Stages of Grey

by Clea Simon

  Why hadn’t Amy called out when she was attacked? Had it been so sudden that she hadn’t had a chance to yell?

  ‘In both these newly uncovered pages and the anonymous political tracts recently identified, recurring phrases may be seen that mirror those used in The Ravages of Umbria. Such anomalous phrases may indicate …’ She stopped. Was that too forceful? No, she decided, shaking her head. It wasn’t forceful enough. ‘Such unique phrasings indicate a singular authorship.’ No, not indicate. That sounded too wishy-washy, like someone was pointing in the general direction. ‘Signify a singular authorship …’ That was better.

  Or was it? Lots of things could be signifiers. Like the fact that Amy hadn’t called for help. Or that Heath didn’t want Dulcie to talk to Roni. Or that Heath was stronger than he might appear. Of course, so was Avila.

  Dulcie shook her head to clear it. She had done what she meant to do when she had assured herself that Gus, the theater cat, was safe. What had happened to Amy was a tragedy, but it was not her concern. Everyone, from Chris to Detective Rogovoy, had made that point. She’d been lucky not to get in trouble for poking about, as it was. Though she had to wonder, who had called the cops on her? The director probably had the most to lose, but he hadn’t even come into the theater last night. That left …

  No, this wasn’t her problem. Better to stick with her own area of expertise. ‘As centuries of readers of The Ravages of Umbria may reasonably infer …’ Of course, one couldn’t help what one thought, as well as what one might reasonably infer. That Amy had not cried out because she had known the attacker, and had not feared any violence until it was too late. That someone within the theater community had not wanted Dulcie to inquire further. That a particular actor, who had been linked with Amy, was actively dissuading Dulcie from inquiring further.

  ‘A close analysis of these pages, therefore, reveals a textual similarity from which identification may reasonably be inferred.’

  That was the crux of the argument, and she sat there, watching her cursor blink silently. All the papers she had been deciphering, all the letters and fragments of a story led to this. What she hoped to prove in her dissertation was that one woman, one great mind, had been behind both The Ravages of Umbria and this as yet unnamed novel, the one Dulcie was just piecing together out of found fragments. And in between were the political writings – funny, smart texts written under a variety of pseudonyms for various Philadelphia newspapers that laid out, more nakedly than in the novels, a strikingly modern argument for universal suffrage, focusing on women’s rights within marriage.

  What Dulcie sensed, but might never be able to prove, was that these novels – especially this more daring, later work – echoed real-life events from the author’s life. Not the ghouls and winged demons, perhaps. And probably not the apparently supernatural wolves. But the oppressive lord, a lover – or a husband? – who had forced the author to flee from London to Philadelphia, and maybe beyond.

  This she would probably never be able to prove. Not unless, somehow, she could find out whom the author had been. Locate her in time and place. Finally put a name to her anonymous genius.

  The cursor blinked, but Dulcie no longer saw it. All the scholarship in the university might as well not have mattered in that moment. Her deductive reasoning had been on overdrive, working away while she typed. Dulcie might not have a name for the author of The Ravages, but she had something else. She had the name of Amy’s murderer. And if she was right about this, she just might have the proof of his crime, too.

  THIRTY-SIX

  Not having a phone was a major pain. Dulcie’s first instinct was to run downstairs to Nancy’s office. Surely, in such a case, the secretary would allow Dulcie to make a personal call from the departmental land line.

  But as she rose from her seat, Dulcie caught herself. Who to call? She didn’t know anyone in the city police department. She surely didn’t know any of the state police officers. And her one contact in the university police had expressly forbidden her from any involvement.

  Standing there, drumming her fingers on the conference table, she weighed the options. Odds were, anyone who didn’t know her would ignore her – or worse, dismiss her as a crackpot theorist and, just maybe, be even less likely to look into the blond actor’s motivation as a result. No, she couldn’t risk that. Rogovoy might get angry, but at least he would listen. And really, her own standing wasn’t important in this case. What mattered was starting an investigation.

