by Clea Simon
‘I heard about it.’ Andrew’s easy-going charm invited confidences, but with an effort, she stopped herself from saying more.
‘The dean is convinced that it’s the key.’ His eyes were blue. Very blue. ‘He thinks that someone in the university didn’t want her to publish it.’
A few hours before, Dulcie would have dismissed that idea as mad. Then again, a few hours before, Dulcie had not thought of Rafe Hutchins as another rival. She swallowed. ‘Does he have any idea who?’
Another shrug. ‘He seems to have some ideas. All I know is that he was saying something about how the chronology is wrong, that the cops are missing the point. Hey, is that your phone?’
Dulcie looked over at her bag, which was buzzing. ‘Yeah, I’ve been ignoring it while I eat.’ The phone vibrated again, as if to show up her white lie, and her messenger bag trembled like a scared animal.
‘It might be the dean.’ Andrew nodded toward it. ‘I should warn you, your name came up.’
‘Great.’ She heard the sinking sound of her own voice and smiled to make up for it. ‘Sorry, it’s been rough, and I did just want to have an uninterrupted lunch.’
‘Finish your burger then.’ Andrew stepped back. ‘Sorry to be a bother.’
‘You didn’t—’ Too late. With a nod, he’d turned and his long legs had already taken him out the door. To make matters worse, Lala was in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, staring at Dulcie.
‘He’s a student of mine,’ Dulcie said. She knew how Lala felt about Chris, and that the chef had appointed herself the custodian of Dulcie’s affairs. ‘From one of my sections. Honest.’
Lala’s glare moved from Dulcie’s face down to her plate. In response, Dulcie hefted the big burger. It had cooled, and the spicy drippings were beginning to separate on the plate. Under that fearsome scowl, however, Dulcie didn’t dare complain. She took a bite, and then another. Only when the burger was completely done did Lala nod once, sternly, and turn back into the kitchen.
Dulcie grabbed another half dozen napkins on her way out the door, her impromptu seat having already been snagged by a hungry diner. Only then did she dig around in her bag, looking for the now-silent phone.
Three new messages. Great. If she were lucky, they’d be from Chris, she told herself. The first call was the one she had ducked in her office, from University Hall, and she skipped the message. Her eyes lit up when she saw the next number – home – and she hit the key for playback.
‘Hey, Dulce,’ Chris said on the recording, ‘just me again. Thought you’d still be at lunch. Well, Esmé told me you’d be hiding out in the library today. She said that was the place for you to be. Give me a ring though, OK? You’ve gotten some calls I think maybe you would want to answer. Love you.’
Esmé had told him? Dulcie shook her head. Chris had a dry sense of humor and from a message she couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. Maybe the kitten had picked up her intentions. Then again, maybe the kitten had thought she ought to stay in the library all day. Easy for a house cat to say, thought Dulcie. Esmé had a bowl of dry food to dip into whenever she felt the slightest hunger pang.
She was about to move on to the next message when another interpretation hit her. The library was the place she was supposed to be. Maybe Dulcie was supposed to run into Darlene. Maybe she was also supposed to be following up on the other girl’s search, uncovering the lost link to the unknown author.
No, it was bad enough that she’d peeked at Melinda’s manuscript. Bad enough that she was using what Griddlehaus had told her, trying to retrace the dead woman’s footsteps. Coercing information from a colleague’s girlfriend was beyond the pale. Dulcie didn’t need Lucy with her Wiccan ‘rule of three’ to tell her that would be worse than dishonest. It would be unethical on several levels. No, if she was supposed to be in the library, it was because she was supposed to be doing her own work.
She hiked her bag up on her shoulder and looked across Mass Ave. The back of the library loomed, a solid beacon in a shifting world. Melinda, the dean . . . she was sorely tempted to turn the phone back off and cross over to the cell-free zone. Who had been ringing her? The dean?
As if on cue, her phone buzzed again.
‘Hello?’ It was hard to hear on the crowded sidewalk, so with a twinge of regret she turned away from the library, leaning up against a wall. ‘Is anybody there?’
‘I said I’ve been trying to reach you!’ Whoever it was, wasn’t happy.
