Stages of Grey

by Clea Simon

  It was the right thing to say. With a sigh like the wind rolling down the mountain, the detective nodded. ‘I’ll see if they’re still searching the theater.’ He reached for the phone. ‘If they’re done and there’s anyone working, you can go over and ask. Maybe he’s home safe. If not, I don’t think there will be any problems with you helping to look for him.’

  He punched in some numbers and spoke briefly with whomever answered. ‘This afternoon? After three? Okay, I’ll tell her.’

  ‘Thank you, Detective.’ She waited until he had hung up.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ His gruff voice was back, and he pulled the papers closer before looking up at her. ‘Now, don’t you have some teaching or something to do?’

  NINETEEN

  It was just as well, Dulcie decided, that she couldn’t return immediately to the theater. Not only had she told her adviser that she was doing research, she had also reassured him that he would indeed have a draft of a chapter by Friday, which was only two days away.

  ‘This spring, Ms Schwartz,’ he’d said, as she had gathered her materials to leave. ‘I wouldn’t be doing my job if I let you malinger. That’s not what the doctoral program is designed for.’

  ‘It’s just what the doctoral program is designed for,’ Dulcie said to nobody in particular as she made her way over to the library. ‘With this kind of class load, I’m amazed anyone gets a thesis written at all.’

  As she crossed the Yard, church bells chimed, the sound clear and loud in the icy air. Noon – and she hadn’t eaten all day. Ever since the spring semester had started, her days had been like this. Chris had even noticed that she was losing weight. To do him credit, he had mentioned it with concern. Just thinking about it made her stomach growl. But with office hours beginning at one, she figured she had just enough time to look up one document and then grab some lunch to eat at her desk. If she was lucky, none of her students would come by and then maybe she could get more reading done, too.

  ‘Ms Schwartz!’ Thomas Griddlehaus, the Mildon librarian, looked pleased to see her. Pleased or surprised, Dulcie decided. She’d been spending more time at home writing than in the rare documents library recently.

  ‘Hi, Mr Griddlehaus.’ No matter how well they knew each other, this formal mode of address felt right. Dulcie might privately refer to her adviser as simply ‘Thorpe’, but the diminutive librarian with the oversized glasses would always rate a ‘Mister’, even in her mind.

  ‘May I assume you would like to pick up where you left off?’ The librarian locked Dulcie’s bag away and led her into the reading area, with its white table and boxes of gloves.

  ‘Thank you.’ She took a seat and reached for the gloves. ‘Though, actually, Mr Griddlehaus?’

  He had already ducked into the archives, but popped out again, eyebrows raised.

  ‘Is there any Ovid in the Mildon?’

  Those eyes, huge behind the lenses, turned quizzical. ‘Were you looking for a specific translation? An early edition, perhaps?’

  ‘Never mind.’ Dulcie realized the pointlessness of her question. ‘Truth is, I should just get a decent modern translation. I went to that show at the URT.’

  Griddlehaus only shook his head, and Dulcie realized she was wasting both their time.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ If he hadn’t heard about the murder, she wasn’t going to bother him with it. ‘I’m afraid I’m preoccupied. And, yes, please. Would you bring me the pages from the Philadelphia bequest?’

  The first faint glimmers of Dawn gave shape to the mountainous terrain as the coach made its final descent. She let her grip on the leather bench relax as the furious pace abated, the throb and jangle of both wheels and harness quieting to a companionable rhythm. No longer must she cling as every rut and treacherous crevice threatened to disembowel the vehicle, to throw her and her Companion to their certain Death. Only now did she find herself considering that Companion, and felt herself once again appraised by those cool Green eyes.

  It was good; Dulcie knew it. Worth the tortured minutes it had taken her to piece out the words, letter by letter, from the stained and darkened manuscript. Now that she allowed herself to pause and read what she had put together, she knew the painstaking work had been worth it.

  The adventure of the runaway protagonist was nearing its next step. If she could locate and correctly place the next pages, she would probably find out how the heroine came to be in the first scene she had found: the one in which she discovered the young lord, dead from an apparent head wound in a library. She might even, she hoped, uncover whether the heroine had actually killed the man, or whether the mysterious ‘companion’, the green-eyed stranger who had offered her a lift on that stormy road, had been somehow involved.

