by Clea Simon
‘I’m drawing the line at the stuffed peppers. You know, you spoil that creature.’ Dulcie looked up, but Ariano was smiling.
‘She wouldn’t like them anyway.’ In truth, the kitten had only licked at the proferred treat, intent instead on rubbing against Dulcie’s leg. But as a peace offering, Dulcie sliced more of the cheese, something hard and crumbly, and offered it to the chef. ‘Where’s Suze?’
‘She’s off to Christina’s.’ Ariano laid the cheese on some bread and munched happily. ‘Somehow it seems you two had run out of ice cream.’
‘Horrors.’ Dulcie cut herself another slice of the dry, salty cheese and offered another to Ariano.
‘No, thanks. I want to save my appetite.’ He turned back to the stove top and his peppers. ‘Suze didn’t think you’d be back before seven.’
Another mouthful of bread and cheese kept Dulcie from responding, and Ariano didn’t press her. She looked over his shoulder, watching as he split the softened peppers and spooned a chopped meat mixture inside. It smelled delicious and she wondered if the fragrance alone could account for the kitten’s burst of affection.
‘I should learn to cook,’ Dulcie said, as much to herself as to Ariano. He smiled and kept spooning. She didn’t voice the end of her thought – ‘might as well, I’ve got no future in academia’ – because the kitten, at just that moment, had thrown one small paw over her foot and bitten it.
Dulcie didn’t need the small, sharp pain to put her off balance. A half-hour earlier, she’d been in the library. Deep in the stacks, she’d hoped to find the solace that her office hadn’t provided, or at least to shake off the strangeness of the day. Of the week, really.
Maybe it made sense that everything was spooking her. After all, she’d found the dead body of one of her colleagues only three days before. But in the past, the library had been a source of comfort for her. Even this past summer, when trouble – in the form of a crazed hacker – had followed her down to Level A, that basic sense of security hadn’t really been ruptured. This was her turf, her safe place.
And so, after leaving her lonely office, Dulcie had come to Widener, heading directly to the lower level she knew best. Shrugging off any leftover hesitation – and the guilt over those ungraded papers – Dulcie had deposited her coat and bag at an empty study carrel and set off to work. Her idea, which had seemed so smart out in the light of day, was to do a bit of detective work. By comparing some of the more arcane descriptions – The Ravages, like all the Gothics, was full of flowery language – she’d hoped to track down some clues as to the unknown author’s identity. Maybe not a name, but a location. An age. Maybe a phrase that would help trace her to a particular school.
Not that the author was likely to have gone to school. Odds were, Dulcie’s nameless heroine had been home educated. Just as likely, she’d read all the same books as her colleagues, and lifted from the best of them. But in the back of Dulcie’s mind had been something – some clue – that she’d read a few months back and not made a note of. Something to do with the rhythm of the words or their order. If she could find that phrase once more, and link it to a known writer, she’d thought, she just might have something to work on.
But a string of words, no matter how distinctive, can be difficult to find. It wasn’t that Dulcie had to look through all of Widener’s three million-plus books, but just for her period alone; the Brits filled more than two aisles of floor-to-ceiling metal shelves. Halfway through late 1790s fiction she still hadn’t found the elusive phrase. And as she’d turned the corner, beginning to entertain the idea of giving up, she’d been surprised to see Polly, staring at the shelves.
‘Hi, Polly!’ The other woman had jumped. Dulcie had spoken softly, but in the quiet of the library, her greeting sounded loud, even to her. ‘Sorry,’ she dropped her voice even more. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Oh, nothing.’ Polly had looked down at the floor as Dulcie sidled up to her. Even in the constant temperature of Widener, Polly still wore her long wool coat, buttoned to the neck.
‘Moving into the Romantics, are we?’ Dulcie had looked up at the shelves, spotting a collection of Coleridge. Beside her, Polly had shuffled, hands in pockets. ‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie had stepped back. ‘I’m disturbing you.’
‘No, no, it’s fine.’ Polly had moved back, too, and bumped into the shelf behind her. ‘I’m just returning . . . He—’ She stammered, and then had seemed to gather herself together. ‘Cameron was interested in some of the poets.’
