by Clea Simon
The buzzing grew louder, as another fly flew by, and Dulcie turned to look. The sound was furious, frantic, drowning out everything in her head. Drowning out everything except the sight before her. On the carpet, hands flung outward, eyes open but unseeing. Not seeing. Never seeing again.
Dulcie gasped, unable to breathe. The pounding in her head threatened to take over, the noise of the fly a deafening roar, as Dulcie released the statue and it crashed, once again, to the carpet with a deep, dull thud. Dulcie didn’t hear it, though. Didn’t register the voices below her either. The last words she’d heard echoed through her mind – warned, she’d heard. Three times warned.
Mr Grey had been trying to help her. Mr Grey – not Esmé with her petty jealousies, her strange dissent. Mr Grey. Only Dulcie hadn’t listened.
FOURTEEN
‘Dulcie!’
At last the sound of Lloyd’s voice penetrated Dulcie’s panic. She had heard Mr Grey, coming to her rescue, urging her to run. But she had only taken a few steps before she saw her office mate, standing in the doorway, several faces crowded behind him. One, she could see, was wearing the uniform of a university EMT.
‘In here,’ she gasped, gesturing for them all to come in. That’s when she saw the smudge on her hand. The blood, she corrected herself. And that’s when the world began to go black.
‘Sit down, miss.’ The EMT was by her side, and she was being maneuvered into a chair she hadn’t noticed before, just behind the door. Lloyd stood, hovering. ‘Please, put your head down, miss.’ The EMT was talking to her. ‘Can you tell me where you’re bleeding?’
‘I’m not.’ She shook her head, confused. But the undignified position – her head between her knees – was helping. Without sitting up, she started to explain. ‘Lloyd went for help because he thought I was sick. I mean, I was sick. I’ve had a hell of a headache, but this isn’t—’
‘Oh my God!’ Another voice, male, that Dulcie didn’t recognize. She tried to sit up, but the EMT had his hand on her upper back. ‘Melinda! Help!’
‘That’s what I was trying to tell you.’ Dulcie turned her head to address the EMT, but he was already clambering to his feet.
‘Mellie! Darling!’ Even from the back, Dulcie recognized Dean Haitner. He’d changed into a suit, probably for the reception, but his tie was already askew, his jacket rucked up. With his hands up in the air – then in his thick hair – he appeared to be dancing.
‘Please, sir. Step back.’ The EMT moved him aside and knelt by what Dulcie knew was a dead body. ‘Sir, please.’
‘Darling?’ Dulcie knew she wasn’t at her best, but she didn’t think that ‘Darling’ was one of the names in the visiting scholar’s long list. No, there was something else going on here, and suddenly Dulcie knew for sure why this particular guest had received special attention. ‘Darling?’ She turned to find Lloyd staring at her. ‘So the rumors about him are true? He was going out with her?’
‘Dulcie, I thought you were sick . . .’ He seemed a few steps behind her. ‘I thought you couldn’t go up the stairs.’
‘I couldn’t, Lloyd. I had the worst headache you can imagine.’ Sitting up, she brushed her hair out of her face – and felt the sticky wetness on her fingers.
‘But you came up here. You came up here.’
‘Oh my God! Oh my God!’ The EMT was talking to the dean now, trying to turn him away from rug, from the sight of Melinda Sloane Harquist lying on the floor. ‘Oh my God.’
‘Nobody was supposed to have access.’ Rafe, the tutor, was staring at Dulcie. ‘I told Lloyd. There had been threats.’
‘I know.’ Dulcie tried to wipe the stickiness off her cheek. ‘But the door was open. I thought I’d ask her—’
‘The door was open?’ Rafe was leaning in toward her. ‘Or unlocked?’
‘I just wanted to leave a note.’ Dulcie couldn’t wipe it off. The stickiness, the dark crimson stickiness was everywhere.
‘Where is it?’ The dean’s focus had changed. ‘Where is it?’ His voice was growing louder.
‘Where’s what?’ Rafe turned toward the dean in confusion.
