom.’ Alyson sighed. ‘He says he can’t vouch for anyone. That he can’t be sure. But …’ She stopped and for a moment, Dulcie thought she’d passed out. Then, with an effort, Alyson started speaking again. ‘I can. I was there.’

  ‘Did you tell the police?’ Dulcie kept her voice gentle. She couldn’t help but think of that note, with its feminine writing. A suspicion was forming in the back of her mind.

  ‘It isn’t what you think – I was gone before.’ She opened her eyes and gave Dulcie a beseeching look. ‘They know. Tom does, too. Only he’s a little …’ She stopped, her eyelids fluttered closed. ‘He can get a little needy. Oh!’

  ‘What?’ Dulcie leaned in. Alyson was struggling to sit up. She was in distress. In pain. ‘Alyson! Should I call someone?’

  ‘No, it’s – I have a cat. She’s only a kitten.’ She fell back at that, leaving Dulcie to make sense of the apparent non sequitur. ‘And, well, they’re keeping me here.’

  Dulcie bit back her first response – surprise that Alyson seemed to have only remembered her pet at this point. After all, the woman was ill. And she understood her concern. ‘Do you have a roommate,’ she asked. ‘Someone I can call?’

  Alyson was shaking her head. ‘I moved off campus over the winter break, to the River Tower. It was – I wanted the privacy. But now …’

  ‘I can go over.’ Dulcie spoke without thinking, but then the repercussions of what she’d said kicked in. ‘I mean, if you want me to. I’ve got a cat too, so I know how demanding they can be.’ She smiled, as if to make a joke out of it. To her relief, the woman on the bed smiled back.

  ‘That would be wonderful. My keys are in my jacket.’ She paused, her eyes closing for a moment. ‘I guess I have another reason to thank you,’ she said, once Dulcie had retrieved the jacket, pulling her student’s ID and a large brass key ring from the front pocket. ‘That one,’ Alyson pointed, and Dulcie worked it loose, noting how the oversized ‘A’ on the ring almost matched the one in the signature on the ID. ‘They told me it was your fast action that saved me.’

  ‘Saved you?’ Dulcie re-hung the jacket.

  ‘Yeah.’ Her voice had faded to barely above a whisper, Alyson reached for a plastic cup with a straw in it. ‘Sorry,’ she said, after taking a sip. It was clear that she was fading.

  ‘Alyson, I don’t know what you remember, but all I did was call for help.’

  ‘That’s just it,’ she said. ‘The EMTs got me here in time. I’m lucky it was slow acting.’

  Dulcie shook her head.

  ‘They pumped my stomach,’ said the girl in the bed. ‘It sounds so crazy, I know. They’re saying I was poisoned.’

  THIRTY

  ‘Are we ready for dinner?’

  Dulcie jumped, but the orderly behind her motioned for her to sit back down as she removed a tray from a cart and placed it before Alyson.

  ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing very interesting for you today,’ she said, consulting a chart. ‘But let’s try to get a little something in your belly.’

  The woman on the bed glanced up, but didn’t move, even when the orderly pushed the tray up.

  ‘How’re we doing here?’ A nurse walked in. ‘Are we going to eat something?’

  Dulcie stepped back as the nurse slid by her to secure a blood pressure cuff. ‘She was just telling me …’ She stopped. Had Alyson really said she’d been poisoned? Might she have meant food poisoning – or something more innocuous?

  ‘Visiting hours are about over,’ said the nurse, without waiting for her to finish. ‘And I’d say our gal here has had more than enough excitement for the day.’ She paused to read the meter by the cuff. ‘You can come back in the morning.’

  ‘But—’ Dulcie’s protests
only garnered her an evil look. ‘OK,’ she said finally. ‘Goodnight, Alyson. I’ll take care of your kitty, don’t worry.’

  Alyson was smiling, Dulcie was pretty sure, as she took her leave.

  ‘Hey, sweetie.’ As soon as she was out on the sidewalk, Dulcie turned her phone back on. Chris’s voicemail popped right up. ‘Do you have any thoughts about dinner? I was thinking I’d stop by Mary Chung’s again on the way home.’

  Dulcie smiled. One of the best reasons not to live alone was messages like this one. Then again, not everyone had the option of a loving mate. Even before listening to the rest of her messages, she called Chris back.

  ‘More takeout sounds great,’ she said to his voicemail. Well, at least he would hear her voice. ‘You wouldn’t believe the day I’ve had. I’ll tell all when I get home. I’ve got a stop to make first.’

  Dulcie found herself re-evaluating her thoughts on undergrad living when she got to Alyson’s apartment. Living with a roommate might be more social, but not even the renovated residential houses were as nice as this place. A modern high-rise, down by the river, with a lobby bigger than some university common rooms, the River Tower was the kind of building that Dulcie associated with bankers or socialites. Anyone but an academic.

  ‘It’s not very Cambridge,’ she griped to herself as she waited for the elevator. ‘I’m surprised they allow pets here.’ Only the soft hum of machinery responded.

  Once Dulcie had let herself into Alyson’s apartment, though, any complaints she had were silenced. She had stepped into a sunken living room, empty but for a spare, modern-looking sofa and a coffee table. Neither of these were Dulcie’s style – Esmé would have shredded that white upholstery in a day – but that wasn’t what had taken her breath away, and she walked past the cool chrome and linen with barely a second glance, transfixed instead by the sliding glass door at the room’s end and the small deck it opened on to. Alyson hadn’t put furniture on it. In truth, the little landing was barely big enough for a chair. But even through the closed door the porch offered a sweeping view of the river and Allston beyond.