‘Ah.’ At that, Dulcie had looked again at the blonde assistant. Her hesitation spoke more loudly than her actual words, making Dulcie think once more of her late colleague. Had she seen him with a blonde? Could it have been Polly?
Polly glanced at Dulcie, then resumed staring at the floor. In that brief moment, though, Dulcie got an impression of tired red-rimmed eyes. Had Polly been crying?
‘I think we all miss him.’ She’d spoken as gently as she could and reached out. But as soon as her fingers touched the rough, pale wool, Polly pulled back.
‘It wasn’t like that.’ She sniffed.
Dulcie waited, summoning up an image of Mr Grey. He could sit for hours, his presence alone calming. What would he have made of the handsome, mercurial Cameron? Again, the word ‘Byronic’ came to mind. Well, maybe at some level, she had recalled one of her brilliant colleague’s interests. Had Polly been another?
But the assistant had been working up to something. Her hands had come out of her pockets and she reached to touch a book. Just a touch, one finger on the gold-leaf of the spine, but that was enough. Then she stepped back and turned away.
‘Polly?’ Dulcie hadn’t wanted to lose her. ‘Is there something you want to talk about? Is it about Cameron?’
‘Cameron.’ Polly sighed and turned back, but she was looking at the books, and Dulcie couldn’t read her face. ‘Cameron knew I liked pretty things.’
As Dulcie watched her walk away, her leather flats slapping softly on the metal floor, she’d found herself wondering. Chris had voiced his suspicion right from the start, and Dulcie had dismissed it for lack of motive. But what if there had been a motive, something to spark the bloodless Polly to action? Had she underestimated Polly’s amorous appeal among the Cambridge literati? Roger Gosham’s craggy face came to mind, but maybe there was a reason Polly had been fighting with him. Maybe she’d rejected him. Maybe she’d moved on, or hoped to. Just then, Dulcie felt the unmistakable touch of fur, the soft touch of a cat twining around her ankles. But when she had looked down, she’d seen nothing. She was all alone.
TWENTY-FOUR
After that, work had been impossible. And even though she’d spent another twenty minutes sitting on the metal floor, trying to conjure the spirit of Mr Grey, she’d neither felt nor heard any sign of her beloved pet.
‘What is it?’ She’d spoken softly into the deep library quiet. ‘Are you trying to warn me about Polly? Alert me?’ Bullock’s assistant had been sobbing in the kitchen that afternoon, and Mr Grey’s message then had not been at all ambiguous. ‘Am I supposed to comfort her?’
Maybe that was it. The woman was clearly suffering. Any relationship with Cameron had probably been all in her head, but that didn’t make it hurt any less. Plus, Dulcie remembered with a pang of guilt, Polly had seen the body, too. That image was still haunting her, and Dulcie suspected she was a bit tougher than Polly.
‘Poor girl.’ Dulcie had pulled herself to her feet. ‘I’m sorry, Mr Grey, I missed my cue. I should have tried to make her talk.’ As she’d brushed off her jeans, Dulcie looked again at the book Polly had touched. Byron, all right, but later – at least twenty years – than the surrounding books. So Polly had pulled a book and misshelved it. She was upset, and it was easy enough for Dulcie to take the pretty little volume back to the correct era.
After that, however, Dulcie couldn’t focus. Between Polly and Cameron, and the mixed messages from Mr Grey, her own nameless heroine, the author of The Ravages of Umbr
ia, seemed insubstantial.
‘I should be able to do this,’ Dulcie had told herself, trying to recall her earlier plans.
Language, wasn’t it? Clues in the scenery or in some pouffed and powdered phrase?
Which is why she ended up at home, earlier than expected.
‘So, you want to talk about it?’
Ariano’s voice broke through the haze of Dulcie’s thoughts and she looked up, startled.
‘You’ve been rubbing your foot for five minutes now, and I’m starting to get worried.’
Ariano smiled and Dulcie found herself smiling back. With his neat beard and that wide grin, he looked handsome – almost, for a moment – and Dulcie found herself suddenly understanding her roommate’s attachment to the hefty systems guy. His eyes twinkled when he smiled like that, and Dulcie found herself staring into them, trying to make out if they were grey or blue.
Cameron’s eyes had been green. The thought wiped the smile off her face with a sudden wave of dizziness.