‘I’m sorry.’ She couldn’t place the voice. ‘May I help you?’
‘Well, yes!’ The voice took on a peevish quality she recognized. ‘We’re waiting for you now.’
‘Mr Thorpe?’ She glanced down at the phone display. University Hall? ‘You’re with Dean Haitner,’ she realized suddenly. ‘I’m sorry, I only now saw that you’d called. I’ll be there in five minutes.’
So much for her dream of getting back to work. At least she’d gotten to eat, thanks to Lala’s stern generosity. She looked up now, through the diner window, and saw the big woman pointing at something – a dirty table, an empty hot sauce bottle – as she gave commands. The woman ran a tight ship, and she clearly knew more than she let on. At her gesture, a busboy had gone scrambling.
Dulcie smiled at the sight. As if she could sense that smile, Lala turned, and their eyes met. For a moment, though, Dulcie had the weird sensation that the eyes looking into hers weren’t Lala’s. Weren’t human at all, and instead featured slit irises set deep in glowing green.
‘Watch it!’ The woman who knocked into her barked at Dulcie as if it had been her fault, then turned away, cell phone plastered to her ear. Dulcie looked up, but the spell was broken. Lala was just a big woman running a small business. And Dulcie was late to a meeting.
She looked down at her own phone. Clearly, it was too crowded out here for calls. Still, the voicemail was blinking at her. Three calls, and she’d only listened to that one message from Chris. Watching the traffic carefully, Dulcie waited for her moment to cross and, as she did, she hit ‘play’.
The third message began. ‘Ms Schwartz? This is Detective Rogovoy. We are going to need you to come in and answer some more questions. As soon as possible, please.’ He repeated a number she knew too well.
With a sigh of resignation, she hit ‘play all’. That first call had been from the University Hall number. The voice, however, belonged to her adviser, Martin Thorpe. ‘Ms Schwartz? We need to talk. It’s urgent, very urgent. There’s been a matter – an accusation. I’m sure it’s nothing, and this can all be easily cleared up. But you need to come in. Dean Haitner is looking for you. We both are. He has some questions about the research you’ve been doing, about your most recent article. He says there are some issues surrounding it. Issues of academic ethics, of the most dire kind.’
TWENTY-FIVE
It was just as she’d feared. Dulcie trotted through the Yard with her head down, thinking. She should never have tried to find out what Melinda was working on. Should not have gone down to the Mildon this morning, and certainly should not have tried to meet with the visiting scholar before her talk.
She’d have to explain that she hadn’t been trying to steal the dead scholar’s research. Instead of trying to hitch a ride, she had simply been driving along a parallel path. Of course, she had wanted to know what Melinda had uncovered – but more so that she could stay out of her way, find her own area to focus on. After all, until, well, until her unfortunate end, it was clear that Melinda would publish before Dulcie would. And once her book was out, it wasn’t like Dulcie could steal her research.
Maybe it wasn’t about Melinda, Dulcie thought as she approached the administration building. Climbing those white marble stairs had never seemed so hard before, and she paused for a breath before pulling open the heavy outer door. It was a good thing she hadn’t pressed Darlene any more on Rafe’s paper, she thought with relief. The respite was short-lived, new doubts appearing with each step along the carpeted hall. The call – that first
one – had come in before she’d seen Darlene, but maybe it didn’t matter. Maybe Rafe had told some story about her just to get her out of the way, knowing they were going to be competitors.
She had arrived at the dean’s office and stood facing the oversized door, struck motionless by a sudden revelation. Rafe wouldn’t run to the dean to get the edge on research. No student would. Unless, of course, he – or she – had something bigger to hide. Something like murder.
‘Ms Schwartz! There you are.’ Before Dulcie had time to follow through on her own thought, she was facing her adviser. Mr Thorpe had opened the door in front of her, and she found herself staring at the slight, balding man as if she’d never seen him before. Then the moment passed, and Dulcie found herself smiling. For all his nervous tics, Thorpe wasn’t a bad guy.