‘Her book – her thesis! The reason for all the precautions!’ The dean was still gesticulating madly, sweat popping out on his brow. ‘She was convinced someone was going to try to steal it.’ He paused and seemed to see Dulcie for the first time. ‘And you – you’re covered in her blood.’
FIFTEEN
‘One more time, Ms Schwartz.’ The big detective gestured with his pen. ‘Let’s just go through it again, together. OK?’
‘I’ve done that – we’ve done that – already. Twice, at least.’ Dulcie was sitting in the university police office, in a small private room she’d never seen before. In front of her, with the pen, the pad, and the exasperated look, was her old friend, Detective Rogovoy. But any sense of comfort she should have gotten from the familiar face was gone – dissipated by his utter lack of reasonableness.
‘I can’t tell you anything more.’ Dulcie tried once again. ‘You’ve written it all down.’
Rogovoy sighed, a heavy exhalation that made his not inconsiderable bulk rise up and collapse again. For a moment, Dulcie thought he might deflate entirely, a thought that she found a little scary. Then he inhaled, and she found herself relaxing.
‘Ms Schwartz?’ He didn’t sound any happier though. ‘Dulcie?’
She nodded, a prickling feeling beginning in the back of her head. That headache – the one that had laid her low after section – was coming back again. Or, no, this felt like pinpricks, sharp claws digging into the base of her skull. A warning? She shook it off. No, this was an ordinary headache, not a message from Mr Grey. It had been a horrible day – tragic – but surely the worst part had already happened. Mr Grey had been looking out for her: that original headache had been sent by her spectral pet, an attempt to keep her from entering the suite, she was sure. That hadn’t worked though, and she had blundered into a tragedy.
She rubbed the back of her neck. Tension, that’s what it had to be. Tension and the stale air of this small, white room. Rogovoy had to let her leave soon. He might only be a cop, but he worked at the university. He had to know that she was a trained scholar, and that meant a trained observer – and she had already related everything that she had observed during her brief, horrible time in the visiting scholar’s suite.
‘I know you, Ms Schwartz.’ Dulcie looked up into the detective’s troll-like face with a bit of surprise. The deep-set eyes on either side of a particularly lumpy nose looked sad, and she wondered if he felt her pain. But, no, he couldn’t have read her mind, not really. He must have seen her rubbing her neck, she realized, and pulled her hand down to her lap. The prickling was getting worse; she needed to finish things up here. Pushing the image of a cat – those claws, unsheathed – from her mind, she made herself listen to what he was saying. ‘I know you’re a good kid. Really.’
He paused again, and Dulcie found herself thinking of a cat again. Not just any cat – a wide, grey face, green eyes flashing. Mr Grey: on alert and ready to strike. Her neck tingled and stung, and she wondered what she had done to displease her old friend as she waited for Rogovoy to continue. He was dithering, probably as overworked and tired as she was. She blinked away the thought of claws and considered ways to move the conversation along. Yes, she could say, she knew she would have to be available for questions. She’d probably have to sign something. Then, maybe, he would finally give her the tired nod that meant he was about to push his chair back and release her to go home.
Home. At the very idea, she was struck again by how tired she was. It wasn’t yet four, the day outside still bright and sunny when she’d been driven over to the university police headquarters. But between last night’s terrors and the horror of this afternoon, she felt like a year had passed since she had left Esmé in the kitchen. Since Esmé had made that odd comment about Mr Grey. What had the little tuxedo cat meant, anyway? And was there any chance Rogovoy would have one of the patrol c
ars give her a lift?
‘And since they’re involved, this has become much more complicated.’
‘Huh?’ Dulcie looked up. Rogovoy had been talking, but she’d been in another world. A quiet world of cats. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t hear?’
‘I said the Cambridge Police have taken over the investigation.’ He was speaking slowly now, as if she were stupid or hard of hearing. Still, with the words that were coming out of his mouth, Dulcie felt like maybe she was. ‘I am not the one in charge here.’
‘Oh, I’m sorry.’ The big guy worked so hard, Dulcie’s heart went out to him.
He was shaking his head. ‘No, it’s not that. I have – well, I have my hands full this term anyway, what with the new security measures. After last spring, you know.’ Dulcie did. In addition to the attack in her basement office, a combination of fraud and attempted robbery had exposed the vulnerability of the university library system. ‘Ms Schwartz, I’m telling you this because it concerns you.’
