by Clea Simon
‘Oh, my.’ Gosham took the book from her, his voice growing soft with concern. ‘Oh, oh, my.’
Cradling the injured volume in one large hand, he used the other to hold the front cover partially open. ‘Do you know how this happened?’ He looked up for a moment, then focused again on the book.
‘I believe it was dropped,’ said Dulcie, and watched the wolfish man wince. Muttering something under his breath, he brought the damaged book over to one of the work tables.
‘The spine.’ He sighed audibly. ‘And I believe this signature will have to be re-sewn, too.’ Clucking his tongue softly, he propped the book cover with a block of wood, holding it partly open. With one large hand he smoothed a page back, leaning close to examine the joint where it was bound to its neighbor. ‘Oh, my.’
Dulcie stood silent and transfixed. She could leave now, she suspected, but she was witnessing a transformation. The wolfish man had become as gentle as a lamb, and the attention he was giving the old volume warmed the young scholar’s heart.
‘Is it fixable?’ Her own voice sounded too loud, but she wanted to know.
‘Yes, yes.’ He didn’t look up. ‘Of course. It’s just such a pity.’ He reached for a small bag – it looked like a sandbag – and laid it on the page to hold it open. ‘The glue was barely dry.’
‘It’s new?’ Dulcie knew her question made no sense, but then neither did the bookbinder’s statement.
He looked up sharply, a trace of the wolf flashing in his eyes. ‘Of course not.’ Dulcie took a quick step back, and Gosham’s expression softened. ‘I simply meant that this was newly repaired.’ He forced a small smile. ‘I’d only handed it over to Polly yesterday.’
Of course, this must have been one of the books she’d dropped in the entranceway. ‘I’m sorry,’ she answered, moved by his tone.
He waved her sympathy away. ‘No matter. This is what I do. She usually comes by once a week, you know.’
Dulcie muttered something noncommittal and watched him get back to work. The stacked boxes hinted at a move. Was he being priced out of Harvard Square? He wouldn’t be the first, she thought, with regret. Seeing how he handled the book, reaching first for one wooden-handled tool and then rejecting it for something with a flat, rounded blade, rather like a spatula, she could see he was a true craftsman. And though a little old for her, not an unattractive man.
‘So, where is our Polly today?’ Gosham was still bent over the book, but a slight tightness had crept into his voice. Dulcie had a feeling that the question was more than casual.
‘She’s out.’ Dulcie didn’t know if word of Cameron’s death was common knowledge yet. ‘Out sick.’
‘Nothing serious, I hope?’ The bookbinder looked up and Dulcie realized how large his deep brown eyes were. ‘Not home in bed with an early flu or anything?’
‘No, she’s fine.’ Dulcie realized she was making no sense. ‘She’s just taking the day off.’
He nodded, looking a little thoughtful. ‘Maybe I should bring this one back myself, when it’s done. Check in on her.’
As he spoke, an idea began to take root in Dulcie’s mind. It was probably a fiction, she told herself. That was a hazard of the trade – all those years spent in books – but the more she thought about it, the more she hoped it was true. Was there something going on here between the artisan and the academic? She took a fresh look at Gosham’s big, muscular frame, the gentle way his large hands cradled the book in front of him, and felt warmed by the thought. Why shouldn’t the quiet assistant have a little romance in her life? Just as quickly, another thought came to her. Had she deprived Polly of a chance to see her love?
‘I’m sure that’s not necessary.’ Dulcie spoke quickly, eager to make up for any misstep. ‘I bet she’ll be back at work tomorrow and will come by as soon as she can. Just to check in.’
‘Sly little minx,’ he said, as much to himself as to her, and returned to work. The comment only confirmed Dulcie’s impression that there was a connection between the two – and that she had not been the expected visitor this afternoon. After a few more minutes of watching him work, Dulcie excused herself. Gosham muttered something, not even looking up, and Dulcie took off, warmed with the feeling of a job well done.
But any hope Dulcie had of sharing her speculative gossip faded when she got back to the Central Square apartment she shared with Suze.
‘Anybody home?’ As she let herself into the front door of the duplex, Dulcie looked up the stairs that led to their first floor. At the top landing, a little face looked down. ‘Hey, kitten. Is it just you?’
But if she expected an answer, none was forthcoming. Instead, the kitten waited until she’d climbed up before throwing herself at Dulcie’s shins.
‘Hello to you, too, little one.’ Dulcie dropped her book bag and reached for the kitten. Plump as the kitten might be, compared to Mr Grey the tiny black and white cat barely made a handful. She pressed the little body to her face and heard a purr – but nothing else. ‘You ever going to talk to me, kitten?’