Her adviser didn’t smile back, though. Instead, after ascertaining that the person at the door was indeed his student, he lowered his eyes. Ducking his head down meant he gave Dulcie a better view of his shiny and somewhat dented pate. It wasn’t that which worried her, however. It was the fact that he wouldn’t meet her eyes. As if her glance could convey some contagion, she thought following him into the large and sunlit room. Or, she amended the image, as if she had already been tried and condemned.
She stepped into the room, wondering why she suddenly felt so trapped. It couldn’t just be Thorpe. She was used to him ducking his head. He didn’t even like taking responsibility for her progress reports. Then it hit her. Her feet had sunk into a deep blue pile of the carpet, silencing even the soft slap of her sneakers. The high windows that captured the afternoon sun were covered with a gauzy curtain, giving the warm light a diffuse look. The room was as hushed as some kind of divine anteroom. Instead of feeling elegant, the overall effect was, well, spooky. The kind of muffled chamber her heroine would have made into the torture room of a depraved lordling. The place where bones were kept.
This was ridiculous. Yesterday’s events were getting to her. She turned toward her adviser, determined to break the silence.
‘So, Mr Thorpe, would you tell me what all this is about? I’ve been going through my notes, seeing what I have there and if I can start another chapter of my dissertation. Until I can get back into the Mildon—’
‘I don’t think you’ll be going back to the Mildon anytime soon.’ Dean Haitner had entered the room by a smaller side door, and now closed it behind himself with a small click. He was a short man despite his girth, Dulcie noted, but he managed a swagger as he crossed the thick carpet and took his place behind a large wood desk. ‘I don’t think you’ll have to worry about your dissertation either.’
‘Mr Thorpe?’ Dulcie turned to her adviser. He was, after all, supposed to be her ally.
The tutor muttered something, staring intently into the carpet.
‘Ms Schwartz, you will need to answer these charges directly.’ Dulcie looked up. From the scowl on his face, the dean had not appreciated her turning toward her tutor. ‘And none of your so-called friends are going to be able to help you this time.’
This time? Dulcie tried to rally her thoughts. Of course her friends had come to her aid before, as she had to theirs. ‘Sir?’ It was all she could manage.
‘I know you’ve managed to charm the university police. God knows how, or what wiles you’ve employed.’ The way he said it made Dulcie feel dirty. Even more so when she realized he was talking about Detective Rogovoy. ‘They seem to hold you above blame.’
‘Sir? If you’re talking about the accident – the death – about Melinda Harquist, sir, I believe that’s all been cleared up.’ She didn’t know how to phrase it, but surely there was something official – maybe a coroner’s report – by now. ‘They saw how I couldn’t have been the one . . .’ He had to have heard.
But he didn’t seem to. ‘Huh.’ He threw his well-coiffed head back with a derisive snort. ‘Yes, I know the investigation has moved on, for now. I wouldn’t be surprised if that were to change, however. I have it on good authority that the investigators are looking at the missing thesis. And those of us here on the academic side of university life can clearly see who would stand to benefit if that manuscript were never found.’
‘But, no . . .’ All of Dulcie’s prepared speeches about parallel tracks and which train would be first into the station faded away, leaving her with the most basic truth. ‘I knew she and I were writing about the same author. But I didn’t take her thesis. I wouldn’t have.’
‘That,’ said the dean, suddenly looking down at his desk, ‘is a police matter. For the police to decide.’ He brushed several papers aside, then selected one, which he pulled out to look at. ‘Nor do I particularly care what you may have done with the missing thesis. No, my concern is with issues within my authority as the dean of research for the university.’
He scribbled on a paper and held it out. Thorpe, head still bowed, came forward as if be prearrangement, and took it. Nervously licking his lips, he walked over to Dulcie. She watched as he lifted the paper toward her. He didn’t say anything as she took it. Across the top, she read the line: NOTICE OF ACADEMIC PROBATION.
‘The police will deal with criminal matters. That’s their job; that’s what they do best.’ Dean Haitner was talking again, but to Dulcie he sounded very far away. ‘I deal with academic issues. Issues of ethics – and ethical violations. And I am presenting you with this letter today, Ms Schwartz, in the presence and with the full knowledge of your adviser and acting head of your department, to put you on notice. Based on the evidence of the salvaged page of Melinda Sloane Harquist’s thesis, you have been accused of, and will be investigated for, the most serious offense in the university canon: plagiarism.’
