by Clea Simon
‘Good morning.’ Thorpe looked up from the papers. Nobody corrected him, and he continued. ‘Thank you for coming in, all of you. Especially you Americans.’ He looked around and nodded at a few of the gathered students. Of course, Dulcie realized, picking out her colleagues. ‘Origins of Colonial Style: The Puritan Sermon’ met Tuesdays at ten.
‘I thought, ah, we should have this meeting because of, ah, recent events.’ Thorpe’s eyes dropped to his papers again, his throat working like he’d been asked to swallow a Norton’s anthology. Trista raised her eyebrows at Dulcie, and Dulcie kicked her friend under the table.
‘Some of you have probably heard of the unfortunate demise of Cameron Dessay yesterday.’ He glanced around the table. So did Dulcie, and noticed how many of her colleagues quickly looked away. Despite his easy manner, Cameron hadn’t had many close friends in the department. ‘We are all saddened by the, ah, loss of such a promising young scholar.’
Trista kicked Dulcie back.
‘And, of course, the department will be organizing some kind of memorial, a commemorative service of some sort, to be announced later. We are also—’ here, Thorpe looked around with a little more focus, perhaps expecting help from the assembled scholars, ‘coordinating with Mr Dessay’s family in terms of the actual funeral and possibly a memorial scholarship to be created. We will be posting information as all of this comes together, and either I or Nancy will be emailing you all.’ Nancy, the plump and competent departmental secretary, nodded.
‘The timing of all of this is, of course, very unfortunate.’ Even Thorpe seemed a bit embarrassed by that, but his attempts to recover were worse. ‘I mean, death in one so young is always unfortunate. But death this late in the semester—’
Someone coughed, and the beleaguered chairman gave up. ‘What I mean is, Cameron had a full course load. And I need to redistribute it among you.’ A low groan rose from the assembled students. Thorpe stood straighter, now that he had a purpose, and looked around. ‘Shall we begin?’
Twenty minutes later, Dulcie thought she’d gotten lucky. Either because of the obscure nature of her specialty or its growing unpopularity among undergrads, she’d avoided any extra tutorials. She’d only been given one assignment – a senior named Raleigh Hall. ‘Sounds like a prep school,’ Dulcie had muttered to Trista. Raleigh was working on her undergraduate honors thesis, and, unless she complained and found another scholar to take her on mid-year, Dulcie would step in as her adviser.
‘Do you think he was light on me because, you know?’ Dulcie leaned over to Trista as the group broke up. She didn’t have to explain more: In the mysterious ways of social groups, the news that Dulcie had found the body seemed to have spread.
Her friend shrugged. ‘Who knows? Some of these undergrads can be real handfuls, though.’ Trista paused, then smiled. ‘Hey, maybe Bullock will drop that ridiculous progress report thing now. I mean, threatening to jam you up with the grant committee was just unconscionable. He better than anyone else should know you’ve got to do a ton of research before you start writing, right?’
She looked over at her friend for confirmation and Dulcie nodded, resigned. Trista was deep into her own thesis, ‘Characterization through Metaphor in Late Victorian Fiction,’ and ever since Dulcie had told her about Bullock’s new requirement, she had pronounced the whole idea ridiculous. (‘We’re finishing our post-grad education, and he wants us to check in every ten pages?’) ‘It’s just not fair,’ she protested now. ‘Not that any of this is.’ She’d groaned softly when Thorpe had handed her two more sections for the Dickens survey course, but accepted it with outward grace. At least, as she’d put it, nobody was ‘checking up on her.’ Now the two joined the small crowd milling by the coffee machine, waiting for the next pot to brew. Dulcie snagged the last cinnamon donut hole – Nancy must have sent a work-study student out for more – and sagged against the wall.
‘Wait here.’ Trista grabbed her friend’s travel mug and moved in for the fresh brew.
‘You okay?’ Her place was taken by Lloyd, Dulcie’s office mate. Lloyd the Long-Suffering, as Trista had dubbed the chubby little man, was also an eighteenth-century specialist. Considering his specialty was criticism and satire, he might have been more chipper. But he also served as Professor Bullock’s research assistant, which explained the name.
‘Yeah.’ Dulcie was noncommittal. She didn’t know how much any of her colleagues knew.
