Authors: Clea Simon
‘It’s only pepperoni.’ Dulcie blushed. ‘And it’s probably gotten cold.’ But she let herself be properly hugged and kissed before Chris opened the box and started separating the slices. Despite the chill outside, the pizza had retained enough of its warmth to be appetizing, and the company was warmer still. Until, that is, Dulcie started telling Chris about her latest fears.
‘I mean, Lucy’s pretty nutty. I’ve told you about her “psychic” dreams, right?’
Chris nodded and grunted something, his mouth full of cheese.
‘But I’ve got to wonder. I mean, could it be a coincidence that right now, I’m looking into the provenance of
The Ravages
?’ Dulcie was trying not to take a third slice and kept on talking. ‘And, you know, when Mr Grey came to me again, in Professor Bullock’s home—’
‘Mr Grey?’ Chris swallowed hard. ‘You heard Mr Grey’s voice again?’ He knew about her spectral pet. And although she couldn’t tell if he completely believed her, he had always been supportive. And so Dulcie continued.
‘I didn’t hear him, not exactly. But I felt him brush against me.’ She closed her eyes to better recall the soft touch of fur. ‘He didn’t head-butt me like the new kitten does – and he certainly doesn’t take off like a crazed thing and wreck the place. But sometimes, when he’d walk by, he’d just brush his tail against my shin. And I can’t help but wonder. I mean, at the time I thought it was because of what had happened. Because of Cameron, you know. But maybe it was about the book. Maybe Lucy was right.’
She opened her eyes. Chris was staring at her. He’d even put his unfinished slice back down on its paper plate.
‘Oh, Dulcie, you’ve had a miserable couple of days, haven’t you?’ He reached forward and took her hand. ‘And I’ve been no good at all, tucked away here. Working all hours.’
Something was off. ‘Yeah, it’s been pretty bad. But I know you’ve got to work.’ She looked around at the students at their terminals. She was suddenly pretty sure they were all eavesdropping. She lowered her voice. ‘But it’s not like I’m imagining all of this.’
‘I know Lucy called.’ His voice was low, too. Comforting. The voice one would use with an invalid. ‘And she has a way of getting under your skin.’
Dulcie gasped. What Chris had said was right, but why he’d said it was all wrong. ‘You think I’m losing it.’ Heads popped up and then quickly ducked back down. ‘You think I’m freaked out by Cameron and I’m putting it all on
The Ravages
.’ He didn’t respond. ‘You don’t believe in Mr Grey!’
She was nearly yelling at this point, and Chris leaned forward to take her other hand. Dulcie pulled it back. ‘No, I don’t need this.’ Suddenly, the third slice had no appeal. ‘I’m going home.’
‘Dulcie!’ It was too late. She was heading toward the door, and Chris, she knew, was on duty till midnight at least.
Suze wasn’t home yet, but Dulcie decided not to take any chances. Instead, she dumped her bag in the living room and climbed the second stairway to head straight to bed. ‘Nobody believes me. And I don’t know what to believe either.’ She was talking to herself as much as anything. But as she kicked off her shoes and climbed into bed, she couldn’t help but hope . . .
‘There, there, little one.’
Could it be? The same calm, deep voice she’d so missed. The voice that Mr Grey had used to communicate with her from beyond. ‘These are trying times, and not everyone is ready to accept what you and I understand to be true. After all, not everyone knows what we know.’
‘Oh, Mr Grey! I’m so glad you’re here again.’ She relaxed against the pillow, ready for a good heart-to-heart. ‘I’ve missed you so much! And I’m really worried about my thesis.’ But the voice didn’t stop.
‘I know we expect better from her, but really, look what she’s working with.’
Dulcie sat bolt upright. There, in her bedroom doorway, sat the kitten. The little tuxedoed cat was staring straight ahead – at the empty space at the top of the stairs.
‘She’ll come along, little one. She simply has to learn to trust herself. Give her time.’
NINE
I
t wasn’t that Dulcie didn’t trust the Cambridge police. Despite an upbringing that leaned heavily toward anarchism, or at least distrust of what Lucy deemed ‘the dominant paradigm,’ Dulcie was essentially a law-abiding type. She wouldn’t, for example, use her cell phone in the library, and she was relatively good about throwing a quarter into the departmental coffee fund. But she was on her guard the next morning as she walked up to the imposing stone building that houses Cambridge’s finest.