TWENTY-SIX
Plagiarism. The word echoed through her mind as she stood there, mouth hanging open. The dean had left, letting himself out of that same side door by which he’d entered, and she had turned to her adviser, trying to form the words to all the questions that came rushing into her mind. Trying to put together a defense against charges she had not expected. Trying to make some sense of it all.
‘Mr Thorpe, I didn’t . . .’ Nothing was making sense. ‘From one page? But I’ve only published one . . . I don’t know how to . . .’
‘Don’t panic, Ms Schwartz.’ Her adviser had been bending over a chair, packing papers into a leather briefcase. For a brief moment, Dulcie thought he was trying to comfort her.
‘I don’t expect you’ll have to prepare your defense for at least a few weeks yet.’ He wasn’t. Instead, Dulcie realized as he shoved a handful of papers into his bag with uncharacteristic carelessness, he was telling her not to fuss at this moment. He no more wanted to deal with an emotional student then he would with any other kind of mess. ‘Now, I’m sure we’ll both be hearing from the dean’s office in good time. You’ve got the notice there, and that has a little explanation of the process—’
‘Mr Thorpe!’ His blatant desire to flee, as much as anything else, had broken Dulcie out of her stupor. He was her adviser. He was supposed to be her ally, her teacher, the one to lead her through the bureaucratic maze of the doctoral program. The sight of him rushing to abandon her sparked something inside her. Dulcie envisioned Mr Grey, his silky fur rising in anger, and she found her voice. ‘Mr Thorpe, I am not a plagiarist. I am innocent!’
He turned at her outburst, and she found herself facing a man she barely knew: white-faced and wide-eyed, he looked like a ghost. And not a friendly feline one.
‘Ms Schwartz!’ He stumbled a bit over her name, and she saw that his lips were trembling. It dawned on her that he was terrified.
‘Mr Thorpe?’ This was a complication she hadn’t foreseen. For a moment, she almost forgot that she was the one under suspicion. ‘Are you OK?’
Maybe it was her words. Maybe it was her tone of voice, a little worried and solicitous. The balding scholar had taken a deep breath. At the same time, his color had gone from deathly white to red, and, once his lungs were full, he let go with an angry
outburst.
‘In case you didn’t remember, Ms Schwartz, I am the acting head of the department.’ He paused to take more air in, turning even redder as he did. ‘Acting! And while the administration has been quite content to have me fulfill the duties of your former adviser, the great Professor Bullock, it has been loath to grant me the full title, or the requisite compensation that should come with the job. Until today, I had great hopes that this semester would change all that. That my contribution, sizeable as it has been and will continue to be, would be recognized, and that I would be granted the title with all the benefits that confers.’
He had run out of steam by the end of his little tirade, but Dulcie had no response to make. Instead, she stood there, watching his narrow shoulders heave up and down from the exertion, and wondered how he had become the injured party in all of this.
‘Mr Thorpe,’ she finally managed, working to keep her voice steady. ‘I am the person who has been falsely accused here.’
‘Falsely?’ He started to inhale again, and Dulcie rushed to correct herself.
‘Wrongly, then,’ she amended. ‘But really, Mr Thorpe, I didn’t do anything – anything unethical.’ For a moment, her doubts sprang up. Her attempt to meet Melinda, the manuscript, Darlene. That moment of doubt must have shown in her face, because Thorpe took the occasion to pounce.
‘Really, Ms Schwartz. I know how anxious you’ve been, and clearly I should have been keeping a closer eye on your research procedures. I do not know with any certainty what lengths you would go to. What I do know is that through the randomness of an assignment, my professional career is now staked to yours. I trust that by the time you are called to account, you will have a better defense than “I didn’t do it”.’
With that, he shoved what looked like a day planner into his bag and buckled it shut. With a nod to his charge, he walked up to the main door of the office and out – leaving it open as the broadest possible hint that she had no reason to remain.
