by Clea Simon
‘Meh!’
Dulcie reached under the sofa and pulled the cat out. No, she didn’t seem to have sustained any injury in the last few minutes. Her eyes were clear, her nose wet and cool. ‘Is this just nerves, Esmé?’
The little cat said nothing, and Dulcie put her down. With an almost-human sigh of resignation, the tuxedo began to groom. And Dulcie went back to her book.
‘The female mind, long suppos’d to be as inferior as t’other strengths of her fair sex, has been kept from the greater efforts. Only the bravest of reforming souls dares to put forth the call for more. To teach the gently-rear’d to read is a great thing—’
Yes! This was exactly what she’d been looking for!
‘—but to push philosophy of the mind, or to expose such gentle spirits to politics is the work of fools. Headstrong and wrong-minded, such efforts risk endangering all the traits that we hold dear.’
Dulcie stopped, her thoughts muddled by the rumbling outside. This wasn’t making sense. She had been reading too fast. The sudden darkness and humidity had confused her. She forced herself to go back to the top of the page. ‘The female mind . . .’ She read on. ‘All the traits that we hold dear.’ She looked up. It couldn’t be. Was the author of The Ravages actually condemning education for girls?
She read the next line. ‘Such exercises are sure to damage not only such fragile sensibilities but also endanger those very virtues which are so cherish’d, the very center of the feminine worth.’
It made no sense. Then it hit her: Gothic authors loved convoluted sentences. In their novels, every other one would double back, filled with multiple meanings. There had to be a double negative in here somewhere, something that would show that the author meant the opposite of what Dulcie had at first thought.
She relaxed, even as the rain started in earnest, and reread the page, getting up only to close the windows a bit before reading it again. But even a fourth review didn’t show any about-face. Still, there could be a surprise to come, couldn’t there? Dulcie finished the essay and found herself growing cold. The phrases were filled with hate, their arguments foretelling the rise of women: ‘Brazen and bad-tempered, these bookish wrens . . . Wretched half-men unsuited for their place . . .’ There was no last-minute save, no redeeming turnaround.
Dulcie swallowed hard, finding her mouth suddenly dry. If this were true, then everything she believed about the author – about The Ravages of Umbria itself – was wrong. Her thesis, all the work she’d done, had been going in the wrong direction. She heard the thunder, distant now, and couldn’t help but think what it portended. She had been the headstrong one. What was the phrase? ‘Headstrong and wrong-minded.’
Thorpe had been right about her. She’d barged ahead with a half-formed idea, disregarding two centuries of evidence to the contrary. Why had she thought that she, Dulcie Schwartz, could find something new after two hundred years? Why had she thought that this minor work, by a minor author, was really a diamond in the rough? It had been hubris of the worst sort. Headstrong and wrong-minded.
She slumped against the sofa as the last of the rain died away, and not even Esmé’s soft fur, as the little cat rubbed against her in sympathy, could make her feel any better.
TWENTY-NINE
Chris found her there when he got home, the cat asleep in her lap. She didn’t respond when he came in and barely looked up when he turned on the light.
‘Dulcie, are you OK?’ Chris dropped his soaking jacket on the floor and knelt beside her. ‘What’s wrong?’
‘It’s over,’ Dulcie murmured, blinking. ‘My thesis, everything.’
‘Those bastards.’ Chris sat back. ‘All because of a cell phone call? I’ll go talk to them. I’ll tell them it was an emergency. We’ll get Suze to file a suit—’
Dulcie was shaking her head. ‘No, no, not because of the phone,’ she finally said. ‘Thorpe stood up for me. Maybe they only meant to scare me anyway, but it doesn’t matter.’ She slid the opened book toward Chris. ‘Thorpe was right. They all were.’
He picked up the book. ‘What am I reading?’
‘My author. She isn’t who I thought she was.’ Dulcie shifted the sleeping cat, who woke and tried to hang on. But she used paws, rather than claws, and ignoring the little tuxedo’s efforts, Dulcie stood. With a sigh that sounded like a sob, she turned and dragged her feet into the bedroom.