‘I’m here to see Detective Carioli.’ She tried to keep any quaver out of her voice. Suze had stayed over at her boyfriend’s, which meant that Dulcie was here without advice of counsel. She knew, as well as if Suze had shared a morning cup, that her law-school roommate would have told her not to come in without a lawyer. But calling on the school’s legal clinic had seemed like an unnecessary hassle this early in the morning. Besides, there was no way Dulcie could be considered involved in Cameron’s murder, was there?
Unless, of course, she’d killed Cameron on her way in, and then met with her adviser to establish an alibi. Or she’d paid a hitman . . . As her mind started flying off into the various possible scenarios, she imagined what Lucy would be saying.
‘It’s not that the police are bad, dear. It’s just that for so-called peace officers, they have a tendency to lean toward violence. That kind of conflict breeds bad karma.’
But just as she caught herself from answering her mother’s argument out loud, Dulcie heard her name. A stout woman in plainclothes, her iron-grey hair just touching the tweed collar of her jacket, stood by a doorway. Dulcie jumped up and followed the older woman past a board full of notices. None of the sketchy faces looked like anybody she knew. The theft notices were another matter, and Dulcie would have liked to have read those, particularly the one from the Harvard Square jeweler whose name she recognized. But as she paused, she became aware of the other woman waiting, and so she turned and they continued on, neither of them speaking, into the back warren of offices.
‘Coffee?’ Those first words were offered with a smile, but Dulcie was hesitant.
‘Sure,’ she said after an awkward pause. To refuse might look suspicious. ‘Milk and sugar, please.’
‘Coming right up.’ The officer sounded cheery, but as she stepped out of the room, Dulcie made a point of surveying her surroundings. She’d sat in a broken plastic chair that pinched her thigh, but no other chair offered itself – except for the wooden one behind the desk. Was this some new kind of interrogation technique? For the umpteenth time since she’d stepped in, she’d cursed herself for not taking Suze’s advice. She could’ve woken up a few minutes earlier or postponed the interview.
‘Here we go.’ The stout detective’s tone was cheery as she handed a heavy white mug over to Dulcie, sipped at her own and settled into her own chair. ‘If you’ve got to come in here, the least we can do is give you coffee.’
‘Thanks.’ Dulcie sipped the hot brew suspiciously. Why was this detective being so friendly?
‘So, Dulcie Schwartz.’ The officer flipped open a file and raised her eyebrows. ‘Seems you’ve been in to talk with us before.’
It wasn’t a question, but Dulcie nodded. The murder of her summer sub-letter had taught her more about the workings of the Cambridge police department than she cared to remember. Detective Carioli read for a few moments, then closed the folder with a little grunt. ‘Well, that was interesting.’
Dulcie waited. If nothing else, Suze had taught her to keep her mouth shut.
‘So, would you walk me through Monday afternoon again?’
Suze had also taught her to keep her answers short and factual, which was a challenge for anyone who lived in novels. But by the time Dulcie got up to her finale, when she was banging on the professor’s door with the bottom of her fist while yelling herself hoarse, she felt like she’d kept her story as straightforward as possible. Still, she had the sneaking suspicion that the detective was trying not to chuckle as she shuffled some papers.
‘Thanks for – ah – filling in the details.’ She was definitely suppressing a smile. ‘But I still have a few more questions.’
Dulcie waited.
‘How long do you think you waited before Professor Bullock opened the door?’ Dulcie shrugged and thought back. It probably hadn’t been more than five minutes. ‘And what was the professor’s relationship with the deceased? According to what you observed, please?’
‘I don’t know that he had one.’ Dulcie wasn’t sure how much about the academic world this detective knew. ‘You see, although they were technically in the same department, they were in really different areas. Entirely different centuries.’ She smiled, and hoped that her words didn’t sound condescending.
The detective nodded. ‘And personally?’
Dulcie opened her mouth and then closed it. Nobody really knew about the professor’s private life. The only gossip had speculated about Polly and, more recently, Lloyd. ‘Well, Cameron was known as a ladies’ man.’ She spoke without thinking and bit her lip, remembering the first time they’d met. It had been a departmental mixer, and he’d been charming, asking Dulcie all about herself. She’d been flattered that he’d known about her adventure the previous summer, and a little flustered – until he moved on to their more attractive colleagues. That had broken the spell, leaving Dulcie with the impression of an experienced flirt who knew full well the extent of his powers. Still, a pretty boy could swing both ways. ‘You don’t think . . .’ She paused, unsure of how to phrase the question. ‘You don’t think that Cameron and the professor . . .? I mean, I was there . . .’