  Though, in truth, it would be better if the idea came from someone else. Someone who … well, not Chris. Rogovoy might not be a scholar, but he’d see through that one. Trista? No. Her flirtatious friend had come through in the crunch, but she was too partial to the handsome actor to be trusted to pass along a tip that might implicate him. What would be best would be someone who was intimately involved.

  Roni. It came to her in a flash. She meant to contact the office manager to tell her about the latest bug, anyway. And – she shivered as she thought of it – if Heath’s strange behavior had meant anything, the mousy brunette might be in danger.

  Dulcie sat back down, opening her laptop as she did. The easiest thing would be to email Roni. That way she could explain in detail what had happened – make her case before the smitten girl could dismiss her concerns as some kind of strange rant.

  She found the email from the URT ticket office and hit ‘reply’. Roni, she typed. We have to talk. It’s urgent. Call me? And just as she was about to hit ‘send’, she stopped herself. What was she doing? This was the same email system that had let a worm into her phone. Granted, this time she hadn’t opened any attachments or started any surveys, but still, she didn’t know the risk. All she knew for sure was that there was a risk, and one that she had been expressly warned against.

  Erasing her message, she closed the program. Before she opened it again, she’d confess all to Chris. Whatever she had done, he’d be able to fix it. At least, she hoped. At any rate, she resolved, no more email until she got home tonight. Which left the phone – and again she stood, thinking to use Nancy’s office extension. Only the thought of someone else – of Heath – picking up was a bit unnerving. She should have a story ready. An excuse for why she was calling.

  ‘Dulcie?’ Nancy’s voice reached up the stairs. ‘Do you think you’ll be up there for a while?’

  ‘Actually, I was just finishing up.’ Dulcie leaned out of the office to yell down. ‘Do you need the conference room?’

  ‘Not at all.’ Nancy, she could see, had her coat on. ‘Only I just got a call from my dentist. What with the weather and all, she’s had a cancellation and she could see me now. So I thought, well, if you didn’t mind covering …’

  Dulcie hesitated for a moment too long before answering.

  ‘Or I could lock up, put a note on the door.’ Nancy was buttoning up her long blue overcoat as she spoke.

  ‘If you wouldn’t mind.’ Dulcie felt a bit like a heel. ‘I know nobody will show up, but I do have a section at noon.’

  ‘Not at all.’ Nancy ducked out of sight and came back with a scarf. ‘You can put the alarm on when you leave. You do have the new code, I’m sure.’

  ‘Yes, it’s on my—’ Dulcie caught herself. At what point had she stopped writing things down? ‘Sorry, Nancy. It’s on my phone, and I don’t have it …’

  The other woman was knotting her scarf in a rather dashing fashion, but her knitted brow ruined the effect.

  ‘I’ll just head out with you now. Let me grab my stuff.’ It was simply easier, and besides, she didn’t want to use her laptop again until Chris had looked at it anyway.

  ‘Were you able to get some work done?’ Nancy stood by the door as Dulcie pulled her boots on. The secretary was, as always, too kind to fidget.

  ‘I think so.’ Dulcie jammed her hat on and stepped out into the cold, as Nancy turned to lock the door. ‘In fact, I think I made a very important discovery.’

  ‘Good for you, dear.’ The departmental secre
tary picked her way slowly down the packed snow on the stairs. ‘Now step carefully, Dulcie. Remember, this kind of weather can be treacherous.’

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  It really had been a happy accident, Dulcie decided as she made her own way down the sidewalk. Left to her own devices, she would have called and she wouldn’t have known what to say if Heath had answered. But if she dropped by, well, she could be inquiring about the cat.

  As Dulcie shuffled down the icy sidewalk, she tried not to think of the down sides of this argument. That nobody would believe her. That somebody would call the cops. That she’d be labeled as the local crazy cat lady.

  Actually that last possibility wasn’t a bad one, she decided. It might even have some upside, if it allowed her to become more involved in Gus’s welfare. This thought cheered her enough to add a skip to her step – which was not a good idea. The university buildings and grounds crew had done a decent job of clearing the snow, but the bright sun had melted just enough of it for the run-off to freeze, coating the bricks with a treacherous sheet of ice. Someone had thrown some salt down, but not enough, and Dulcie found herself skating along on one foot, arms akimbo, as she struggled to maintain balance.

