True Grey

by Clea Simon

  Still, even putting Lucy’s dueling explanations aside, there had to be something else in the strange juxtaposition of victim and killer in both versions of the story and her dream. Unless – wait – Dulcie caught herself. The fragment she had read, both in the printed and manuscript version, hadn’t contained much plot. A woman sees a man who is lying dead on a rug in a library. The scene had been described in detail, with the emphasis on gruesome features that distinguished the overblown fiction of the day. But it had been written with a precision many of its contemporaries lacked, full of lifelike – or deathlike – particulars and showing a command of language that Dulcie had instantly recognized. And Dulcie had simply assumed that she was reading a horror story, a tale of murder or the like, as narrated by the killer.

  But maybe the protagonist – the woman describing the scene – had not killed the man lying on the carpet. Maybe she was as innocent as Dulcie herself was, and this passage was an attempt to explain or justify her presence on the scene. If that were the case, would that explain the switch – Melinda’s black curls for the gore-clotted red-gold hair?

  ‘Chase me!’ Like a black-and-white rocket, Esmé shot past, interrupting Dulcie’s train of thought for the umpteenth time. ‘Chase me!’

  ‘You finally speak to me, and that’s what you say?’ Dulcie laughed. The little cat was impossible to resist, and the flash of language – faint like the voice on a bad long-distance line – only made her antics more compelling. ‘Do you want to tell me why?’

  In response, the cat turned and stared up at her, tail lashing. Dulcie jumped up and went after her, calling her name as they dodged through the living room until this time the lamp nearly did go over.

  ‘I give up!’ Dulcie called, finally collapsing on the sofa. ‘You’re too fast for me.’

  ‘In that case,’ the voice came to her as two green eyes peeked over the end of the sofa, ‘I’ll chase you!’ And with that, the little head darted down, bit Dulcie’s bare foot, and dashed off to parts unknown.

  ‘Esmé!’ Dulcie called out, grabbing at her foot. ‘No!’

  The bite, she saw, hadn’t broken the skin. It did put an end to the game, however. ‘It’s not your fault, kitten!’ Dulcie called after her pet. It was Chris’s, she knew. He never could break his own habit of rough-housing with the little hunter, and by doing so he reinforced all her bad behaviors.

  ‘Bad behaviors, huh!’ The voice, like a distant sigh, barely reached her ears.

  ‘Esmé, I’ve got to get back to work,’ she called into the other room. ‘There’s got to be some sense to be found in here. There has to be.’

  Her dreams, the story fragment, and Melinda’s death. They were all connected somehow, and, no matter what her mother would say, Dulcie wasn’t ready to believe that she had simply picked up on what was going to happen. She thought back on what Griddlehaus had said: Somewhere in these notes was a clue, an actual factual link to whatever Melinda had found. Maybe, even, why she had been killed. If she could find out what that was, she could clear her own name – and maybe finish her thesis after all.

  With that, she dived back in, reading and rereading her notes. When that didn’t reveal anything, she went back to her timeline. Where had her author surfaced? When had her silent period been? Somewhere in here lay the key, of that Dulcie was sure.

  ‘Why does she do that?’ In the hallway, the little black and white cat stopped playing for a moment to look back at her mistress, bent once more over her books. ‘Why doesn’t she listen?’

  ‘It’s as hard for her as it can be for you, little one.’ Another voice, deeper and quieter still, caused those white-tufted ears to perk up. ‘She isn’t awake yet to all the possibilities. Give her time, little one. Give her time.’

  THIRTY

  ’Twas blood she fear’d. Blood. A pollution in the body that would haunt her, e’ermore. ’Twas this, and not the slights against her person that haunted her. Drove her, compelling her to e’er more desperate acts.

  In her sleep, Dulcie tossed and turned, her dreaming eye caught on the image of a dark-haired woman, pacing in a small garret room. Then she was that woman, and they were her thoughts, full of anxiety and doubt, that she heard.

  Mayhap she should grant him what he wished, a visitation, nothing more. If reason were her ally, he would perceive the injury done her. The insult perpetuated with each advance. He would repent, as she had. She stopped, cold, her head turning toward the low wall, toward the fire, toward that which kept warm there. No, she could not lie. Not to herself, nor to the one who watched, still and quiet. She knew, she would always know. It was too late. There would be no repentance for her of this deed, e’en unto death.