  Still, she couldn’t help but remember her dream. Was the unnamed heroine another version of Hermetria from The Ravages? Was another deceitful Demetria going to appear? As far as Dulcie knew, there were no complete versions of this book in existence. That’s what made the research exciting. But at moments like this, when she simply wanted to find out about a character and skim through the plot, it could be frustrating.

  ‘Once again appraised …’ Appraised or was it apprised? She needed to focus. Thorpe might be a tad unrealistic, but she knew he did have a point. After five years, she really should be winding up her thesis. One more year and the grants would start drying up. Before she knew it, journals would stop even entertaining her proposals. She’d become the dreaded ‘ABD’ – all but dissertation – and have to start thinking about what else to do with her life.

  ‘Those cool Green eyes … ’ She should finish this chapter, get it off to Thorpe, and move on. If she applied herself, by the time she did finally get the edits on her paper, she could have most of her dissertation written. And if no other journal wanted her work, well, then she wouldn’t have wasted time waiting.

  But e’en as she settled back upon the leather seat, she perceived by some unnamed sense a shift in her Companion. As wistful Dawn approached, leavening the stormy Dark with shafts of light that threw the Shadows opposite into a novel disarray, concealing and revealing all anew as on the Road they turned and rumbled, her eyes found out a Change before her. The Stranger Yes.

  No, that couldn’t be right. Dulcie stopped her transcribing, putting down the pencil she had been gripping so tightly. Eyes, yes, that was it. ‘The Stranger’s Eyes . . .’

  The next bit was nearly indecipherable. A G or perhaps a C, and something with a tail – y or g, perhaps, but maybe simply an idiosyncrasy of the transcriber, or an outdated spelling. And then it was hopeless. A blot – water, blood, a centuries-old gravy stain – had obscured the rest of the word, turning the page as black as, if not darker than the aged ink, and Dulcie took it as a sign to rest her own eyes. The light in here was bright, purposefully so. And yet such close work was tiring, especially after a disturbed night’s sleep.

  She closed her eyes, rubbing them with her fingers. Maybe, she thought, she needed glasses. Were her eyes changing?

  That was it! She sat back up with a start and grabbed her pencil. The Stranger’s eyes changing … And she could make out no more.

  In her frustration, Dulcie nearly threw the pencil, but caught herself. She was, she reminded herself, a guest here. A scholar who had been given access to a treasure trove. Not some spoiled child, or an animal.

  The eyes. The theater cat’s eyes, darker than Esmé’s and yet similar. Cat’s eyes …

  She flipped back through her notes. At times, before, she had wondered about the identity of the mysterious stranger. Even his name, Monsieur le Gris, recalled her own one-time pet, Mr Grey. But a cat couldn’t become a human, could he?

  Dulcie caught herself with a laugh. Of course he could – this was fiction. No matter how closely the plot may have drawn from the anonymous author’s life, this was a novel. A Gothic, designed to titillate and thrill, and shape-shifters were hardly a modern invention. In fact, it was a wonder she hadn’t run into one before. A nig
ht like the one the heroine had fled through, replete somehow with both storms and also, unbelievably, moonlight, was made for werewolves. Even Chris would have …

  A low bark broke into Dulcie’s thoughts and she started.

  ‘I’m sorry, Ms Schwartz.’ It was Griddlehaus, standing before her. ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, but is everything all right?’

  She looked up at him, at his kind eyes behind those glasses, and wondered how long he’d been standing there.

  ‘Do you think people can, well …?’ She wasn’t sure how to phrase the question in her mind. ‘That people can change, Mr Griddlehaus?’

  He blinked as he considered the question and she felt briefly, unexpectedly hopeful. Here, with all these ancient manuscripts, he had access to knowledge the modern world would have forgotten. And as quiet and polite as he was, Griddlehaus was also a scholar. He wouldn’t scoff at a theory, at something that sounded odd. He would research and weigh the results. He might even …

  ‘I believe people can change, Ms Schwartz,’ he said finally, his voice soft but firm. ‘That is, if they really want to. Are you having an issue you’d like to discuss further?’