‘Must have been rough.’ Of course, as Bullock’s boy, Lloyd would have heard everything.
Dulcie looked over at Lloyd. They’d been sharing an office since the beginning of the year. With two desks in one tiny space, they took turns seeing students. Still, they’d both been in their shared cell long enough to partake in some confidences, too. Long enough for Dulcie to realize that being closer to the tenured professor was not necessarily a good thing.
‘It was horrible,’ Dulcie said, her voice low, and immediately felt better. Confession was good for the soul. ‘I just don’t want everyone asking questions.’
Lloyd looked around. Three of their colleagues were discussing the proper ratio of grounds to water for yet another pot of coffee. ‘I don’t know if there’ll be any questions. Cameron wasn’t what you’d call one of the guys.’ He turned back to her, and Dulcie was struck by how tired he looked. Granted, Lloyd was always pale; he was nearly as fair-skinned as she was. But today he looked positively unhealthy, the rings sinking deep and dark around his eyes, his plump cheeks sagging. ‘They’re probably all wondering if Bullock did it.’
‘Really?’ She thought of his temperamental outbursts, when he’d thrown down her pen, and toyed with the idea. The thought was perversely cheering, and not just because the professor had become such a lax adviser. ‘Any thing I should know?’
Lloyd shrugged his rounded shoulders. ‘The usual gossip.’
Dulcie hesitated. She knew the rumors. Given how close the professor kept Lloyd, many in the department assumed their relationship was more than simply professor and assistant. Knowing Lloyd, she didn’t believe that love was a factor, but she’d never dared ask. ‘But he couldn’t have,’ she said finally, the truth of her words sinking in. ‘I mean, think about it. He was meeting with me. I’m Bullock’s alibi.’
Trista must have gotten through to the coffeemaker, because she pushed a full mug into Dulcie’s hands. ‘You’re Bullock’s alibi?’ She was also chewing on a donut hole. Maybe Nancy had a secret stash. ‘I guess that’s why the cops are questioning everybody.’
‘Huh?’ Lloyd looked up, startled.
‘Yeah, I just heard from Joel and Tina. Nobody’s really talking, but from what they gathered, Cameron wasn’t robbed or molested or anything. He still had that fancy watch on, too. So they’re thinking it wasn’t a random mugging.’
Lloyd looked at Trista, and then they both turned to Dulcie. The impact of Trista’s discovery countered all the good the hot coffee had done her, and she slumped further against the wall. ‘So Cameron knew his killer,’ she said, her voice flat. ‘And maybe we do, too.’
FIVE
‘Well, what about that Polly woman? Couldn’t she have been involved?’
Dulcie didn’t like to be needy, but after the meeting she’d called Chris back. She’d caught him just waking up, and as soon as he heard the strain in her voice, he suggested they meet for a late breakfast at the Greenhouse.
The Greenhouse was as close as Harvard Square came to a diner, its low prices and breakfast all day somehow surviving even as other student-oriented outlets gave way to pricey boutiques. And usually Dulcie enjoyed its hearty, if greasy fare. Today, however, food hadn’t had much appeal, so she’d been toying with a muffin as Chris talked. Forcing herself to swallow a dry-as-dust mouthful, she shook her head. ‘Polly was out. Doing errands, I think. She’d have let me in if she’d been around.’ In her mind, she could still hear the washed-out blonde’s strangled scream. ‘She saw Cameron, too.’
‘Yeah, but who’s to say that she d
idn’t stage that?’ Chris gestured with a fork full of pancakes. ‘That she didn’t kill him and then get lost for a while?’
‘Not likely.’ Dulcie thought of the wan assistant and tried to explain. ‘You might as well sic a scared rabbit on someone.’
Chris continued shoveling syrup-soaked pancake into his mouth. On most days, Dulcie was frankly envious of his capacity. If anything, her tall boyfriend was too skinny, while Dulcie was, well, curvaceous. But today neither of them was thinking much about food. Even as he ate, he kept his dark eyes on her, pushing the question.
‘Besides, I’m sure she has an alibi.’ Dulcie almost choked on the word and took a sip of her coffee while she thought. ‘She only came in after – you know. Poor girl.’
Chris paused for breath, fork in air. ‘Dulce, you were the one who found him. A certain amount of shock, of post-traumatic reaction, would be normal.’