‘Oh, thanks.’ Home. Home and more cocoa. Despite the unseasonable warmth, she decided, this day called for it.
She was trying to picture the kitchen cabinet, the box of hot chocolate. Had she and Chris finished it? She had a vague memory of Chris pouring some into a saucer. Esmé had sniffed at it, but had pulled away in disgust. She smiled at the memory and heard a gruff bark. Rogovoy, she realized, had cleared his throat. He was staring at her.
‘What?’ She forced a smile. ‘Sorry, it’s just been such a day.’
He grimaced. ‘Well, I’ll do what I can to make it better. You’re still with that computer guy, right? If you give me his number, I’ll call him. I mean, after I notify your mom.’
‘My mom? No, really.’ Lucy would not be useful in this situation. In fact, there was nothing Dulcie wanted less than to hear her mother’s hare-brained explanations. Bad karma was certainly going to figure. And she could get herself home. ‘And Chris might still be asleep. You don’t have to disturb him. I’m fine, really.’ Rogovoy was looking at her like he didn’t believe her. ‘Honest. And I can tell him when I get home.’
The big man before her shook his head, his meaty lips clamping shut. With one oversized hand, he rubbed his face. It didn’t seem to help. When he opened his eyes, they looked just as sad, just as tired.
‘You haven’t heard a word I’ve said, have you, Ms Schwartz?’ He looked around as if he’d never seen these white walls before.
The pain in the back of her neck was intense now. Forgot claws, this was like teeth – sharp feline teeth. Like a parent cat trying to carry her away. Like one of her bad nights, if Esmé or Mr Grey were desperate to wake her up.
‘No, I’m sorry. I must have missed it.’ She rubbed her neck again, pressing hard to ease the pain.
‘That dean – the new guy. He’s called the DA’s office, the city cops, you name it. Considering that the victim wasn’t a member of the university community, he has a case that this doesn’t belong in my jurisdiction. But that means I’m going to have to hand this whole mess over to the city, and you’re going to have to deal with them, Ms Schwartz. I can’t tell you for sure what will happen, but I think that you should prepare yourself. It’s likely you’ll probably be charged – that means going to court for an arraignment and, well, they can hold you until this is all settled.’
He had the grace to look embarrassed. ‘I’m going to be talking with the folks in charge, and I’ll do what I can. I don’t like being pressured. But one thing I know, Ms Schwartz – Dulcie – you can’t just walk away from this. Unless, well, until we find out who did this, you’re going to be in the spotlight. I’m afraid it’s likely you are going to be arrested.’
SIXTEEN
If one were ever going to faint, Dulcie told herself, now would be a good time.
In general, Dulcie was not a fan of fainting – either in real life, when it never seemed as glamorous as it should be, or in books. In fact, one of the reasons she’d become so fond of The Ravages of Umbria was because its heroine, Hermetria, had been a resilient, non-swooning type – whereas her enemy, the duplicitous Demetria, would go pale and keel over at the drop of a hat.
Right now, however, sitting in that claustrophobic white room, such a gesture might be useful.
It wasn’t as though she felt fine. Although Detective Rogovoy’s words had finally gotten her to focus, her headache had only grown worse – a tearing, biting sensation that had her blinking back tears. The pain was so intense, it left her breathless. It also left her more alert than she had been since, well, since before she had discovered the body in Dardley House.
‘They can’t just take me away,’ she said, once she could finally form words. ‘I am a member of the university community.’ She had gathered steam and stood, banging on the table for emphasis. ‘And I demand that the university represent me.’
‘That’s the problem,’ Rogovoy had begun. Only then, as he began to explain, did Dulcie realize how much she had missed. The university had little say in this case, and the fact that Dean Haitner was pushing for charges to be pressed made the involvement of the city police necessary. ‘We’d have started off looking at this as an accident, you see,’ Rogovoy had concluded, his meatloaf hands palm up. ‘No unexpected prints; nothing odd, in terms of forensics. But he’d already called the district attorney’s office and made a fuss. Personal friend, I gather. He’s claiming that you had a motive – that the murder was planned as part of a theft.’