  ‘I didn’t …’ She stopped herself. He was so sweet. ‘Thank you, Mr Griddlehaus. Oh, is that the time?’ She stood and began to peel off the gloves. ‘If I don’t head out, I’m going to change … into a pumpkin.’

  His look of alarm only dissipated when she added, reaching for her coat, that her comment was, in fact, a joke.

  TWENTY

  Stuck in her office for the next two hours, Dulcie found herself stymied by physics. Usually such a period would fly by. With no students, she should have enjoyed her freedom to work, in quiet, with all her books and papers around her. She’d even managed to grab a tuna roll-up on the way, and while she hadn’t waited to have the pickles chopped into the sandwich, after her morning labors, it had been a welcome respite.

  Granted, it had been messy. And as she’d found herself mopping up mayonnaise from yet another student paper, Dulcie wondered about the wisdom of her luncheon choice. True, the clean-up entailed did make her read three more of the papers than she had planned, diminishing the amount of work she’d have to take home that night. But all that did was remind her of why she hadn’t caught up the night before. And when she opened a fourth and saw that the student – this was in her Early Feminist Literature seminar – had used the title ‘Frankenstein: Making the Perfect Man’, she nearly gagged, spitting tiny bits of chopped celery over several more papers and the blotter calendar that she had only minutes before unearthed.

  Even when she’d finally stuffed the remaining papers into her bag, Dulcie had not gotten any relief. As she tried to read through her notes again, all she could think was that she should be writing. And when she opened her laptop, her mind wandered back to the awful scene of the night before. That poor woman, Amy, a student like herself. Covered in blood, and so still.

  Dulcie willed herself not to think of that. Pictured Detective Rogovoy’s craggy face telling her to let it be. But that only led her to think about what had gotten her to the theater in the first place – the strange and troubling scene she had witnessed the night before. Granted, Heath Barstow had not been torn to shreds by a pack of ravaging wolves. But someone had reported a man in the process of becoming a wolf. Was such a transformation in fact possible? Could that awful wound – the ragged tear that Rogovoy had described as a stab to the throat – have been inflicted by such an animal? And could that creature have been Chris?

  Or was her inability to focus on anything but the most morbid and depressing thoughts the result of the bump she’d gotten on the head two nights before?

  This cycle of useless thought kept Dulcie busy until her office hours were nearly over. Quarter to – she looked at the clock with relief. Inquiring about the Russian blue wasn’t going to help her thesis, or bring that poor girl back to life. But it would give Dulcie a sense of purpose, at least for a couple of hours.

  It helped that the sun, low as it was, was still shining when Dulcie finally got to the theater. The day was fading, along with any heat the pale sun might have generated, but the light, flat and cold as it was, at least made the building look different – just one more set of glass doors on another renovated building.

  Those doors were locked when Dulcie tried them, and her first reaction was relief. Rogovoy was right: she should leave this be. But just then the breeze kicked up, delivering a blast of cold that hinted at the night to come and reminding her of why she was here. She wasn’t going to get involved in … in what had happened to that girl, Amy. She was here for Gus, and if the cat were lost, she would try to help find him. Winter in the city was not safe for a domestic feline, especially one with such a short, fine coat.

  Steeling herself, she pressed the buzzer marked ‘office’ and was relieved when the bespectacled Roni appeared, blinking as the pale sun hit her face.

  ‘Hello?’ She didn’t seem to recognize Dulcie. ‘Oh, we’re closed.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I thought the police spoke with you?’ The way the other woman started made Dulcie regret her words. It must have been a horrible night. ‘I’m here about your cat?’ She smiled, hoping to explain.

  The dark-haired woman shook her head, confused.

  ‘I was there last night. I’m Dulcie, Dulcie Schwartz.’ She paused, unsure how much to explain. ‘I was at the show last night. You came over to talk to us after my boyfriend was – ah – chosen?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Roni pushed her glasses up her nose. ‘Of course. Please, come in.’