‘I know. Believe me, I know.’ The moment came back to her – the intense stillness of the scene. The calm as her own mind began to shut down at the sight. The white face, the blood. And just as the dizziness threatened to overwhelm her, she recalled once more that brief touch of fur. Her late cat had been there with her, and she had felt safe because of him. Despite the horror of the day, that one touch had stayed with her. Polly didn’t seem to have anything in her life like Mr Grey. Nothing that gave her such comfort. She thought about explaining this. Suze hadn’t believed her about the spectral pet, and she’d been hesitant to tell Chris about the latest visitation from Mr Grey. They hadn’t been together that long. ‘But there was something else.’
They both paused as a waitress refilled their mugs. ‘Yes?’ Chris looked over, waiting. He’d been in therapy ever since his mother had been diagnosed with cancer, and some of the habits had worn off. At least the twice-weekly sessions had made him a good listener.
Still, Dulcie hesitated, recalling the day before. What had really happened anyway? All she could say with certainty was, as she had been sitting there, trying to answer the policeman’s questions, the other woman had come in and collapsed with more than the expected thump.
‘Polly had just arrived with a load of books for Professor Bullock.’ As she thought back, Dulcie could see the older woman, collapsed. ‘Nice ones, for his private library, probably. And she dropped them.’ She saw the image of leatherbound spines piled haphazardly on the floor, of pages splayed open. She was the professor’s servant in all but name, and for a moment Dulcie glimpsed her own future. But no, she had Mr Grey. That, ten years’ grace, and the doctoral thesis that Dulcie was determined to finish before her grants ran out. She made a mental note to call Professor Bullock again. The Gunning anthology was a library book. And the heavy volumes that Polly had been carrying?
‘Bullock cares quite a lot about his private library. I know it’s not her fault, but I bet on top of everything else, there’s going to be hell to pay for dropping all those books.’
SIX
Chris had laughed, shaking his head as Dulcie explained how persnickety her thesis adviser could be about his collection, much of which consisted of rare first editions. And Dulcie had been grateful. Chris cared about her, she knew that, and if he sometimes threw a psychotherapy phrase at her, it was just because he cared. But right now she needed some distraction from the reality of the murder. She needed to get back to work. He’d walked her over to Widener after their shared meal. They’d been on the wide granite steps, making plans for the evening, when Dulcie’s cell had rung.
‘Nancy?’ The departmental secretary’s voice brought it all back for a moment. ‘Is everything okay? Has something else—?’
‘No, no. I’m sorry, Dulcie. Everything’s fine.’ The motherly secretary was quick to jump in. ‘It’s just that I’ve received a call from Raleigh Hall. Cameron’s student? She’d heard the news and wanted to find out what was happening. I wanted her to have a sense of continuity, and so I told her that you’d be calling her soon. Would you, dear? She sounds a little frantic.’
‘Sure.’ The flash of fear vanished, but it had chased away the warm feeling from the Greenhouse for good. ‘I’ll call her now.’
‘Trouble?’ Chris was watching her closely.
‘A new student. Undergrad. We’re splitting up Cameron’s workload and I got her.’ She forced a smile on her face. ‘It’ll be fine. And you should get back to the lab.’
‘I can hang, if you need me.’ Chris wasn’t fooled, and Dulcie felt her smile becoming genuine.
‘Thanks, sweetie. Really, I’m fine. Taking on a new student is a drag, but it’s got to be done. I’m just going to call her and see if I can flush out Bullock, get my bag back. And then I’m going to spend the afternoon in the stacks, where no computer dude dares follow.’
Chris’s thin face split into a real grin. ‘Don’t dare me, Dulcie Schwartz! But this time, I’ll let you go.’ He leaned in for a kiss and Dulcie watched him lope off toward the Science Center, waiting until he’d slipped past the white-steepled church before punching in the numbers of her new charge.
‘Hello, Raleigh?’ The automated voicemail gave no sign if the recipient was male or female. ‘This is Dulcie Schwartz calling. I’m going to be your adviser, at least for now . . .’ Dulcie quickly gave her own phone number and her office info, and hung up, grateful for voicemail. After yesterday, she really needed a day in the stacks. But just as she pushed open the big glass doors, the sound of an old-fashioned phone rang out.
