by Clea Simon
‘What are you doing?’ Gosham got it before she could, catching the blonde wood handle just as it fell from the table. ‘God help me.’ He shoved the tool in his pocket and turned away. ‘Are you another one like her?’
‘What? No.’ A faithless woman? A meddler? Dulcie started after him, determined to get some answers. But when she reached for him, for the worn plaid flannel of his shirt, he spun around and glowered down at her.
‘I don’t need another interfering woman.’ Dulcie could feel his breath on her face. His eyebrows, this close up, bristled like the fur on an angry animal. ‘In my studio.’ Dulcie stepped back, but he stepped forward, keeping pace. ‘In my life.’
Dulcie stumbled back until she felt the door behind her, pulled it open, and fled.
THIRTY
What was that about? Dulcie didn’t stop to think it through till she had a counter seat at Lala’s and a three-bean burger in front of her. Only then did her heart slow its pounding enough for her to summon logic.
Something had gotten Roger Gosham angry, and that something seemed to concern Polly. If that something involved romance, it certainly wasn’t running smoothly. Could Gosham have seen Cameron as a romantic rival and killed him? Dulcie took a bite and chewed over both the burger and the thought. The timing seemed off. He’d been angry at Polly, but he’d let her go. If he’d been the type to lash out in jealousy, wouldn’t he have gone for her? Or at least tried to catch them together? And besides, he’d given away a perfectly good alibi. From what he’d said, it seemed likely that the bookbinder and the assistant had spent more than a few minutes together on that fateful day.
Dulcie dragged a french fry through the hot sauce and tried a different tack. Maybe Polly had been the one furious at Cameron. Maybe the handsome grad student had toyed with her, turned his high-powered charm her way and then dumped her. Or at least fouled her more promising romance with the bookbinder. So, she’d come home, stabbed him. And then what? Walked around the block to waste time before her dramatic entrance?
Dulcie ate the fry without really tasting it. No, it didn’t seem likely. Still, something was odd. If only she actually had the psychic skills that Lucy claimed, life would be so much easier.
As if on cue, Dulcie’s phone rang: Lucy, or at least the community center phone. But just as she was about to pick it up, a hearty slap on the back nearly knocked her off her chair.
‘Dulcie!’ She turned to see Jerry, Trista’s boyfriend. And, yes, just behind the gangling mathematician, her petite friend. ‘Long time, no see!’
‘Hey Jerry, Trista.’ With a twinge of guilt, Dulcie pocketed the phone. ‘What’s up?’
‘What’s up with you?’ Jerry reached across the counter for a menu, while Trista rolled her eyes.
‘Really, Jerry. You’re going to get the three-bean burger with fries and extra sauce. And I am, too.’
‘I might go for cheese, this time,’ said Jerry, even as he conceded defeat by placing the menu back on the counter. ‘But, hey, what’ve you been up to?’
‘I’ve been around.’ Since the semester started, Dulcie had been busy. But she’d been trying to keep up with her friends. ‘Have I missed anything?’
‘Only one of the best dinners ever!’ After sports, Jerry liked food. And Trista.
‘Jerry’s exaggerating, Dulce. And I think everyone understands that you didn’t want to come out Tuesday.’ As Jerry gave the long-suffering waitress their order, Trista came around to Dulcie’s other side, nabbing a stool that had just opened up. ‘But when Chris showed up, we really thought he’d have brought you along.’
Chris? What dinner was this? ‘Suze had left me a message.’ She tried to recall. Wasn’t that for Ariano’s roommate?
‘Never mind.’ Trista looked distracted, and Dulcie had the distinct impression that she wished Jerry hadn’t mentioned it. ‘You are coming out tonight, though, right?’
‘Darts.’ Dulcie nodded, glad that she remembered. Friday night. The People’s Republik would be packed, as the English Department faced off against History and Lit. ‘You think we have a chance?’
‘Course we do!’ Jerry put his arm around his petite girlfriend. ‘Trista’s got the best arm in the state.’
‘Order Fifty-three?’ A shout went up from near the cash register, and Jerry slid off the stool.
‘You’re not staying?’ Dulcie realized, with regret, that she’d really wanted to talk to her colleague outside of the departmental offices.