A wet nose pressed against her cheek as she carried the kitten into the kitchen. ‘Suze?’ she called, before spotting the note on the fridge:
Totally forgot Jeremy’s birthday dinner, the note read. She tried to place the birthday boy. Jeremy? Wasn’t he someone’s roommate? That was it, she thought. Jeremy lived with Suze’s boyfriend, Ariano. So sorry to leave you alone! Call or come join us – Burrito Villa – if you want!
‘Bother.’ Dulcie sank into a kitchen chair, depositing the kitten on the table in front of her. Burrito Villa was back in the Square, and while that was usually a manageable hike, tonight she didn’t feel like tackling it again. It wasn’t that she needed the company. Considering what had happened the day before, she felt surprisingly good. It’s just that she really could have used someone to talk to. And more and more often, she admitted to herself, Suze was not around. ‘It’s the university,’ her roommate had explained only the week before. ‘I’ve got to get away. I know you see your future in academia, Dulcie. But for me, it feels like some kind of very nice, very safe chrysalis. It’s served its purpose, and I’m ready to break out.’
Suze had meant well, and Dulcie could see the truth in her friend’s words. Even her choice of a boyfriend – Ariano, a non-academic – reflected her movement away from the tidy world that Dulcie loved. That they both had, for close to seven years. But Suze was moving on, and Dulcie felt abandoned.
In front of her, the kitten started to wash.
‘Join me in dungeon?’
The strange text-message invitation, tendered as it was by Chris, had considerable appeal. Although the idea of crashing someone else’s party hadn’t interested Dulcie, as the evening had worn on the apartment had grown a little too quiet for comfort. She’d tried settling in on the sofa with the Gunning, but the tight type and myriad footnotes had soon made her eyes heavy. Even when she exchanged the heavy research work for something lighter, the magic just wasn’t there. As much as she didn’t want to admit it, the last forty-eight hours had taken their toll. ‘Maybe,’ she’d texted back, but whatever reply she was hoping for, all she got was silence.
‘At least you’re here.’ She looked over at the kitten, who was busy battling one of Suze’s shoelaces. ‘Why don’t you come read with me?’ Cats don’t usually come when called, but when Dulcie grabbed her worn copy of The Ravages of Umbria and lay back down on the sofa, she was pleased to feel a light thump as the kitten landed by her feet. ‘Good girl.’
This was how it used to be with Mr Grey. She could think of him these days without even tearing up, and as his successor kneaded a pillow, Dulcie dove into her book. Not for the plot this time, although the adventure of beleaguered Hermetria and her duplicitous sidekick Demetria could usually suck her right in. Now she wanted to focus on the language. What were the hints – the idiosyncrasies – that might lead her to uncover the novel’s anonymous parentage? Were there any regional phrasings or odd colloquial bits? What about t
he landscape? Despite the gaudy cover illustration, there were no real mountain peaks in Umbria, no castles secluded on crags. Could they be a clue that perhaps the author had lived in a wilder area? Dulcie put down the book and looked over at the kitten.
‘It’s hopeless, isn’t it? The author was probably sitting in London the entire time.’ The kitten only blinked and then, suddenly, took off. Dulcie heard a thud and wondered what the feisty little creature had knocked over this time. When no howling followed, she dismissed it. This cat was crazy, and she had work to do.
A half-hour later, no further crashes had interrupted her and Dulcie had been able to trace the phrase that had popped up in her dream. Although in her sleep, she had placed the ‘emeralds’ in her late cat’s eyes, the word popped up in an entirely different context. Opening the second remnant of The Ravages, it seemed to follow a visitation by a spirit, one of the many ghosts that haunted Hermetria’s ancient home. This one may or may not have been friendly, but Hermetria had faced it down with her usual aplomb:
Such visitations taxed her not overmuch, drawing as she did upon an inner strength as cool as emeralds, as supple as the sword drawn from its sheath . . .
No wonder she’d missed it. It was an unusual phrasing: strength was usually described, even then, in terms of metals or of stone, not precious gems. Dulcie made a note of it and started leafing back, looking for other recurrences. The phrase had surfaced in her dream for a reason, and Dulcie wanted to believe that it was more than simply the way it evoked Mr Grey’s eyes. But another hour passed with no further discoveries. The fragments weren’t that big, and at times like this the magnitude of what had been lost was disheartening.
And so when Chris called to suggest again that she abandon her studies and come join him in the subterranean computer lab, she was tempted. He’d be on duty for several hours yet – as the semester drew to a close, the undergrads grew increasingly desperate – but there were no rules against a quiet visit. Or against the visitor bringing pizza.
Which was why Dulcie found herself buttoning her coat and detaching the kitten from her scarf – ‘Sorry, baby, I’m going to need this’ – and heading out into the frosty November night.
‘My heroine!’ Chris looked up from his terminal with unfeigned happiness. All around him, bleary-eyes looked up and blinked.
‘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
It 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 j
acket, 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?