  ‘Death!’ Dulcie woke for real then, sitting up so quickly that Esmé squealed. Dulcie turned to the cat, who in the bright morning light looked quite affronted by her sudden movement. ‘There would be no repentance.’ The words echoed in her mind, even as she reached out to her pet in her own apology. ‘E’en unto death.’

  ‘Oh, Esmé, it’s worse than I thought.’ Dulcie gathered the soft feline in her arms, and Esmé, as if sensing her mood, went willingly. ‘My author – the author of The Ravages – she must have gone mad. All that talk about “pollution”, Esmé. I think she really killed him.’

  If Esmé could have answered, she didn’t, and Dulcie was left with only the comfort of the warm animal beside her. To give full credit, Esmé did purr, and Dulcie was almost lulled back to sleep, lying next to all that soft fur. However, fear that the nightmare would return kept her from dropping off and finally she hauled herself out of bed.

  ‘Might as well get ready for class,’ she explained, as Esmé yawned and stretched out one white paw. ‘Not that you have to worry about that.’

  In truth, Dulcie wasn’t sure if she did, either. As she started the coffee, she weighed the possibilities. Disciplinary probation wasn’t something she’d ever worried about, and so she had never learned its rules. They couldn’t bar her from teaching, though, could they? Then again, if they thought she might be ethically corrupt, they might fear her sullying young minds.

  That letter – the one Dean Haitner had handed her. What had she done with it? Dulcie left the kitchen to rummage through her bag. She had a clear sense of Haitner handing her the letter, and of her showing it to her friends. And then? Too much had been going on.

  ‘I can’t believe all the crap I have in here,’ Dulcie commented, pulling out a Xeroxed handout from the spring semester and three receipts from Lala’s. ‘Why do I even keep these?’ she asked aloud, balling them up. Esmé declined to answer, but sprang to attention as Dulcie launched the ball toward the garbage. ‘Don’t worry,’ Dulcie added glumly, when against the odds the projectile hit its target. ‘There’ll be more.’

  Two more receipts and a takeout menu followed, before Dulcie spotted the dean’s letterhead, sticking out from between the pages of one of her yellow legal pads. ‘There you are.’ Dulcie pulled at it and heard the paper begin to tear. ‘Whoa.’ She extracted the letter, pad and all, from the overstuffed bag. Something sticky – glue, honey, some of Lala’s famous hot sauce – held them together, and she gingerly pulled the pages apart. As she did so, another piece of paper – white, with typing on it – fell out of her pad and drifted to the floor.

  In a flash, Esmé had pounced, sending the errant page sliding under the table. Dulcie ducked to retrieve it, just in time to hear the front door open.

  ‘Hello?’ It was Chris, and Dulcie rose to meet him.

  ‘Ow!’ Too late, she’d forgotten exactly where she was. ‘Hey there,’ she said as she stood up, rubbing her head.

  ‘You OK, sweetie?’ Chris dropped his own bag and went to embrace her. He was, she could tell, exhausted. So she managed a smile and a shrug before hugging him back.

  It had to be his fatigue, she knew, that kept him from following up. Disengaging, he threw his jacket over a kitchen chair and went directly to the refrigerator.

  ‘Tough shift?’ Dulc
ie didn’t want to burden him. Then again, she did want to talk.

  ‘Uh huh.’ Chris emerged, holding bread, peanut butter, and strawberry jam. ‘Fall semester, nobody knows which end is up.’

  ‘I gather you didn’t get any sleep.’ Her hopes for a meaningful discussion fading, Dulcie settled for coffee.

  ‘Not even time for dinner.’ Chris didn’t even wait to sit, taking a bite of bread as he slathered peanut butter and jam on a second slice. ‘You feeling better?’

  ‘Well, not really.’ She should let him sleep, she knew that. But it had been such a miserable day. ‘Chris, I’ve been accused of plagiarism.’

  To do him credit, he listened, downing two more slices of peanut butter and jam as he did so. He declined coffee, when she offered him the rest of the pot, and so she drank the rest. After her troubled sleep, she’d need it to stay awake, she told herself. By the time she’d finished telling Chris about the dean’s accusations, however, she could hear the edginess in her own voice.