Trista smiled, but shook her head. ‘I’ve got my junior tutorial in five. Not that they care if I’m there or not.’
‘Tell me about it.’ Commiserating felt good, but as Trista shouldered her own bag, Dulcie reached out for her. ‘One sec, Trista. I’m curious, do you have any thoughts on authentication?’
‘You mean like documentation?’ Trista raised one pierced eyebrow. ‘’Cause I’m an expert on notes and trivia. Once you get into late Victorians, man, I swear they never threw anything away.’
‘Well, sort of.’ Trista was a friend, and she only nodded when Dulcie told her about Lucy’s dream. ‘And so, I’m wondering, you know, if maybe I have it all wrong.’
‘Dulcie?’ Dulcie didn’t realize she was looking down at the menu, her head hanging lower as she talked, until she felt Trista’s hands on her shoulders. ‘Do you hear yourself?’
‘What?’ She looked up. Trista was staring at her, ignoring Jerry.
‘You’ve had a hell of a week. Now, I know about Lucy.’ She raised her hand to stop any protest. ‘I know. But really, what I think we’re dealing with here is a super bad week, coupled with a thesis adviser who can’t keep his act together long enough to find his pen set, or whatever.’
‘I don’t know, Tris.’ Something was just not right, and Dulcie knew she hadn’t really explained it.
‘Look, Dulce. It’s all a question of context. Think of everything that’s happened.’
‘But Bullock always said . . .’ She could hear him in her head. He’d never thought much of The Ravages.
‘Look, the man hasn’t written anything of his own for more than twenty years. Forget about him. He’s jealous. And, I mean, he’s a murder suspect.’ Trista paused, momentarily lost in thought, her tongue darting out to play with the ring on her lip. ‘Hey, you don’t think . . .’
She paused so long, Dulcie wanted to shake her. ‘What?’
‘Maybe Professor Bullock is hiding something. And maybe he’s trying to gaslight you.’
‘Great.’ Dulcie did not really think it likely that her thesis adviser, the Cyrus University Professor of Eighteenth Century Literature, would stoop to driving her mad. There were, after all, simpler ways to destroy her career. But when she’d pointed this out to Trista, her friend had made mince meat of Dulcie’s theories.
‘No, really, it makes sense.’ Trista actually sounded excited by the concept. ‘I mean, as far as anyone knows, he sucked the life out of poor Polly Heinhold, and it looks like he’s going to do the same to Lloyd.’ Dulcie flashed to Lloyd’s latest complaint, the new discovery that threatened to derail months of work. It was possible.
‘I’d say it’s probable!’ Trista kept on. ‘I mean, who else is in his sphere of influence?’
‘I’m hardly—’ Dulcie threw some bills down to cover her own lunch and followed her friends to the door.
‘But you are!’ Trista interrupted, as Jerry held the door. ‘You’re doing new and exciting research in his field.’
‘Unless I’m barking up the wrong tree entirely!’
The three were shouting over traffic, and as they slipped inside Harvard Yard, Dulcie missed Trista’s words.
‘What? Wait up!’
But Trista was dashing up the steps of Sever. ‘I said – context!’ she shouted back. ‘And don’t forget – darts!’
Dulcie watched her friend disappear inside. Trista’s suggestion, as odd as it was, had been strangely heartening. Maybe I’m not paranoid after all. She smiled at the thought. Maybe my professor
is out to get me.
But even as she stood there, a cold blast – and the memory of her mother’s latest missed call – swept that idea away. Trista might think she knew Lucy, but her suggestion ran counter to everything Dulcie’s mother had ever taught her. Although she was always ready to attribute just about anything to the supernatural, Lucy never did like to assign negative motives to a person. ‘It’s the Threefold Law, dear. What you believe of others comes back to haunt you,’ she’d say. ‘Closeness breeds power, and you must always use that for good.’ And that was one lesson, Dulcie thought, that usually made sense.