The detective was looking at her, not smiling, as all the possibilities began to run through Dulcie’s mind. A thwarted pass. A broken heart. ‘Maybe there was someone else. A third party?’ She was creating a fiction, something Suze pointed out that she often did. And at the thought of her law-school roommate, Dulcie finally shut up. Several long moments passed before the detective spoke.
‘Just as a matter of course, given the nature of the wound and all, may I ask you, Ms Schwartz, if you have ever carried a knife?’
‘A knife?’ She shuddered, thinking about that incident over the summer. ‘No. Never.’
‘What about Professor Bullock?’
By the time Dulcie left the office, she had the distinct impression that Detective Carioli had found her amusing. And that Professor Bullock was a suspect.
‘Hey, Lloyd, have you ever noticed anything hinky about Professor Bullock?’ Dulcie had picked up a sandwich and chips at the Union and had half finished the tuna rollup by the time she found her colleague in the tiny office they shared.
‘Oh, don’t tell me that’s all starting up again.’ Lloyd looked up from his desk, his face as white as the papers piled before him.
‘What do you mean?’ Dulcie collapsed into her own chair, opened up the bag of chips and pushed them toward Lloyd. ‘Again?’
Her officemate grabbed a handful and considered while he crunched. ‘I’ve worked for the man for, what, three years? Anyway, I still can’t tell you the truth.’
‘Can’t, or won’t?’ Dulcie was joking, but the look Lloyd shot her as he reached for more of the chips was serious. ‘What?’
‘It’s not funny, Dulcie.’ Lloyd looked like he’d swallowed a bug, rather than salt-and-vinegars, but when Dulcie didn’t apologize, he kept talking. ‘You really don’t know?’
Mouth full of the last bit of sandwich, she shook her head.
‘Well, you know that
Unlocking the Great Books
, his defining work, came out, what? Twenty years ago next year? And that he’s supposedly been working on his next book ever since?’
Dulcie nodded again. This was departmental lore.
‘Well, ever since I became his research assistant, people have been hounding me, trying to find out what the next book is on.’
Dulcie murmured. She had to admit that she, too, had been curious.
‘I mean, he’s got me researching everything. Etymology to usage, Continental colloquialisms, you name it. So, no, I have no idea what the new book is on. Or even if he’s started writing.’
‘There can’t be that much pressure on him.’ Dulcie put her feet up. ‘I mean, he’s not like one of us. He’s a university professor.’
Lloyd was shaking his head. ‘I don’t know, Dulce. Even endowed chairs are getting a little tighter. I think there may be more heat on Bullock than anyone knows.’
‘Come on. I can see how he’s putting pressure on himself—’
Lloyd cut her off in mid-sentence, rolling his chair over to hers as if even their tiny office wasn’t secure. ‘It’s not just self-inflicted, Dulcie. Nancy has let some things drop. They’re pressuring old Bullock. They want him to retire. The minute his title changes to “emeritus,” he frees up a ton of cash.’
‘No!’ Dulcie stared at her officemate’s pale face and felt her own color drain away as he nodded slowly. ‘This isn’t imminent, is it?’ She could hear her voice cracking. If Bullock left before her thesis was finished, she’d be essentially orphaned. From the grim set of Lloyd’s mouth, she knew he’d had the same thoughts.
‘That’s just it, Dulcie. I don’t know.’ He pushed back to his own desk. ‘That’s one big reason I’ve been putting in the hours. He’s always had some student do his dirty work, but if I can help him get moving . . .’
He didn’t have to finish the thought. His career, even more than hers, was tied to the professor. With a sigh, he went back to grading papers while Dulcie mulled over what he’d said. For a few minutes, the soft scrape of his pencil was the only sound in the office.
‘And now the cops are asking about him.’ The words slipped out, but they had an electrifying effect on Lloyd.
‘You serious?’ He started up, the papers in front of him once again forgotten. ‘About Bullock specifically? In what way?’
Dulcie thought about what the detective had asked her. ‘I don’t know exactly.’ She looked over at her officemate, searching for the words. How do you ask a colleague if his mentor has ever seemed murderous? ‘He’s never seemed, I don’t know, odd to you?’
‘No more than usual,’ Lloyd said, his voice falling.
Dulcie wondered how long he’d been at those papers. ‘Junior essays?’