‘Miss?’ The guard gave Dulcie a pointed look, and she nodded. Kicking herself for not turning the phone off, she turned back to the door, dug the offending implement back out of her pocket and, taking a deep breath, answered. If she was going to have to deal with a grief-stricken student, she may as well get it over with.
But the voice that greeted her was both more distraught and more familiar than expected. ‘Dulcie, thank the Goddess I’ve reached you.’ Dulcie sank down on the top step and looked out over the Yard. This could be a while.
‘Hi, Lucy. What’s up?’ Lucy – Dulcie rarely called her mother anything else – was prone to premonitions, dreams, and other psychic disturbances. Despite the rarity of these various portents having any basis in real life, Lucy never failed to get worked up about them.
‘Where are you? You’re not home, are you, Dulcinea?’
Living in the commune, as Dulcie still thought of the Oregon arts colony where her mother had settled, Lucy had little concept of cell phones. Or of the demands on her daughter’s time. ‘No, Mom. It’s three hours later here, and you didn’t call me at home. I’m in Harvard Yard.’ She looked out over the spread of lawn and the intersecting paths that guided students and tourists alike under the now-bare trees. ‘I’m on the steps of Widener, if you must know. I was about to do some work.’
Guilt didn’t have any effect on Lucy. ‘That’s a library, right? I knew it. I’ve been having this dream. More like a vision, really . . .’
Dulcie rolled her eyes. Recently, Lucy’s premonitions had focused on Dulcie’s chosen field. She didn’t know if her mother resented the research that kept her in Cambridge, away from their carbon-neutral community, in some delayed form of empty-nest syndrome, or if there was something else at play. Sometimes, she admitted to herself, Lucy was even right. But then, stopped clocks were right twice a day, too.
Lucy continued talking. ‘So, in the dream, it’s something about the books – or, rather, one specific book. You’re writing about one particular book, aren’t you, dear?’
‘Yes, Lucy,’ Dulcie confirmed, hearing the resignation in her own voice. With any prompting Dulcie would have gone on about The Ravages of Umbria. She’d originally thought that as a single mother (Dulcie’s dad had taken off before she turned five) Lucy would love a story about a beleaguered heroine who triumphs. Particularly one who communes with various spirits. But Lucy had heard it all before, and obviously failed to retain it, so Dulcie just let her go on.
‘And it’s an old book, too?’
‘
Yes, Lucy.’ Dulcie couldn’t resist. ‘Most scholars think it was probably written around 1790 and published in London, probably in serial chapbooks—’
‘Yes, yes.’ Lucy was already interrupting her. ‘That must be it. Because the book in the dream is very old, dear. And it’s in very bad shape.’
Dulcie waited. She wasn’t going to explain that the main sixty-page fragment of The Ravages really had more going for it than most modern novels.
‘Yes, it’s in very bad shape.’ Lucy was obviously consulting notes, and if Dulcie’s memory served, her mother’s midnight handwriting was even worse than her scrawled daytime penmanship. ‘And the disrepair is what’s fooled everybody. Because, you see, Dulcie – oh, I’m sorry to be the one to tell you, dear! – there’s something wrong with the book. I believe it’s fake. And, well, there’s something else – something about poking about being wrong or even dangerous . . .’
‘Mom!’ That did it. ‘You’re talking about research, about my life! Look, I know you believe in your dreams. But I’m a scholar, and it’s my research that tells me they’re real. I mean, I’ve read about them. Looked up their provenance, their history, in order to verify they are what they say they are, and—’ Dulcie was well launched into a spirited defense when a tone broke in. ‘Look, Lucy,’ she recovered herself. ‘Thank you for your concern. I know you love me and you mean well. But, please, leave my discipline to me, okay? I’ve got another call. I’ve got to go.’
Without giving her mother a chance to respond, Dulcie clicked through to the other call. ‘Yes?’ She heard the snappish tone in her own voice and hoped it wasn’t Chris or Suze or, Goddess forbid, Professor Bullock.
‘Dulcie? Dulcie Schwartz?’ The female voice sounded young and a little uncertain.
‘Oh, this must be Raleigh! I’m so glad you called back.’
‘No, I’m sorry. This is Ms Schwartz, right? This is Detective Carioli, with the Cambridge Police Department. We’d like to ask you to come into the precinct office in Central Square. We have a few questions.’