Still, there was something odd going on with the professor. If only she could talk to Lloyd. Walking slowly over toward the library, Dulcie chewed over her officemate’s strange disappearance. Trista had talked about context. Lloyd not being there was out of place, as much as Raleigh poking about – and as that neat package in their overcrowded office. A leaf blew by, impossibly red. It skittered across the pavement to the bare dirt, just low and fast enough to tempt a playful feline. Mr Grey would have been on it in a minute. She could picture that: her sleek grey cat, chasing the last of the autumn beauty. She watched the leaf fly, as if evading those velvet paws; a jewel against the dull November setting. Like that emerald, in a way. The one from her dream: images of the sea beyond the borders. Of the forest, far away. She smiled. Imagery from The Ravages always had that effect. The leaf skittered away and Dulcie watched it, before turning again toward the library.
Nobody liked The Ravages. Readers had been looking at The Ravages for centuries and disregarding it until Dulcie uncovered its secret. The book was a mystery, partly by intent and partly due to history. Because only part of the book had survived, nobody had known the identity of the ‘jealous spirit’ who had preyed on the heroine. And Gothic literature being what it was, everyone had looked to one of the ghosts floating around. Although, really, in retrospect, why would a ghost care about a beautiful young woman or what remained of her wealth?
No, it had fallen to Dulcie to uncover the clues hidden in the characters’ speeches. While other readers had just rolled their eyes at one more overwrought Goth, Dulcie had looked further. She’d been the one to realize that Demetria – the sidekick – wasn’t all she pretended to be, and that the clues were in her speeches – in the author’s cunning use of language.
Dulcie had been so proud of herself and even Professor Bullock had been impressed. And so she had set out to make her case, to compile the linguistic evidence that would support the flash of insight. But now everything was cast in doubt. Only a few months before, Dulcie had felt like such an accomplished scholar. She’d spotted the gem that the critics had missed. The bright spot in the cold dead yard. The witty, wonderful manuscript that nobody had ever noticed before. An irresistible lure to a young academic, just starting out and eager to make her mark. And just maybe, Dulcie realized, too good to be true.
THIRTY-ONE
Chris had not been much help.
‘Oh, sweetie, I’m sure that’s not the case.’ His voice on the phone sounded just too far away. ‘You’re just . . .’
The pause gave him away.
‘What?’ Dulcie heard herself snapping as she sat up on her bed. ‘Imagining things?’
‘I didn’t say that.’ Chris had tried to argue her down, but by that point the only thing that might have worked was a warm hug. A cold phone was not a good substitute. It didn’t help that on the walk home, she’d found herself recalling things Chris had said the previous summer. Then, she’d been the victim of a computer virus. Originally inserted through her computer, it had nearly brought down the Harvard library system before Chris and his buddies had helped unravel its poisonous 1s and 0s.
The virus, he’d said, wasn’t that sophisticated. The university had been alerted when it kept trying to enter through various firewalls again and again. But it wasn’t until Dulcie had helped uncover the source – her laptop – that the impromptu IT security team had been able to dismantle it. For some reason, a phrase he’d used last summer trying to explain the computer bug came to mind. ‘Anomalous coding.’ Was that it? She remembered the warmth that had existed between them then, the pride with which he’d explained his find – the one stray piece of coding that had threatened both the Harvard libraries and Dulcie’s nascent career.
‘It’s elegant coding, really.’ His voice had been full of admiration, once the virus was located. ‘Not complicated, but really quite beautiful, if you look at it.’
To Dulcie, it had all sounded as horrid as an invasion of beetles, although she admitted that some of her colleagues over at the Museum of Comparative Zoology would probably find them beautiful, too. Once they were dead and pinned to a card. As it was, the memory kept replaying in her mind. What if she’d gotten the wrong message from those wonderful lines? What if the beauty was really a sign that something was wrong?
What if she’d been duped?
‘I just don’t know, Chris.’ She heard herself getting weepy and lay down once more, reaching for the old quilt that Lucy’s Wiccan circle had made for her.
‘I know.’ Chris sounded confident, but so far away. ‘I trust your instincts even if you don’t.’
His words sounded so much like those of Mr Grey that Dulcie wanted to believe him. But how could she? Dulcie pulled the quilt up higher. Lucy had meant to embroider a grey wolf in its center. Despite her own childhood in Philadelphia, Dulcie’s mother insisted on the wolf as her spirit guide. To Dulcie, the pointy-eared creature looked more like a cat.