  ‘This is ridiculous,’ she complained out loud, catching hold of a sad-looking street tree. A squirrel looked down in alarm, chittering his complaint as Dulcie kicked a clump of snow and began to make her way more carefully along. ‘I can’t email, I can’t call, and I can’t drop by, either?’

  It would help if she knew who had complained about her. While she doubted that she would have gotten into serious trouble last night, it had been unpleasant, at least until Detective Rogovoy had shown up. Suze had been on her side, too – and it hit her. If she could call her former room-mate, she would know what to do. The question was, once again, how to reach out to her legal eagle friend.

  Suze’s law firm was in the South End, clear across town. And while Dulcie was sure that no mere snowstorm would keep her friend out of the office, she didn’t have time for the combination of T lines that would get her there. Not to get there and be back in time for her section. And time, if what she feared was true, was of the essence here.

  ‘Dulcie!’ She looked up to see herself being hailed by a slim polar bear. Or, no, a petite figure in a white fur cap with what looked like ears. ‘Hang on!’

  Never before had Dulcie been so glad to see Trista. ‘Hey, Tris, can I use your phone?’

  Her friend raised one pierced eyebrow, but dug into her pocket for the device.

  ‘Thanks.’ Luckily, Dulcie had committed some numbers to memory. But whether because of the weather or – more likely – a client in the office, the call went straight to voicemail. ‘Hey, Suze, it’s Dulcie.’ She pondered briefly how to phrase her question. ‘I need to get a message to someone at the theater group, only I’m afraid I’ll get in trouble if I go down there. Thought maybe you might be able to help.’ She paused, realizing the impossibility of her situation. ‘I don’t have my phone on me, but I’ll try you back later.’ That was it; the line cut off. She handed the phone back to Trista.

  ‘You going to tell?’ Her friend looked deceptively innocent in the big fake-fur hat, but Dulcie recognized the glint in her eye.

  ‘I ended up running into Heath this morning,’ Dulcie started to explain, then stopped. Trista was not the person she could confide in.

  ‘Oh, so that’s why you want to go over to the theater.’ What Trista’s smile didn’t imply, her tone did. ‘Dulcie, you’re a better liar than I thought.’

  ‘No.’ Dulcie was firm. ‘No, I’m not. I really do have to talk to Roni, the office manager, about something.’

  Trista looked at her quizzically, and Dulcie realized she needed to tell her friend something.

  ‘Their email system has been hacked. They’re sending out some kind of corrupted file with their ticket offers,’ she said. ‘Roni knows, but she thinks she’s caught it. But last night, I got another one. That’s why I don’t have my own phone. Chris is working on it.’

  Trista nodded. ‘Jerry’s always trying to get his hands on my phone.’

  ‘No, I mean he’s fixing it.’ Why was everything so difficult with Trista these days?

  ‘Of course he is.’ Something about Trista’s tone made Dulcie think she wasn’t telling the truth. Her next words confirmed it. ‘Not every guy is like Chris, Dulcie.’

  Dulcie looked up, afraid to ask, but Trista shook off the question in her eyes.

  ‘Hey, I couldn’t help hearing you, and I’ve got a better idea,’ she said. ‘Let’s just go over there. Nobody’s said anything to me about not showing up. And you could just be tagging along, right?’

  Dulcie opened her mouth – and shut it again. ‘You know, that just might work.’

  It wasn’t easy walking back down to Mass Ave. More of the walks had been shoveled since Dulcie first came in, and the dull roar of snowblowers heralded the university grounds crew at work. But still she found herself walking behind her friend as the shoveled or blown up snow made narrow canyons of the walkways. In a way, not being face to face made it easier, though, and Dulcie found herself voicing a long-considered question.

  ‘Trista?’ she called up to the bulbous white bear head in front of her. ‘Do you … are you and Jerry good?’

  The bear head turned, revealing a pink, pierced face. ‘You mean, are we breaking up?’

  Dulcie shrugged. That wasn’t it exactly. ‘Well, the way you talk about other guys …’

  Trista’s smile grew into a big grin. ‘Like Heath?’

  Something must have shown on Dulcie’s face.