‘Wait, Dulce.’ He followed her. ‘I’m sure it’s not that bad.’ But she shut the door in his face, leaving him standing there. ‘Dulcie? Honey?’
‘Please, Chris.’ The voice was muffled, as if she were already face down on the bed. ‘I just need to be alone.’
‘OK.’ Chris looked down at his feet, unaware that Esmé was watching him. Mindlessly, he picked up his wet jacket and slung it over his shoulders. ‘I’m going to go get us some dinner, then. I’ll be back. And Dulcie?’ He leaned his cheek against the door. ‘I love you, sweetie. I’m sure . . . well, I’m sure it will work out.’
There was no response, none he could hear anyway. So with a last attempt – ‘I’ll be back in twenty minutes, Dulcie’ – he took up his keys and headed back out.
After he left, darkness once again took over the small apartment. Somewhere outside, a street light had come on, and the fresh breeze – a remnant of the storm – tossed the budding limb of a tree. As its shadow played against the wall, one branch gradually became clearer, grey rather than black, and arched like a giant cat. It was to this that the kitten turned, her own stark bicolor coat fading in the dusk.
‘I tried.’ The little cat looked up at the shadow. ‘I did everything I could to keep her from reading it.’
‘Trying to hide things won’t work, little one.’ The voice could have been the rustling of the leaves or the wind. ‘They always dig things up, it’s how they function.’
Esmé sat, her head down. If Dulcie had seen her looking so dejected, she’d have scooped her up in her arms. But Dulcie was in the other room, steeped in her own misery, and Chris had gone out in search of the only comfort he could imagine might work.
‘Don’t worry, little one.’ The soft voice came back, and the little cat looked up again in hope. ‘You didn’t do anything bad. You’re still learning, little one. And so is she.’
THIRTY
Ice cream helped, as Chris had hoped. And he gladly ignored the congealing Chinese food as he watched his girlfriend responding to the solace of butter-crunch swirl.
‘Did you try the chocolate mint chip?’ He held out his pint to her, eager to encourage her apparent recovery.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled at him, and even though it was a weak, sad smile, he felt his heart fill. ‘I’d better not.’
‘Come on,’ he urged. ‘You didn’t have any dinner.’
‘No, really.’ She got off the bed. ‘You should heat that up and have some, though. You have to work.’
He followed her back into the living room, where she’d opened her laptop. ‘What about you, Dulce?’ He was still timid about asking any more.
‘I’m going to start looking for a job,’ she replied. She was typing something, and Chris saw her hit return with a flourish. ‘See if those auction houses are still hiring. I mean, I think my academic career is over.’
‘Wait, Dulcie, what are you talking about?’ He sat on the edge of the desk and put his hand on the laptop. ‘Look at me, Dulcie. Tell me what’s going on.’
‘Chris, do you ever feel like everything in the universe is trying to give you a message?’ She reached up to close the computer, taking his hand as she did it. ‘Maybe this is for the best. Maybe this will help us stay together even.’
‘Dulcie . . .’
She nodded and began to explain. ‘You know about the whole Dunster Codex thing, about my name in the ledger, and that I got in trouble at the library. This is worse.’ By the time she had gone through it all, they’d migrated to the kitchen, where Chris zapped the Chinese in the microwave. He coaxed her into a chair and placed the bowls down in
front of them.
‘This doesn’t mean you have to give up your thesis, Dulcie.’ He began to eat. ‘It’s just one essay.’
She poked at a mushroom and shook her head. ‘You don’t understand.’
‘I know, but there has to be some explanation.’ He put his chopsticks down as Esmé began to twine around his ankles. ‘No, Esmé. This is spicy.’ She responded by leaping into his lap, and as he reached to remove the soft, warm creature, a thought struck him. ‘You know, Dulcie, I’m going to ask Jerry to cover for me tonight. He owes me after this morning – and I think we could use a night together, a normal night.’
She smiled, a wan smile. ‘That would be nice.’ He knew she wasn’t convinced.
As they washed up, he tried to change the subject. ‘You know, I never got to finish telling you my thoughts on the whole identity theft thing.’
‘Hmm?’ She seemed more interested in a chip in a bowl than in what he was saying, but he felt the kitten at his ankles again and continued.