‘Ridiculous. Why would I . . .?’ She paused. It was plausible, just barely. ‘Look,’ she continued, ‘I can see what this looks like. This woman – Melinda – and I, we’re in the same field of research. And, yes, it does seem like she was ahead of me in terms of publishing.’ Dulcie paused. It was hard to think with the pain. ‘But, Detective Rogovoy, it doesn’t make sense that I’d have threatened her. I wanted to meet with her.’ She stopped, an idea surfacing. ‘Rafe, the head tutor, he can vouch for me there. He knew I was trying to talk to her.’
‘We are talking with him.’ Rogovoy’s mouth was set in a tight line. Dulcie didn’t need him to explain: Rafe probably had. He’d been asked to leave Melinda alone. Told Lloyd about the threats, but she’d gone up to meet her anyway. ‘But the bottom line is: this book she wrote is gone.’
‘I don’t have it.’ She looked around. The officer who had escorted her in had taken her bag. ‘I don’t even know where my bag is.’
‘We know it’s not on you.’ Rogovoy said. ‘It’s not anywhere.’
This wasn’t making sense. ‘I’m sure there are copies around. Her publisher probably has one.’
He shook his head. ‘We’re not finding any. Her adviser at Ellery has been out with mono, says she’s been working independently for months but that this gal was old school. Typed everything, and true enough, her computer only had some notes she’d pulled from online sources. The dean says he got to read it. He had to, he says, before he approved her visit, but he gave his copy back to her. Her editor had seen the opening chapters; that’s why he agreed to publish it, but she says this Ms Harquist was determined to finish it before letting anyone read the whole thing. She wanted to tie up some loose ends, she said. Bulletproof it.’
Dulcie winced at the metaphor. At least the visiting scholar hadn’t been shot. ‘And we know she had it with her?’ Dulcie wasn’t good at lying. She thought back to the pages she had read and immediately tried to clear her mind of them.
Rogovoy must have seen something in her face. He grunted. ‘She did. A big manuscript, like typed pages, all clipped together.’ He sighed. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Schwartz. The tutor saw it when he showed her the suite, and the dean is insisting that she had it with her, too.’
‘That doesn’t mean I—’ Those footsteps. Rafe had said the door was supposed to be locked. ‘Detective, I heard someone on the stairs, before I went in. And the door wasn’t latched.’
He shook his head again. ‘We’ve checked the log at the main entry. There wasn’t anyone in Dardley House af
ter noon who wasn’t supposed to be there. Nobody, except you.’
Dulcie had collapsed back into her seat, her head throbbing like a time bomb. She rubbed her forehead. ‘Detective Rogovoy, do you think I could get some aspirin?’
‘Sure.’ He grunted as he stood up, and Dulcie had the sense that the day was wearing on him, as well. He also, she noticed, locked the door behind him as he left. It was that sound – the sliding click of the latch – that did her in. Folding her arms on the table, she put her face down in them and sobbed.
‘Mr Grey,’ she called out. ‘Why is this happening? What’s going on?’ And she heard nothing. Nor did the pain cease. If anything it got sharper, causing her to gasp. ‘What – why are you hurting me? Ow!’ Her hand went to the back of her neck. That bite – it had to have drawn blood.
And that’s when it hit her. ‘Detective! Detective!’ She pounded on the door. ‘Can you hear me?’
She might as well already be in prison. The door was so thick, her fists only made a dull noise. The door stayed locked, no matter how she rattled it. And Rogovoy didn’t return.
‘Detective!’ She was yelling now. ‘I figured it out – it’s the blood!’
SEVENTEEN
‘I can’t believe they held you.’ Suze, Dulcie’s former room-mate was pacing. ‘They had no evidence, no cause. Nothing. No, I do believe it. I am simply appalled by their behavior.’
They were back at Dulcie’s apartment. Dulcie had crashed on the sofa, where Esmé had found her and immediately claimed her lap. Chris – last night’s squabble at least shelved if not forgotten – had gone into the kitchen to make tea, leaving the old friends to hash things out.