‘Why don’t you go out tonight?’ Chris was still talking. ‘Isn’t this Trista’s big chance at the darts tournament?’
Dulcie sniffed. ‘Uh-huh. But I was hoping, you know . . .’ She didn’t want to say it.
‘I’ll come if I can get out of here.’ That didn’t sound very reassuring. ‘I tried to catch up with you the other night, you know. At that party?’
‘Oh, yeah.’ Great, so she wasn’t only alienating her friends, she was missing opportunities to see her own boyfriend. ‘Jeremy’s shindig?’
‘Yeah, you’d taken off from the lab, but I was hoping you’d show at some point.’
You could have come here. She didn’t say it. Already, she was being whiny. ‘Yeah, sorry.’
‘Dulcie?’ He sounded sad. ‘I’m just working, you know. I want to be with you. It’s just – well, there are things I have to do.’
‘I know.’ She didn’t really. They were both broke, but Chris had never worked such long hours before. That you know of, she didn’t need a ghostly cat to correct her. She and Chris had started dating during the summer, when the demands of classwork and students were at their lightest. How did she know what his schedule was like during term time? They were both grad students; she was lucky that none of her students needed her to be available round the clock. And, she had to admit, she was a little more needy than ever before – with reason. ‘But would you try to come over to the People’s Republik later?’ She paused, not sure how else to make her claim. ‘I’ll definitely be there.’
‘I will, Dulce.’ He hesitated. ‘And I promise, this is just for now. There’s a situation.’
She waited for him to elaborate, determined not to pester him.
‘I love you, Dulcie Schwartz.’
And before she could respond, he was gone.
Buoyed by his final declaration, Dulcie realized that she did not need the nap she’d been planning. Instead, if she was going to go out, she needed to shower and change. As she got out of bed, she pulled the quilt back to make the bed. It was so Lucy, really, she looked down at it with that mixture of warmth and humor that only her mother could evoke. The stitching, while heartfelt, was amateur. Some of the patches puckered slightly, and no amount of ironing would make it lie completely flat. Still, as she reached down to straighten it out, she had to admit a fondness for the homey piece. And as she did, she was sure that the wolf – the cat, as she preferred to think of it – winked.
THIR
TY-TWO
‘Someone’s in a good mood!’ Trista looked up as Dulcie came into the bar. She nodded, knowing the broad grin on her face had been absent lately.
‘Yeah, I might be meeting Chris later.’ She walked up to the table where Jerry was pouring from a communal pitcher.
‘Chris is coming?’ He looked up as he handed her a full glass. ‘I thought—’
‘That’s great.’ Trista cut in, pushing herself by Dulcie and jostling her beer.
‘Wait, what’s going on?’ Dulcie put her glass down and, at a loss for a napkin, licked the cold beer from her hand. ‘Jerry?’
‘My dimwitted boyfriend is jealous.’ Trista spoke loudly enough for Jerry to hear. ‘He was hoping to pick up some extra hours in the computer lab. But Chris needs them.’ That was directed at Jerry, who nodded. He didn’t look that displeased to be at a bar, instead of at work.
‘What do you mean? He’s not in any trouble, is he?’ Dulcie knew well the round of grants and scholarships, and how precarious funding could be.
‘No more than the rest of us.’ Trista emptied her glass. For a tiny girl, she could drink. ‘Which is why I’m really hoping to get top prize tonight.’
Two hours later, she had, but the fifty dollars were being spent on multiple pitchers. The grad student crowd had grown, with nearly every face from the department crowding around the long, wet table that they’d commandeered earlier. Everyone except Lloyd, Dulcie noticed.
‘Has anyone seen Lloyd?’ Between the jukebox and the riotous cheers accompanying the runoff matches, she had to yell to be heard.
‘Lloyd?’ A huge pair of glasses with a tiny person attached blinked back at her. Sarah, a medievalist, Dulcie recalled. ‘You mean, Bullock’s boy?’
Dulcie nodded, biting her lip. If Lloyd wasn’t careful, he was going to become the next Polly. ‘He’s got his own work, you know.’
Sarah turned back toward her, her glasses catching the light from the bar. ‘I hear he’s been helping the professor put his house back in order.’