‘I’m wondering if we were looking in the wrong direction.’ Nothing. ‘I mean, I kept searching after we talked, and I really don’t think any of your accounts were hacked. I’m also reasonably sure that nothing higher up the food chain happened. You know, I like to think that if there had been some online interference, I’d have found at least a trace of it.’
She put the bowl away. ‘I’m sure you would have.’
‘Dulcie, listen.’ He reached for her hands. ‘Maybe we’re looking at this the wrong way. Maybe someone has stolen your identity, but in a low-tech way. You know, old-fashioned.’
He thought that would do it. That he’d provided the spark of an idea that would lift her up. But she had been through too much. She shook her head sadly. ‘You’re trying, Chris, and I appreciate it. But I checked. I have my university ID. It’s in my bag.’
‘But—’
‘And besides, Chris, why would anyone? I’m just another broke student, researching a book nobody cares about in a field that has no value. My ID isn’t worth anything to anybody.’
For a moment, there was silence. Chris seemed about to choke out a few words, but even he gave up. Instead, he leaned in to fold her in his arms. Within moments, Esmé had squeezed between them, mewing for attention. As Dulcie turned to look down at her, the little cat stood on her hind quarters, reaching up with white mittened paws.
‘Oh, kitty.’ She picked the cat up and held her close, burying her face in the soft fur.
Chris held his breath. The young cat had never really showed a fondness for cuddling, preferring instead to play. And considering her predilection for biting, well, Chris hardly dared to move.
But instead of the expected tears, he soon heard a much more welcome sound. Dulcie was humming – to herself, to the cat – and the white paws, extended over Dulcie’s shoulders, were kneading in pleasure, the pink toe pads grasping and flexing.
‘What a little love cat,’ she said, when she finally looked up.
‘Yeah.’ It was all he could think of to say.
‘And you know what?’
Chris shook his head.
‘I don’t think she spoke to me, not exactly. But when she leaped into my arms, I got something from her.’
Chris waited, hoping.
‘I got, “Don’t give up, Dulcie.”’ She was beaming now. ‘“Don’t give up.” And she’s right, Chris. I can’t just sit back and let myself be railroaded. I’ve got to figure out what’s going on. I mean, I’m a trained researcher. That’s got to count for something, doesn’t it?’
‘Yes, it does.’ Chris felt the tension drain away as the kitten nuzzled Dulcie’s neck.
THIRTY-ONE
‘First, we’ve got to look at what we know. We may not be able to figure everything out from there, but we should at least be able to plan our next step.’
Dulcie was leaning over the kitchen table, which now held a yellow legal pad. The cat had accepted the move and now sat at one end of the table, opposite Chris, as the three looked at the rough diagram Dulcie was drawing.
‘This is what we know for sure.’ She started numbering. ‘Topic one: Roland Galveston. Section A: he’s missing. Probably still alive –’ she paused – ‘we hope, but definitely not answering his phone. Section B: the English department thinks he is here under false pretenses.’ She wrote Identity? under Roland’s name and underlined it.
‘What do you know about this guy?’ Chris leaned over and retrieved a pen that Esmé had started to bat.
‘Not much,’ Dulcie admitted, tapping the paper. ‘Victorian, like Trista. But I don’t know what his thesis was on – is on,’ she corrected herself. ‘Or about his students or anything.’ Research/work, she wrote, adding several question marks.
‘We’ll come back to that. Topic two: the Dunster Codex is missing.’ She gave the purloined text its own Roman numeral.
Chris interrupted. ‘Shouldn’t Trista be second?’
Dulcie chewed on the end of her pen. ‘I don’t know. We know she was shaken up about something, and we know that she’s disappeared, but that’s it.’ She looked up at her boyfriend. ‘I know I should be worried about her, but for some reason, I’m not.’
‘No?’ He looked more skeptical. Then again, he’d spent the morning trying to help out Trista’s panicked boyfriend.
‘Maybe I’m just annoyed with her. Maybe I’ll kick myself later. Right now, there’s too much doubt about what was happening. I guess I just wouldn’t be surprised to find out she’d gone to ground, you know? Still, something’s going on. So, for Jerry’s sake, anyway.’ She crossed out The Dunster Codex and wrote in Trista’s name. Underneath, she noted: Under suspicion? Questioned? And then, in all caps: MISSING?