  ‘Oh, Dulcie, what a hassle.’ Chris leaned back against the counter, his eyes closing. ‘But it’s so crazy. I’m sure it will all work out.’

  ‘Work out?’ Dulcie, who’d been leaning against the other counter, stood up suddenly. ‘Work out?’ She spat his words back at him. ‘What do you mean, Chris? I’m being investigated. I’m on disciplinary probation!’ Underneath the table, Esmé looked up at them both, her green eyes growing round with dismay.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ Chris rubbed his face with his hand, getting strawberry jam on his cheek in the process. It stood out, red against his pale skin, and at any other time Dulcie would have found it endearing – and come forward to wipe it off, a move that would undoubtedly end in a kiss.

  This morning, however, she was just a little too raw. ‘You have jelly on your face,’ she said, her voice flat as she turned to the table, where the detritus of her bag lay spread out. ‘And I . . . I have this to deal with.’ She grabbed the letter and shoved it toward him. He reached for it with a hand that, she saw, had more jam on it. Just in time, she jerked it away. ‘And your hands are dirty too.’

  ‘Sorry, Dulce.’ He shuffled over to the sink. ‘I’m fried. Look, I’m not the best person to talk to about this right now. There has to be someone, though, right?’

  She shook her head, the flare of anger fading. ‘Thorpe’s thrown me to the wolves,’ she said sadly. ‘He’s more concerned with how this will reflect on him than on whether I’m guilty or not.’

  ‘Well, what about Rafe Hutchins? He’s in your department, right? I can ask Darlene to ask him about, I don’t know. Everything.’ Chris was positively bleary eyed, wiping his hands on a dish towel. ‘She certainly owes me one.’

  For a brief moment, Dulcie’s spirits started to lift. Then memory dashed them back. ‘But she’s working with the dean. You told me so yourself.’

  A ghost of a smile showed on Chris’s face. ‘Even better. Who knows what she has access to? Between her and Rafe . . . what?’

  Dulcie’s head was hanging down, the tears gathering in her eyes. ‘She won’t help me, Chris. Not if what I think is true is true . . .’ She looked up into his sad, sweet face. ‘Chris, I think Rafe might be behind what happened with Melinda. I think maybe he stole her manuscript. Maybe even killed her.’

  ‘Oh, that’s ridiculous.’ His voice was gentle, but the words were too much for Dulcie.

  ‘You don’t know, Chris. There’s a – there’s a whole conspiracy. Last night, I wanted to talk to one of my students. He’s working with the dean. And I saw him meeting with Rafe – and with Darlene, too.’

  ‘I told you she was on some special assignment.’

  ‘At the Dardley House tea? That’s what kept her away from working her shift?’ A horrible thought hit her. It wasn’t true, she knew it. She even knew she shouldn’t ask. But the last few days had been so awful, and she was tired. ‘You were covering for her last night, right?’

  ‘Dulcie, I can’t deal with this right now.’ Chris shoved his plate into the sink and headed toward the bedroom. ‘I need to get some sleep.’

  ‘And I need to get to class.’ Chris, halfway down the hall, didn’t respond. ‘Goodnight,’ Dulcie called after him. The only one listening was the cat, who had emerged from under the table to rub against Dulcie’s shins.

  ‘Oh, kitty.’ Dulcie reached down to the cat. She hadn’t been exaggerating. She was running late. But after the night she had just had – after what could only be described as another fight – she wanted the comfort of a cat in her arms.

  Esmé, however, had other plans. Eluding Dulcie’s hands, she ducked back under the kitchen table, and as Dulcie knelt down she reared up to bat at Dulcie with her paws.

  ‘I’m sorry, Esmé, I don’t have time to play right now.’ Another bat, this time with claws, and Dulcie sat back hard on the floor. ‘Hey, what was that about?’

  The tuxedo cat scampered further under the table, skidding as she landed on a piece of paper that served as a sled. Once she hit the far wall, she turned to watch her human.

  ‘No, I’m not playing with you. Not when you’re like this, and besides . . .’ The cat, she realized, had skidded on a piece of paper. The same paper that been stuck to the dean’s letter, inside her legal pad. On hands and knees, Dulcie crawled under the table, but paused as she drew near the cat. ‘Esmé, no claws, OK?’