  ‘Wait – Dulcie. What is it?’ Trista had stopped walking and turned to face her friend. ‘Did something happen?’

  ‘No, not really.’ Dulcie shook her head, unsure about what to say – or how much.

  ‘Dulcie.’ Trista was holding her shoulders in her big white puffy mittens. ‘Talk to me.’

  ‘I started to tell him about the email, that I needed to talk to Roni, and he turned on me,’ Dulcie said finally. ‘He scared me, Tris. I think, maybe, he’s not who he seems.’

  To her surprise, Trista nodded. ‘I think you’re right. I heard something …’ Her voice trailed off.

  ‘Trista, tell me.’ Her friend appeared lost in thought. ‘You’ve got to.’

  A nod. ‘It was something one of the other players said. Something about how Heath can’t leave, can’t get any better gigs. There’s some kind of history there.’

  ‘You think Amy found out?’ Dulcie’s voice had fallen to a whisper.

  ‘Wait – you don’t think …’ Trista’s face had gone pale. ‘You can’t …’

  Dulcie only shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I just know that he’s hiding something. And maybe someone found out what it was.’

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  The two friends continued on in grim silence. At least, Dulcie thought it was grim. In truth, all she knew was that Trista’s white hood kept bobbing in front of her along the narrow walkway. The one time her friend turned to offer her a hand, as they came upon a lone unshoveled stretch, she did look thoughtful, at least, her usually smooth brow appeared furrowed beneath the shaggy white fur.

  A half block from the theater, though, Trista stopped and turned toward her friend. ‘I was thinking,’ she said.

  ‘We’ve got to do this, Tris.’ Dulcie didn’t mean to cut her off. The words simply spilled out. ‘I know you like him and all, but we’ve got to.’

  ‘I know, I know.’ Trista waved Dulcie down. ‘But how, that’s the question. And in my experience, a little bit of gamesmanship – or games-womanship – might be the answer.’

  Trista had leaned in conspiratorially with this, but Dulcie only shook her head, confused.

  ‘You were asking before, about me and Jerry?’ Dulcie hadn’t exactly, but clearly Trista had seen what she was getting at. ‘Let’s just say, I’ve spent some time thinking about male psychology.’

  ‘Okay …’ This was beginning
to sound too much like flirting, but Dulcie wasn’t sure she had a choice. Up ahead, they could see the theater – and the heftier actor, Doug, shoveling.

  ‘Hi!’ Before Dulcie could stop her – or even ask what the plan was – Trista had started waving, catching the eye of the muscular actor.

  ‘Hello.’ He put down his shovel and smiled at Trista, who waded through the remaining snow.

  ‘Hang on.’ Dulcie was used to this. Trista had that effect on men, but she wanted to be around to hear what her friend said.

  By the time she had trundled through the remaining half block, Trista and Doug seemed to be best friends. Dulcie was still brushing snow off her jeans – the last drift had reached above her knees – as Trista filled her in.

  ‘Doug says they are going to have a show tonight.’ Her broad smile seemed real, but that could have been because of the proximity of the muscular actor. ‘So we came by just in time.’

  ‘We did?’ Dulcie was trying to follow Trista’s lead. Only she didn’t see what it was.

  Trista wasn’t standing close enough to nudge her. The briefest of nods served the same purpose.

  ‘Yeah, we did.’ Her friend sounded confident. ‘We were thinking, maybe some of your regulars couldn’t make it in, what with the snow and all. We want to be ushers for tonight’s performance.’

  Dulcie was struck dumb by Trista’s gambit. Doug, however, seemed to take it in stride. ‘That’s great.’ He leaned on his shovel, thinking. ‘I know we had some of our volunteers give up after … well, after what happened. And I bet, with the roads still slick, we will get some cancellations for tonight. You know the drill?’

  Trista nodded even as Dulcie shook her head. ‘I don’t,’ she managed to squeak out.

  ‘Well, I think you’re supposed to be here like a half-hour early, and you have to dress in black, like the cast. But you get to watch the show from the back of the room.’ He paused. ‘You should get the official version from Roni, though. She’s the one who keeps all the lists in order.’