‘What? What did I say?’ Ariano’s smile was gone now. ‘Are you all right?’
‘No, it’s nothing.’ Dulcie steadied herself, leaning back against the counter. ‘The kitten nipped me, that was all.’ But that bite, while it hadn’t punctured the skin, had broken into her self-pity and gotten her thinking again. What was the phrase she’d been trying to track? ‘As cool as emeralds.’ Where had she heard it? Was it even in The Ravages of Umbria, or had she conjured it in some fevered nightmare? She pushed herself upright. ‘I’ve got work to do.’
Her excuse was lame, and she knew it, but she headed toward the stairs. ‘Give a yell when Suze comes home, will you?’ she called down, before stumbling into her own room to lie face down on the bed.
TWENTY-FIVE
‘You’re not still mad, are you, Suze?’ Dulcie was washing dishes while Suze wrapped up the leftover lasagna and peppers.
‘Never was, kiddo,’ her roommate replied, reaching for another plastic container. ‘I just wish, well, you know.’
‘Yeah, I should’ve either never touched the letter opener or I should’ve taken it with me.’ Dulcie started on the wineglasses. ‘And, yeah, if I talk to the police again, I promise I’ll tell them. But you can’t really think that Professor Bullock . . .’
Suze shoved the last dish into the refrigerator and began counting off reasons. ‘You’ve said he’s been acting strange. You’ve also said that he might be about to be kicked out. That could make someone desperate. Plus, who knows what was happening with Cameron? I mean, if that guy was as bright as everyone says, then maybe your professor was stealing his work.’
‘Poor Lloyd.’ Suze looked over sharply at Dulcie’s non sequitur. ‘No, really, Suze,’ Dulcie tried to explain as she filled the baking pan with soapy water. ‘No matter how you slice it, he’s going to suffer. Either the professor is on his way out, which is bad for Lloyd. Or he’s going to keep his chair, but maybe by plagiarizing student work, which is also bad for Lloyd. And, well, I can’t help but wonder if there is something else going on.’
‘You mean with the professor? Is Lloyd gay?’
Dulcie shrugged. ‘To be honest, I don’t know. He’s just Lloyd. But he might be. And Professor Bullock has never been romantically linked to anyone. Not even Polly, and she practically lives with him. If there was someone else in the picture – if there had been something going on between the professor and Cameron – it would explain why Lloyd has been stressed out recently.’
‘You do realize how wildly unethical that would be.’ Suze grabbed a dish towel and started to dry. ‘A professor and his grad student.’
Dulcie shrugged and took up the other towel.
‘Plus,’ Suze said, pointing a newly clean wineglass at Dulcie for emphasis, ‘you do realize you’ve just come up with a motive for Lloyd to have murdered Cameron, don’t you?’
‘She has a point, you know.’ When Chris called, an hour later, Dulcie had filled him in.
‘Lloyd is not a murderer.’ Dulcie was in no mood to be reasonable. Not only had Chris called, instead of showing up, but now he was attacking her officemate. ‘He’s my friend.’
‘Think about it, Dulce. Even if there isn’t anything inappropriate going on with the professor, he might have been jealous. Everyone says that Cameron was brilliant and handsome. And Lloyd’s, what?’
‘But I know Lloyd.’ Dulcie paused and pondered her own statement. It wasn’t exactly true. ‘I mean, I’ve worked with him for years. And he’s not unattractive.’
‘Oh?’ Chris packed a lot into that one syllable.
‘Well, hey, I never see you anymore.’ Dulcie was teasing, but she heard the edge in her voice.
Chris did, too. ‘That’s not fair, Dulcie. You know the drill. I’ve got to be here. These students are my responsibility.’
Dulcie bit her lip. Yes, grad students did have to be accessible to their students. But it seemed like Chris had been working awfully long hours. ‘Every night, Chris?’ It just slipped out.
‘Dulcie, I’ve got a plan. This will all be worth it, really.’
Dulcie didn’t respond. What was there to say?
‘I don’t like to think of you alone with any of these guys. That professor. Lloyd . . .’
‘Next, you’ll be wanting to lock me up in some mountain keep.’ She was trying for humor, but it fell flat.