  The cat was silent, but Dulcie had the strange sense she understood and so she reached past her to retrieve the page. Just then, she heard the church chimes, three peals of the bell. Quarter to – there was no way she could be on time for her section now. Shoving the page back into her bag, she headed toward the door. For a moment she paused. Should she call to Chris? Say something affectionate about talking it over later? No, she decided. If he wasn’t asleep already, he was well on his way. She’d already made a mess of things this morning. They’d talk later, when he was awake.

  Halfway to Mass Ave, Dulcie realized that she had never checked that letter. For a moment, she wished for the worst. If she didn’t have to teach, she could go back to the apartment and cuddle up in bed with Chris. Their fight would be forgotten in no time.

  Then she realized – if she was banned from teaching, she was probably banned from all academic activities. That meant no income and no research, nothing until this case was resolved. Stopping short, she reached into her bag. That paper had to be here somewhere.

  ‘’Scuse me.’ A travel mug brushed by, filling the air with the smell of coffee. Dulcie looked up in time to see its owner run to embrace a red-haired woman.

  ‘Darling!’ The woman squealed with delight, and Dulcie bent back to her task. Right on top, she saw a page with type on it and pulled it out. But, no, this wasn’t the letter. It was mostly blank, save for a few lines on top. The tail end of some essay or other.

  Dulcie was about to shove it back in, when something caught her eye. ‘Anonymous,’ she read. ‘The anonymous heroine . . .’

  Oblivious to the busy Monday morning bustle around her, Dulcie stood and read. ‘The anonymous heroine had clearly gone into hiding at this point, her flight from her no longer doting motherland of England seemingly not enough to protect this one wildly wayward daughter from the overblown Ravages of her own misspent life.’

  Dulcie reread the sentence as commuters jostled her. The church bell rang, and she ignored it. The reference in the text she was holding was, to her, unmistakable, and yet, to her, totally new. The tone was familiar though: arrogant to the point of pomposity. And filled with pretentious alliteration.

  ‘And if, as seems likely, our mysterious Anonymous was involved in the scandal, then isn’t it probable that in light of her willful ways she caused the scandal?’

  ‘Wildly wayward’? ‘Willful ways’? That’s when it hit her: this was a page from Melinda’s missing manuscript. The unpublished book for which she had been killed.

  THIRTY-ONE

  Her own misspent life? Clearly gone into hiding? Standing there, the s
unny modern morning bustling about her, Dulcie found herself transported back two hundred years. Although Melinda’s thesis seemed highly speculative – the phrase ‘speciously speculative’ came to mind – Dulcie could not discount the possibility that her late rival had some new information. What kind of scandal had her author been involved in? And how did any of this relate to her dream? The dream – that phrase, ‘pollution in the body’ – had clearly haunted the writer.

  More to the point, Dulcie wondered as she looked up unseeing at the pedestrians around her, how had this page gotten into her bag?

  ‘There must be more.’ Like a squirrel intent on last year’s harvest, she dived back into her bag, pulling out the other pad, her wallet, and finally the only other sheet of white paper to be found: the letter from the dean’s office. That – and the church bells – brought her back to the present day. Stepping, finally, out of the stream of traffic, she skimmed it quickly, translating from the official language as she read.

  ‘“Serious import . . .” Yes, yes, I know. “Future proceedings . . .” Sure.’ In the last paragraph, she found what she was looking for. Members of the academic community placed on disciplinary leave may have both their duties and privileges curtailed, as determined by the disciplinary board. In other words, they could do what they want.

  Since they hadn’t, however, Dulcie shoved everything back into her bag and broke into a trot. She’d have time enough to figure out how that page had gotten into her bag. While she still had a teaching gig, she should do her best to keep it.

  An hour later, she was wondering if the job was worth the effort. The Monday section was a mix of upperclassmen and freshmen, which would be bearable by semester’s end, but in September brought out the worst of both. The two juniors in the class had rolled their eyes as she’d burst in, breathless and sweating. She’d heard at least one muttered comment about ‘lost weekends’ and had been about to bark something back when the younger students started in.