  Dulcie followed her inside, through that same darkened foyer and past the ticket window toward the auditorium. A door Dulcie hadn’t noticed before stood open on to the hallway, spilling light from what appeared to be a small, windowless office. ‘Excuse the mess,’ Roni said, leading her in and clearing a chair of folders.

  ‘You must be kind of overwhelmed right now.’ Again, second thoughts plagued Dulcie. ‘What with the police and all.’

  The other woman didn’t respond as she looked for a place to put the folders. Dulcie reached to pull a pile of papers, correspondence it seemed, over to one side of the desk, and ended up knocking three pens, a pair of scissors and a silver letter opener on to the floor. Dropping the folders in her own chair, the manager retrieved the letter opener and the scissors, shoving them into a drawer with a bunch of papers. Dulcie ducked down to get the pens, handing them over with an apologetic shrug. ‘Maybe I shouldn’t have bothered you.’

  ‘No, no, I’m glad you did.’ Roni looked up, and Dulcie saw that she was blinking. With one last shove, she closed the drawer, and collapsed on the pile of folders. ‘There has been so much going on.’

  ‘I understand.’ Dulcie did, more than this other woman could know. For now, however, she just wanted to get out of the theater manager’s hair. ‘I really only wanted to check: is Gus okay?’

  Dulcie heard her own words with dismay. They sounded so trivial. Who could care about a cat when a woman had been murdered? Roni seemed to be having the same reaction, and sat down, a blank look on her face.

  ‘The cat?’ Dulcie was regretting being here. But since she was, she might as well pursue her mission. ‘The Russian blue? We saw him in the act last night and then I saw him … afterward. Saw that he had gotten out. He seemed to be frightened by all the commotion. And, well, it’s cold out.’ She stopped. This was going nowhere. ‘I have a cat,’ she said. It sounded so lame.

  ‘Gus.’ The manager looked so blank that Dulcie wondered if she’d been drugged. Perhaps the shock had been so bad that a doctor had prescribed tranquilizers. ‘The cat.’

  Dulcie bit her own lip and waited, trying to figure out how she could make her own exit quickly and gracefully. ‘Perhaps, I should—’

  ‘The cat! Of course.’ A light seemed to have switched on behind those glasses. ‘Thank you, yes. Come to think of it, I haven’t seen Gus all day. I guess I could use your help.’

  ‘Good.’ A
sense of purpose helped. ‘Now, have you checked Gus’s usual hiding places?’

  Another blank look, and Dulcie caught herself. ‘Of course, you’re busy. Would you like me to poke around?’

  ‘What? No, I should …’ Another hand to the glasses. Dulcie suspected the other woman was hiding tears. ‘It’s not just what happened. You know. Last night.’ Roni paused for breath. ‘Things have been difficult lately. The theater is, well, even with the university support, we’re not doing well. Ticket sales have never been strong, and we were hoping that with something fun that involved audience participation … Bob, our director, has been frantic. And now … this.’

  Dulcie nodded in sympathy. She’d been so quick to judge that she hadn’t considered the theater’s side of it. Changes might not be great art, but it should have been popular.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie glanced over at Roni’s computer. ‘Is there anything I can help with? My boyfriend – the one with the wallet? – he’s a computer sciences guy. I’m sure he’d be happy to donate some time, if there’s anything …’

  ‘No! I mean, no thanks.’ That hand to the glasses again. ‘I don’t think it’s our programming. Or not that kind anyway.’ She paused, a hint of a smile flickering around her mouth. ‘Sorry, I’m new to all that. That’s really Bob’s department. It’s just, well, tickets aren’t selling like they should. And they brought me in because I used to be in marketing, if you can believe it.’

  She fell silent. Dulcie thought about the survey. In retrospect, she couldn’t blame them for trying to build a subscriber base, and it made perfect sense that the one time such a follow-up was most inappropriate was the one time nobody had a moment to cancel what must have been a regular email. ‘But, hey, Gus is more important, right?’ A wobbly smile. ‘Let’s go look for him.’