‘Now, Dulcie, that’s not fair. There’s been a murder, a real one. Not some wild imagining from one of your books.’ Before she could respond, Chris backtracked. ‘I mean, I love your books. I know you’re devoted to them, and you’re going to be a great scholar, Dulcie. Just, well, be careful, will you? At least until whoever did this is caught?’
‘I will.’ She sighed. ‘But I miss you. And we saved some of the lasagna for you, too.’
‘Thanks, Dulce. I know it’ll be great the next time I can get over there. Hey, pet the kitten for me, will you?’
But the tiny tuxedoed cat was nowhere to be found.
TWENTY-SIX
A mouthful of fur woke Dulcie the next morning. Sometime during the night, the kitten must have fallen asleep on her pillow. Now the little creature was dead to the world, barely stirring as Dulcie slid her over to the empty side of the bed. Chris’s side. Well, end of the semester was always crazy. If she could focus, she’d be working that hard, too. Dulcie thought of the student papers still in her bag and promised herself that she’d get to them today. In the meantime, she showered and finished the coffee Suze had brewed.
Another full pot later, the papers were done. Dulcie knew she’d catch hell for her comments. As she became less certain of her own thesis, she grew crankier with her undergrads. But she’d tried to compensate by grading high on the curve. That was all these kids cared about anyway.
Heading into the Square, she decided to swing by the departmental offices. Her section didn’t meet till Monday, and Dulcie knew that some of her more anxious students would want to pick up their papers before then. Maybe if she emailed them that the papers were with Nancy, she wouldn’t have to talk to them.
But if she thought that the old clapboard would offer her a respite, she was mistaken. As soon as she pushed open the front door, the volume greeted her.
‘No!’
‘What?’ At least five of her colleagues were squeezed into Nancy’s office, another four or five talking loudly by the coffee machine. Promising herself more caffeine as soon as she dropped the papers off, Dulcie made for the departmental secretary’s door.
‘Was anybody hurt?’ The question stopped Dulcie cold, and five sets of eyes turned toward her. ‘Dulcie!’
‘What?’ Her voice came out breathy, the papers temporarily forgotten. ‘Has there been another—?’
‘Oh, no, no, no!’ Plump, efficient Nancy somehow pushed her way out of her desk and ran over to Dulcie. ‘Nothing like that.’ She maneuvered Dulcie into the chair that held the door open. The room had begun to spin, but Dulcie recognized Trista’s voice as she pressed a paper c
up of water into her hand. ‘Just a break in.’
‘Here?’ Dulcie looked around. The little green house was the center of the department, but beyond a few computers there wasn’t much to steal. Even the coffee machine was outdated.
‘Nuh-uh,’ Trista sat on the floor beside her. ‘At Bullock’s! Someone broke into Professor Bullock’s house.’
The noise in the basement. But the professor and Polly had both been home. ‘When? Yesterday?’
Trista shook her head. ‘Last night. Word is, someone snuck in and then started looking through the place late at night. Professor Bullock woke up and heard something, but his blundering around must have scared them – him,’ Trista paused, ‘or her, off.’
Dulcie blinked. ‘Wow, I was there yesterday.’ She’d finished the water and found the world holding still again. ‘I mean, earlier. And I heard – something.’ She couldn’t explain about Mr Grey, but maybe she didn’t have to. ‘I wonder if I heard the burglar?’
‘The cops will want to talk with you. They’re talking with everyone who had access to the professor’s house.’
Dulcie nodded, taking it all in. She’d find out soon enough if she was a suspect. ‘Did they get away with anything?’ She thought of the letter opener. If that was evidence in a bigger crime . . .
But Nancy had taken over the story. ‘A book, I think. It’s hard to tell, because the police are being very closed-mouthed, and the professor is quite shaken up, as you’d expect. But I think a book.’
‘The professor’s library . . .’ Dulcie said. She didn’t have to finish. They all knew. ‘But what’s the market for a rare book? I mean, where could it be sold?’
‘I bet there are collectors.’ Jamie, a Renaissance scholar, piped up. ‘The prices for some of those early quartos are through the roof.’
Roger Gosham would know, thought Dulcie. But in the meantime, Jamie’s specialty sparked a memory. ‘Lloyd said the professor had found something. Something new. Maybe Elizabethan?’