‘The Dunster Codex is third, then.’ She wrote that down, with one notation – Missing – and paused. ‘Why would anyone take that?’
Chris looked perplexed. ‘Isn’t it, like, the crown jewel of the rare book library?’
She nodded. ‘Yeah, but why steal it? Its value is scholarly, not monetary. I mean, someone couldn’t just sell it on the open market.’
‘You don’t know,’ her boyfriend opined. ‘There are some crazy rich people out there.’
She nodded. ‘Our curator is one of them. I remember the fuss when the Codex was acquired. You’d have thought it was his first-born child or something.’
‘But he wouldn’t—’ Chris left the sentence open. ‘No, that’s too crazy.’
‘Not entirely, Chris. If the Codex had been somewhere else and it had been stolen, then I would look at Gustav Coffin.’
‘Well, that’s something, isn’t it?’ His pale face brightened somewhat.
Dulcie shook her head. ‘No, he already acts like the Mildon is his personal collection. If it had gone missing from some other college that would be a possibility. I swear, he’d have stolen it if he couldn’t have bought it.’
‘I guess that’s why he suspects all the grad students then.’
‘Unless it’s just because we’re the low people on the totem pole.’ She stared at her outline. Something wasn’t sitting right, but she couldn’t put her finger on it. Finally, she jotted Blue ticket. ‘OK, what else?’
‘The identity theft issue.’ Chris almost didn’t want to remind her. ‘Or, at least, the idea that detective – the fat guy? – warned you about it. That’s got to figure into everything.’
‘Maybe, maybe not.’ She gnawed on the pen some more. She looked at her list. ‘I don’t know, Chris. When we talk about these things, they all seem so disconnected – OK, maybe not the rare book and Roland going missing. But the other stuff? Trista, murder, my name on that ledger? I’m seeing the same things over and over – someone or something has gone missing. Someone or something has been mistaken for someone else. But I’m not seeing how any of them fit together.’ She circled the words Blue ticket and underlined them. ‘Except to frame me.’
‘Maybe they don’t, Dulcie.’ He paused, afraid to even say it. ‘Maybe we shoul
d just focus on your problem. On clearing your name, sweetie.’
She shook her head. ‘No, Chris. I’m not seeing it, but it’s all connected. I just can’t quite see how.’ She stopped. ‘Am I sounding like Lucy?’
‘A little,’ he said shyly. ‘But wait, let me take a look.’ He turned the paper slightly toward him. They both sat in silence for a moment staring at it. Even Esmé seemed mesmerized. Then Chris pulled a mechanical pencil out of his pocket and began to draw.
‘In applied sciences, we’re often trying to find patterns. See how things fit together.’ He drew a line between Blue ticket and Identity theft. ‘Identify the unifying system, if you will. Sometimes, to do that, you have to try looking at all your information in a different light.’
He drew some more lines as she watched. ‘For example, if we apply a kind of roughshod version of game theory,’ he said. ‘We’d be looking at trade-offs. Who would do what to optimize the situation.’ He drew some lines and tilted the pad back so Dulcie could follow. ‘For instance, we can assume that you did not steal the Dunster Codex.’
She squeezed his leg under the table, but didn’t comment.
‘So, Dulcie-to-blue ticket has to be someone else’s play, right?’
‘Well, that would fit in with the identity theft, except that I haven’t been hacked in any way. You’ve checked out my online stuff, and I have my ID cards.’
He was still staring at the lines. ‘Who else would benefit? Who has established the conditions for optimization?’
‘Well, somebody stole the Codex – and someone is setting me up for it.’
He tapped one of the lines. ‘Roland looks likeliest, doesn’t he? Steals the thing, disappears, and somehow arranges to blame you.’ He nodded. ‘I like him for it.’
She shook her head. ‘Nope. According to your rules, it doesn’t make sense. He doesn’t “optimize” anything. He’s the obvious suspect. Plus, he’s lost out on getting his degree. He was this close. Why would he do that for a one-time score?’